"I haven't yet told you A word of Savyeli, The only one living Of Philip's relations Who pitied and loved me. 280 Say, friends, shall I tell you About him as well?"

"Yes, tell us his tale, And we'll each throw a couple Of sheaves in to-morrow, Above what we promised."

"Well, well," says Matrona, "And 'twould be a pity To give old Savyeli No place in the story; 290 For he was a happy one, Too—the old man...."



CHAPTER III

SAVYELI

"A mane grey and bushy Which covered his shoulders, A huge grizzled beard Which had not seen the scissors For twenty odd years, Made Savyeli resemble A shaggy old bear, Especially when he Came out of the forest, So broad and bent double. 10 The grandfather's shoulders Were bowed very low, And at first I was frightened Whenever he entered The tiny low cottage: I thought that were he To stand straight of a sudden He'd knock a great hole With his head in the ceiling. But Grandfather could not 20 Stand straight, and they told me That he was a hundred. He lived all alone In his own little cottage, And never permitted The others to enter; He couldn't abide them. Of course they were angry And often abused him. His own son would shout at him, 30 'Branded one! Convict!' But this did not anger Savyeli, he only Would go to his cottage Without making answer, And, crossing himself, Begin reading the scriptures; Then suddenly cry In a voice loud and joyful, 'Though branded—no slave!' 40 When too much they annoyed him, He sometimes would say to them: 'Look, the swat's[46] coming!' The unmarried daughter Would fly to the window; Instead of the swat there A beggar she'd find! And one day he silvered A common brass farthing, And left it to lie 50 On the floor; and then straightway Did Father-in-law run In joy to the tavern,— He came back, not tipsy, But beaten half-dead! At supper that night We were all very silent, And Father-in-law had A cut on his eyebrow, But Grandfather's face 60 Wore a smile like a rainbow!

"Savyeli would gather The berries and mushrooms From spring till late autumn, And snare the wild rabbits; Throughout the long winter He lay on the oven And talked to himself. He had favourite sayings: He used to lie thinking 70 For whole hours together, And once in an hour You would hear him exclaiming:

"'Destroyed ... and subjected!' Or, 'Ai, you toy heroes! You're fit but for battles With old men and women!'

"'Be patient ... and perish, Impatient ... and perish!'

"'Eh, you Russian peasant, 80 You giant, you strong man, The whole of your lifetime You're flogged, yet you dare not Take refuge in death, For Hell's torments await you!'

"'At last the Korojins[47] Awoke, and they paid him, They paid him, they paid him, They paid the whole debt!' And many such sayings 90 He had,—I forget them. When Father-in-law grew Too noisy I always Would run to Savyeli, And we two, together, Would fasten the door. Then I began working, While Djomushka climbed To the grandfather's shoulder, And sat there, and looked 100 Like a bright little apple That hung on a hoary Old tree. Once I asked him:

"'And why do they call you A convict, Savyeli?'

"'I was once a convict,' Said he.

"'You, Savyeli!'

"'Yes I, little Grandchild, Yes, I have been branded. 110 I buried a German Alive—Christian Vogel.'

"'You're joking, Savyeli!'

"'Oh no, I'm not joking. I mean it,' he said, And he told me the story.

"'The peasants in old days Were serfs as they now are, But our race had, somehow, Not seen its Pomyeshchick; 120 No manager knew we, No pert German agent. And barschin we gave not, And taxes we paid not Except when it pleased us,— Perhaps once in three years Our taxes we'd pay.'

"'But why, little Grandad?'

"'The times were so blessed,— And folk had a saying 130 That our little village Was sought by the devil For more than three years, But he never could find it. Great forests a thousand Years old lay about us; And treacherous marshes And bogs spread around us; No horseman and few men On foot ever reached us. 140 It happened that once By some chance, our Pomyeshchick, Shalashnikov, wanted To pay us a visit. High placed in the army Was he; and he started With soldiers to find us. They soon got bewildered And lost in the forest, And had to turn back; 150 Why, the Zemsky policeman Would only come once In a year! They were good times! In these days the Barin Lives under your window; The roadways go spreading Around, like white napkins— The devil destroy them! We only were troubled By bears, and the bears too 160 Were easily managed. Why, I was a worse foe By far than old Mishka, When armed with a dagger And bear-spear. I wandered In wild, secret woodpaths, And shouted, ''My forest!'' And once, only once, I was frightened by something: I stepped on a huge 170 Female bear that was lying Asleep in her den In the heart of the forest. She flung herself at me, And straight on my bear-spear Was fixed. Like a fowl On the spit she hung twisting An hour before death. It was then that my spine snapped. It often was painful 180 When I was a young man; But now I am old, It is fixed and bent double. Now, do I not look like A hook, little Grandchild?'

"'But finish the story. You lived and were not much Afflicted. What further?'

"'At last our Pomyeshchick Invented a new game: 190 He sent us an order, ''Appear!'' We appeared not. Instead, we lay low In our dens, hardly breathing. A terrible drought Had descended that summer, The bogs were all dry; So he sent a policeman, Who managed to reach us, To gather our taxes, 200 In honey and fish; A second time came he, We gave him some bear-skins; And when for the third time He came, we gave nothing,— We said we had nothing. We put on our laputs, We put our old caps on, Our oldest old coats, And we went to Korojin 210 (For there was our master now, Stationed with soldiers). ''Your taxes!'' ''We have none, We cannot pay taxes, The corn has not grown, And the fish have escaped us.'' ''Your taxes!'' ''We have none.'' He waited no longer; ''Hey! Give them the first round!'' He said, and they flogged us. 220

"'Our pockets were not Very easily opened; Shalashnikov, though, was A master at flogging. Our tongues became parched, And our brains were set whirling, And still he continued. He flogged not with birch-rods, With whips or with sticks, But with knouts made for giants. 230 At last we could stand it No longer; we shouted, ''Enough! Let us breathe!'' We unwound our foot-rags And took out our money, And brought to the Barin A ragged old bonnet With roubles half filled.

"'The Barin grew calm, He was pleased with the money; 240 He gave us a glass each Of strong, bitter brandy, And drank some himself With the vanquished Korojins, And gaily clinked glasses. ''It's well that you yielded,'' Said he, ''For I swear I was fully decided To strip off the last shred Of skins from your bodies 250 And use it for making A drum for my soldiers! Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!'' (He was pleased with the notion.) ''A fine drum indeed!''

"'In silence we left; But two stalwart old peasants Were chuckling together; They'd two hundred roubles In notes, the old rascals! 260 Safe hidden away In the end of their coat-tails. They both had been yelling, ''We're beggars! We're beggars!'' So carried them home. ''Well, well, you may cackle!'' I thought to myself, ''But the next time, be certain, You won't laugh at me!'' The others were also 270 Ashamed of their weakness, And so by the ikons We swore all together That next time we rather Would die of the beating Than feebly give way. It seems the Pomyeshchick Had taken a fancy At once to our roubles, Because after that 280 Every year we were summoned To go to Korojin, We went, and were flogged.

"'Shalashnikov flogged like A prince, but be certain The treasures he thrashed from The doughty Korojins Were not of much weight. The weak yielded soon, But the strong stood like iron 290 For the commune. I also Bore up, and I thought: ''Though never so stoutly You flog us, you dog's son, You won't drag the whole soul From out of the peasant; Some trace will be left.''

"'When the Barin was sated We went from the town, But we stopped on the outskirts 300 To share what was over. And plenty there was, too! Shalashnikov, heh, You're a fool! It was our turn To laugh at the Barin; Ah, they were proud peasants— The plucky Korojins! But nowadays show them The tail of a knout, And they'll fly to the Barin, 310 And beg him to take The last coin from their pockets. Well, that's why we all lived Like merchants in those days. One summer came tidings To us that our Barin Now owned us no longer, That he had, at Varna, Been killed. We weren't sorry, But somehow we thought then: 320 ''The peasants' good fortune Has come to an end!'' The heir made a new move: He sent us a German.[48] Through vast, savage forests, Through sly sucking bogs And on foot came the German, As bare as a finger.

"'As melting as butter At first was the German: 330 ''Just give what you can, then,'' He'd say to the peasants.

"'''We've nothing to give!''

"'''I'll explain to the Barin.''

"'''Explain,'' we replied, And were troubled no more. It seemed he was going To live in the village; He soon settled down. On the banks of the river, 340 For hour after hour He sat peacefully fishing, And striking his nose Or his cheek or his forehead. We laughed: ''You don't like The Korojin mosquitoes?'' He'd boat near the bankside And shout with enjoyment, Like one in the bath-house Who's got to the roof.[49] 350

"'With youths and young maidens He strolled in the forest (They were not for nothing Those strolls in the forest!)— ''Well, if you can't pay You should work, little peasants.''

"'''What work should we do?''

"'''You should dig some deep ditches To drain off the bog-lands.'' We dug some deep ditches. 360

"'''And now trim the forest.''

"'''Well, well, trim the forest....'' We hacked and we hewed As the German directed, And when we look round There's a road through the forest!

"'The German went driving To town with three horses; Look! now he is coming With boxes and bedding, 370 And God knows wherefrom Has this bare-footed German Raised wife and small children! And now he's established A village ispravnik,[50] They live like two brothers. His courtyard at all times Is teeming with strangers, And woe to the peasants— The fallen Korojins! 380 He sucked us all dry To the very last farthing; And flog!—like the soul Of Shalashnikov flogged he! Shalashnikov stopped When he got what he wanted; He clung to our backs Till he'd glutted his stomach, And then he dropped down Like a leech from a dog's ear. 390 But he had the grip Of a corpse—had this German; Until he had left you Stripped bare like a beggar You couldn't escape.'

"'But how could you bear it?'

"'Ah, how could we bear it? Because we were giants— Because by their patience The people of Russia Are great, little Grandchild. 400 You think, then, Matrona, That we Russian peasants No warriors are? Why, truly the peasant Does not live in armour, Does not die in warfare, But nevertheless He's a warrior, child. His hands are bound tight, 410 And his feet hung with fetters; His back—mighty forests Have broken across it; His breast—I will tell you, The Prophet Elijah In chariot fiery Is thundering within it; And these things the peasant Can suffer in patience. He bends—but he breaks not; 420 He reels—but he falls not; Then is he not truly A warrior, say?'

"'You joke, little Grandad; Such warriors, surely, A tiny mouse nibbling Could crumble to atoms,' I said to Savyeli.

"'I know not, Matrona, But up till to-day 430 He has stood with his burden; He's sunk in the earth 'Neath its weight to his shoulders; His face is not moistened With sweat, but with heart's blood. I don't know what may Come to pass in the future, I can't think what will Come to pass—only God knows. For my part, I know 440 When the storm howls in winter, When old bones are painful, I lie on the oven, I lie, and am thinking: ''Eh, you, strength of giants, On what have they spent you? On what are you wasted? With whips and with rods They will pound you to dust!'''

"'But what of the German, 450 Savyeli?'

"'The German? Well, well, though he lived Like a lord in his glory For eighteen long years, We were waiting our day. Then the German considered A factory needful, And wanted a pit dug. 'Twas work for nine peasants. 460 We started at daybreak And laboured till mid-day, And then we were going To rest and have dinner, When up comes the German: ''Eh, you, lazy devils! So little work done?'' He started to nag us, Quite coolly and slowly, Without heat or hurry; 470 For that was his way.

"'And we, tired and hungry, Stood listening in silence. He kicked the wet earth With his boot while he scolded, Not far from the edge Of the pit. I stood near him. And happened to give him A push with my shoulder; Then somehow a second 480 And third pushed him gently.... We spoke not a word, Gave no sign to each other, But silently, slowly, Drew closer together, And edging the German Respectfully forward, We brought him at last To the brink of the hollow.... He tumbled in headlong! 490 ''A ladder!'' he bellows; Nine shovels reply. ''Naddai!''[51]—the word fell From my lips on the instant, The word to which people Work gaily in Russia; ''Naddai!'' and ''Naddai!'' And we laboured so bravely That soon not a trace Of the pit was remaining, 500 The earth was as smooth As before we had touched it; And then we stopped short And we looked at each other....'

"The old man was silent. 'What further, Savyeli?'

"'What further? Ah, bad times: The prison in Buy-Town (I learnt there my letters), Until we were sentenced; 510 The convict-mines later; And plenty of lashes. But I never frowned At the lash in the prison; They flogged us but poorly. And later I nearly Escaped to the forest; They caught me, however. Of course they did not Pat my head for their trouble; 520 The Governor was through Siberia famous For flogging. But had not Shalashnikov flogged us? I spit at the floggings I got in the prison! Ah, he was a Master! He knew how to flog you! He toughened my hide so You see it has served me 530 For one hundred years, And 'twill serve me another. But life was not easy, I tell you, Matrona: First twenty years prison, Then twenty years exile. I saved up some money, And when I came home, Built this hut for myself. And here I have lived 540 For a great many years now. They loved the old grandad So long as he'd money, But now it has gone They would part with him gladly, They spit in his face. Eh, you plucky toy heroes! You're fit to make war Upon old men and women!'

"And that was as much 550 As the grandfather told me."

"And now for your story," They answer Matrona.

"'Tis not very bright. From one trouble God In His goodness preserved me; For Sitnikov died Of the cholera. Soon, though, Another arose, I will tell you about it." 560

"Naddai!" say the peasants (They love the word well), They are filling the glasses.



CHAPTER IV

DJOMUSHKA

"The little tree burns For the lightning has struck it. The nightingale's nest Has been built in its branches. The little tree burns, It is sighing and groaning; The nightingale's children Are crying and calling: 'Oh, come, little Mother! Oh, come, little Mother! 10 Take care of us, Mother, Until we can fly, Till our wings have grown stronger, Until we can fly To the peaceful green forest, Until we can fly To the far silent valleys....' The poor little tree— It is burnt to grey ashes; The poor little fledgelings 20 Are burnt to grey ashes. The mother flies home, But the tree ... and the fledgelings ... The nest.... She is calling, Lamenting and calling; She circles around, She is sobbing and moaning; She circles so quickly, She circles so quickly, Her tiny wings whistle. 30 The dark night has fallen, The dark world is silent, But one little creature Is helplessly grieving And cannot find comfort;— The nightingale only Laments for her children.... She never will see them Again, though she call them Till breaks the white day.... 40 I carried my baby Asleep in my bosom To work in the meadows. But Mother-in-law cried, 'Come, leave him behind you, At home with Savyeli, You'll work better then.' And I was so timid, So tired of her scolding, I left him behind. 50

"That year it so happened The harvest was richer Than ever we'd known it; The reaping was hard, But the reapers were merry, I sang as I mounted The sheaves on the waggon. (The waggons are loaded To laughter and singing; The sledges in silence, 60 With thoughts sad and bitter; The waggons convey the corn Home to the peasants, The sledges will bear it Away to the market.)

"But as I was working I heard of a sudden A deep groan of anguish: I saw old Savyeli Creep trembling towards me, 70 His face white as death: 'Forgive me, Matrona! Forgive me, Matrona! I sinned....I was careless.' He fell at my feet.

"Oh, stay, little swallow! Your nest build not there! Not there 'neath the leafless Bare bank of the river: The water will rise, 80 And your children will perish. Oh, poor little woman, Young wife and young mother, The daughter-in-law And the slave of the household, Bear blows and abuse, Suffer all things in silence, But let not your baby Be torn from your bosom.... Savyeli had fallen 90 Asleep in the sunshine, And Djoma—the pigs Had attacked him and killed him.

"I fell to the ground And lay writhing in torture; I bit the black earth And I shrieked in wild anguish; I called on his name, And I thought in my madness My voice must awake him.... 100

"Hark!—horses' hoofs stamping,[52] And harness-bells jangling— Another misfortune! The children are frightened, They run to the houses; And outside the window The old men and women Are talking in whispers And nodding together. The Elder is running 110 And tapping each window In turn with his staff; Then he runs to the hayfields, He runs to the pastures, To summon the people. They come, full of sorrow— Another misfortune! And God in His wrath Has sent guests that are hateful, Has sent unjust judges. 120 Perhaps they want money? Their coats are worn threadbare? Perhaps they are hungry?

"Without greeting Christ They sit down at the table, They've set up an icon And cross in the middle; Our pope, Father John, Swears the witnesses singly.

"They question Savyeli, 130 And then a policeman Is sent to find me, While the officer, swearing, Is striding about Like a beast in the forest.... 'Now, woman, confess it,' He cries when I enter, 'You lived with the peasant Savyeli in sin?'

"I whisper in answer, 140 'Kind sir, you are joking. I am to my husband A wife without stain, And the peasant Savyeli Is more than a hundred Years old;—you can see it.'

"He's stamping about Like a horse in the stable; In fury he's thumping His fist on the table. 150 'Be silent! Confess, then, That you with Savyeli Had plotted to murder Your child!'

"Holy Mother! What horrible ravings! My God, give me patience, And let me not strangle The wicked blasphemer! I looked at the doctor 160 And shuddered in terror: Before him lay lancets, Sharp scissors, and knives. I conquered myself, For I knew why they lay there. I answer him trembling, 'I loved little Djoma, I would not have harmed him.'

"'And did you not poison him. Give him some powder?' 170

"'Oh, Heaven forbid!' I kneel to him crying, 'Be gentle! Have mercy! And grant that my baby In honour be buried, Forbid them to thrust The cruel knives in his body! Oh, I am his mother!'

"Can anything move them? No hearts they possess, 180 In their eyes is no conscience, No cross at their throats....

"They have lifted the napkin Which covered my baby; His little white body With scissors and lancets They worry and torture ... The room has grown darker, I'm struggling and screaming, 'You butchers! You fiends! 190 Not on earth, not on water, And not on God's temple My tears shall be showered; But straight on the souls Of my hellish tormentors! Oh, hear me, just God! May Thy curse fall and strike them! Ordain that their garments May rot on their bodies! Their eyes be struck blind, 200 And their brains scorch in madness! Their wives be unfaithful, Their children be crippled! Oh, hear me, just God! Hear the prayers of a mother, And look on her tears,— Strike these pitiless devils!'

"'She's crazy, the woman!' The officer shouted, 'Why did you not tell us 210 Before? Stop this fooling! Or else I shall order My men, here, to bind you.'

"I sank on the bench, I was trembling all over; I shook like a leaf As I gazed at the doctor; His sleeves were rolled backwards, A knife was in one hand, A cloth in the other, 220 And blood was upon it; His glasses were fixed On his nose. All was silent. The officer's pen Began scratching on paper; The motionless peasants Stood gloomy and mournful; The pope lit his pipe And sat watching the doctor. He said, 'You are reading 230 A heart with a knife.' I started up wildly; I knew that the doctor Was piercing the heart Of my little dead baby.

"'Now, bind her, the vixen!' The officer shouted;— She's mad!' He began To inquire of the peasants, 'Have none of you noticed 240 Before that the woman Korchagin is crazy?'

"'No,' answered the peasants. And then Philip's parents He asked, and their children; They answered, 'Oh, no, sir! We never remarked it.' He asked old Savyeli,— There's one thing,' he answered, 'That might make one think 250 That Matrona is crazy: She's come here this morning Without bringing with her A present of money Or cloth to appease you.'

"And then the old man Began bitterly crying. The officer frowning Sat down and said nothing. And then I remembered: 260 In truth it was madness— The piece of new linen Which I had made ready Was still in my box— I'd forgotten to bring it; And now I had seen them Seize Djomushka's body And tear it to pieces. I think at that moment I turned into marble: 270 I watched while the doctor Was drinking some vodka And washing his hands; I saw how he offered The glass to the pope, And I heard the pope answer, 'Why ask me? We mortals Are pitiful sinners,— We don't need much urging To empty a glass!' 280

"The peasants are standing In fear, and are thinking: 'Now, how did these vultures Get wind of the matter? Who told them that here There was chance of some profit? They dashed in like wolves, Seized the beards of the peasants, And snarled in their faces Like savage hyenas!' 290

"And now they are feasting, Are eating and drinking; They chat with the pope, He is murmuring to them, 'The people in these parts Are beggars and drunken; They owe me for countless Confessions and weddings; They'll take their last farthing To spend in the tavern; 300 And nothing but sins Do they bring to their priest.'

"And then I hear singing In clear, girlish voices— I know them all well: There's Natasha and Glasha, And Dariushka,—Jesus Have mercy upon them! Hark! steps and accordion; Then there is silence. 310 I think I had fallen Asleep; then I fancied That somebody entering Bent over me, saying, 'Sleep, woman of sorrows, Exhausted by sorrow,' And making the sign Of the cross on my forehead. I felt that the ropes On my body were loosened, 320 And then I remembered No more. In black darkness I woke, and astonished I ran to the window: Deep night lay around me— What's happened? Where am I? I ran to the street,— It was empty, in Heaven No moon and no stars, And a great cloud of darkness 330 Spread over the village. The huts of the peasants Were dark; only one hut Was brilliantly lighted, It shone like a palace— The hut of Savyeli. I ran to the doorway, And then ... I remembered.

"The table was gleaming With yellow wax candles, 340 And there, in the midst, Lay a tiny white coffin, And over it spread Was a fine coloured napkin, An icon was placed At its head.... O you builders, For my little son What a house you have fashioned! No windows you've made 350 That the sunshine may enter, No stove and no bench, And no soft little pillows.... Oh, Djomushka will not Feel happy within it, He cannot sleep well.... 'Begone!'—I cried harshly On seeing Savyeli; He stood near the coffin And read from the book 360 In his hand, through his glasses. I cursed old Savyeli, Cried—'Branded one! Convict! Begone! 'Twas you killed him! You murdered my, Djoma, Begone from my sight!'

"He stood without moving; He crossed himself thrice And continued his reading. But when I grew calmer 370 Savyeli approached me, And said to me gently, 'In winter, Matrona, I told you my story, But yet there was more. Our forests were endless, Our lakes wild and lonely, Our people were savage; By cruelty lived we: By snaring the wood-grouse, 380 By slaying the bears:— You must kill or you perish! I've told you of Barin Shalashnikov, also Of how we were robbed By the villainous German, And then of the prison, The exile, the mines. My heart was like stone, I grew wild and ferocious. 390 My winter had lasted A century, Grandchild, But your little Djoma Had melted its frosts. One day as I rocked him He smiled of a sudden, And I smiled in answer.... A strange thing befell me Some days after that: As I prowled in the forest 400 I aimed at a squirrel; But suddenly noticed How happy and playful It was, in the branches: Its bright little face With its paw it sat washing. I lowered my gun:— 'You shall live, little squirrel!' I rambled about In the woods, in the meadows, 410 And each tiny floweret I loved. I went home then And nursed little Djoma, And played with him, laughing. God knows how I loved him, The innocent babe! And now ... through my folly, My sin, ... he has perished.... Upbraid me and kill me, But nothing can help you, 420 With God one can't argue.... Stand up now, Matrona, And pray for your baby; God acted with reason: He's counted the joys In the life of a peasant!'

"Long, long did Savyeli Stand bitterly speaking, The piteous fate Of the peasant he painted; 430 And if a rich Barin, A merchant or noble, If even our Father The Tsar had been listening, Savyeli could not Have found words which were truer, Have spoken them better....

"'Now Djoma is happy And safe, in God's Heaven,' He said to me later. 440 His tears began falling....

"'I do not complain That God took him, Savyeli,' I said,—'but the insult They did him torments me, It's racking my heart. Why did vicious black ravens Alight on his body And tear it to pieces? Will neither our God 450 Nor our Tsar—Little Father— Arise to defend us?'

"'But God, little Grandchild, Is high, and the Tsar Far away,' said Savyeli.

"I cried, 'Yet I'll reach them!'

"But Grandfather answered, 'Now hush, little Grandchild, You woman of sorrow, Bow down and have patience; 460 No truth you will find In the world, and no justice.'

"'But why then, Savyeli?'

"'A bondswoman, Grandchild, You are; and for such Is no hope,' said Savyeli.

"For long I sat darkly And bitterly thinking. The thunder pealed forth And the windows were shaken; 470 I started! Savyeli Drew nearer and touched me, And led me to stand By the little white coffin:

"'Now pray that the Lord May have placed little Djoma Among the bright ranks Of His angels,' he whispered; A candle he placed In my hand.... And I knelt there 480 The whole of the night Till the pale dawn of daybreak: The grandfather stood Beside Djomushka's coffin And read from the book In a measured low voice...."



CHAPTER V

THE SHE-WOLF

"'Tis twenty years now Since my Djoma was taken, Was carried to sleep 'Neath his little grass blanket; And still my heart bleeds, And I pray for him always, No apple till Spassa[53] I touch with my lips....

"For long I lay ill, Not a word did I utter, 10 My eyes could not suffer The old man, Savyeli. No work did I do, And my Father-in-law thought To give me a lesson And took down the horse-reins; I bowed to his feet, And cried—'Kill me! Oh, kill me! I pray for the end!' He hung the reins up, then. 20 I lived day and night On the grave of my Djoma, I dusted it clean With a soft little napkin That grass might grow green, And I prayed for my lost one. I yearned for my parents: 'Oh, you have forgotten, Forgotten your daughter!'

"'We have not forgotten 30 Our poor little daughter, But is it worth while, say, To wear the grey horse out By such a long journey To learn about your woes, To tell you of ours? Since long, little daughter, Would father and mother Have journeyed to see you, But ever the thought rose: 40 She'll weep at our coming, She'll shriek when we leave!'

"In winter came Philip, Our sorrow together We shared, and together We fought with our grief In the grandfather's hut."

"The grandfather died, then?"

"Oh, no, in his cottage For seven whole days 50 He lay still without speaking, And then he got up And he went to the forest; And there old Savyeli So wept and lamented, The woods were set throbbing. In autumn he left us And went as a pilgrim On foot to do penance At some distant convent.... 60

"I went with my husband To visit my parents, And then began working Again. Three years followed, Each week like the other, As twin to twin brother, And each year a child. There was no time for thinking And no time for grieving; Praise God if you have time 70 For getting your work done And crossing your forehead. You eat—when there's something Left over at table, When elders have eaten, When children have eaten; You sleep—when you're ill....

"In the fourth year came sorrow Again; for when sorrow Once lightens upon you 80 To death he pursues you; He circles before you— A bright shining falcon; He hovers behind you— An ugly black raven; He flies in advance— But he will not forsake you; He lingers behind— But he will not forget....

"I lost my dear parents. 90 The dark nights alone knew The grief of the orphan; No need is there, brothers, To tell you about it. With tears did I water The grave of my baby. From far once I noticed A wooden cross standing Erect at its head, And a little gilt icon; 100 A figure is kneeling Before it—'Savyeli! From whence have you come?'

"'I have come from Pesotchna. I've prayed for the soul Of our dear little Djoma; I've prayed for the peasants Of Russia.... Matrona, Once more do I pray— Oh, Matrona ... Matrona.... 110 I pray that the heart Of the mother, at last, May be softened towards me.... Forgive me, Matrona!'

"'Oh, long, long ago I forgave you, Savyeli.'

"'Then look at me now As in old times, Matrona!'

"I looked as of old. Then up rose Savyeli, 120 And gazed in my eyes; He was trying to straighten His stiffened old back; Like the snow was his hair now. I kissed the old man, And my new grief I told him; For long we sat weeping And mourning together. He did not live long After that. In the autumn 130 A deep wound appeared In his neck, and he sickened. He died very hard. For a hundred days, fully, No food passed his lips; To the bone he was shrunken. He laughed at himself: 'Tell me, truly, Matrona, Now am I not like A Korojin mosquito?' 140

"At times the old man Would be gentle and patient; At times he was angry And nothing would please him; He frightened us all By his outbursts of fury: 'Eh, plough not, and sow not, You downtrodden peasants! You women, sit spinning And weaving no longer! 150 However you struggle, You fools, you must perish! You will not escape What by fate has been written! Three roads are spread out For the peasant to follow— They lead to the tavern, The mines, and the prison! Three nooses are hung For the women of Russia: 160 The one is of white silk, The second of red silk, The third is of black silk— Choose that which you please!' And Grandfather laughed In a manner which caused us To tremble with fear And draw nearer together.... He died in the night, And we did as he asked us: 170 We laid him to rest In the grave beside Djoma. The Grandfather lived To a hundred and seven....

"Four years passed away then, The one like the other, And I was submissive, The slave of the household, For Mother-in-law And her husband the drunkard, 180 For Sister-in-law By all suitors rejected. I'd draw off their boots— Only,—touch not my children! For them I stood firm Like a rock. Once it happened A pilgrim arrived At our village—a holy And pious-tongued woman; She spoke to the people 190 Of how to please God And of how to reach Heaven. She said that on fast-days No woman should offer The breast to her child. The women obeyed her: On Wednesdays and Fridays The village was filled By the wailing of babies; And many a mother 200 Sat bitterly weeping To hear her child cry For its food—full of pity, But fearing God's anger. But I did not listen! I said to myself That if penance were needful The mothers must suffer, But not little children. I said, 'I am guilty, 210 My God—not my children!'

"It seems God was angry And punished me for it Through my little son; My Father-in-law To the commune had offered My little Fedotka As help to the shepherd When he was turned eight.... One night I was waiting 220 To give him his supper; The cattle already Were home, but he came not. I went through the village And saw that the people Were gathered together And talking of something. I listened, then elbowed My way through the people; Fedotka was set 230 In their midst, pale and trembling, The Elder was gripping His ear. 'What has happened? And why do you hold him?' I said to the Elder.

"'I'm going to beat him,— He threw a young lamb To the wolf,' he replied.

"I snatched my Fedotka Away from their clutches; 240 And somehow the Elder Fell down on the ground!

"The story was strange: It appears that the shepherd Went home for awhile, Leaving little Fedotka In charge of the flock. 'I was sitting,' he told me, 'Alone on the hillside, When all of a sudden 250 A wolf ran close by me And picked Masha's lamb up. I threw myself at her, I whistled and shouted, I cracked with my whip, Blew my horn for Valetka, And then I gave chase. I run fast, little Mother, But still I could never Have followed the robber 260 If not for the traces She left; because, Mother, Her breasts hung so low (She was suckling her children) They dragged on the earth And left two tracks of blood. But further the grey one Went slower and slower; And then she looked back And she saw I was coming. 270 At last she sat down. With my whip then I lashed her; ''Come, give me the lamb, You grey devil!'' She crouched, But would not give it up. I said—''I must save it Although she should kill me.'' I threw myself on her And snatched it away, But she did not attack me. 280 The lamb was quite dead, She herself was scarce living. She gnashed with her teeth And her breathing was heavy; And two streams of blood ran From under her body. Her ribs could be counted, Her head was hung down, But her eyes, little Mother, Looked straight into mine ... 290 Then she groaned of a sudden, She groaned, and it sounded As if she were crying. I threw her the lamb....'

"Well, that was the story. And foolish Fedotka Ran back to the village And told them about it. And they, in their anger, Were going to beat him 300 When I came upon them. The Elder, because Of his fall, was indignant, He shouted—'How dare you! Do you want a beating Yourself?' And the woman Whose lamb had been stolen Cried, 'Whip the lad soundly, 'Twill teach him a lesson!' Fedotka she pulled from 310 My arms, and he trembled, He shook like a leaf.

"Then the horns of the huntsmen Were heard,—the Pomyeshchick Returning from hunting. I ran to him, crying, 'Oh, save us! Protect us!'

"'What's wrong? Call the Elder!' And then, in an instant, The matter is settled: 320 'The shepherd is tiny— His youth and his folly May well be forgiven. The woman's presumption You'll punish severely!'

"'Oh, Barin, God bless you!' I danced with delight! 'Fedotka is safe now! Run home, quick, Fedotka.'

"'Your will shall be done, sir,' 330 The Elder said, bowing; 'Now, woman, prepare; You can dance later on!'

"A gossip then whispered, 'Fall down at the feet Of the Elder—beg mercy!'

"'Fedotka—go home!'

"Then I kissed him, and told him: 'Remember, Fedotka, That I shall be angry 340 If once you look backwards. Run home!'

"Well, my brothers, To leave out a word Of the song is to spoil it,— I lay on the ground...."

* * * * *

"I crawled like a cat To Fedotushka's corner That night. He was sleeping, He tossed in his dream. 350 One hand was hung down, While the other, clenched tightly, Was shielding his eyes: 'You've been crying, my treasure; Sleep, darling, it's nothing— See, Mother is near!' I'd lost little Djoma While heavy with this one; He was but a weakling, But grew very clever. 360 He works with his dad now, And built such a chimney With him, for his master, The like of it never Was seen. Well, I sat there The whole of the night By the sweet little shepherd. At daybreak I crossed him, I fastened his laputs, I gave him his wallet, 370 His horn and his whip. The rest began stirring, But nothing I told them Of all that had happened, But that day I stayed From the work in the fields.

"I went to the banks Of the swift little river, I sought for a spot Which was silent and lonely 380 Amid the green rushes That grow by the bank.

"And on the grey stone I sat down, sick and weary, And leaning my head On my hands, I lamented, Poor sorrowing orphan. And loudly I called On the names of my parents: 'Oh, come, little Father, 390 My tender protector! Oh, look at the daughter You cherished and loved!'

"In vain do I call him! The loved one has left me; The guest without lord, Without race, without kindred, Named Death, has appeared, And has called him away.

"And wildly I summon 400 My mother, my mother! The boisterous wind cries, The distant hills answer, But mother is dead, She can hear me no longer!

"You grieved day and night, And you prayed for me always, But never, beloved, Shall I see you again; You cannot turn back now, 410 And I may not follow.

"A pathway so strange, So unknown, you have chosen, The beasts cannot find it, The winds cannot reach it, My voice will be lost In the terrible distance....

"My loving protectors, If you could but see me! Could know what your daughter 420 Must suffer without you! Could learn of the people To whom you have left her!

"By night bathed in tears, And by day weak and trembling, I bow like the grass To the wind, but in secret A heart full of fury Is gnawing my breast!"



CHAPTER VI

AN UNLUCKY YEAR

"Strange stars played that year On the face of the Heavens; And some said, 'The Lord rides Abroad, and His angels With long flaming brooms sweep The floor of the Heavens In front of his carriage.' But others were frightened,— They said, 'It is rather The Antichrist coming! 10 It signals misfortune!' And they read it truly. A terrible year came, A terrible famine, When brother denied To his brother a morsel. And then I remembered The wolf that was hungry, For I was like her, Craving food for my children. 20 Now Mother-in-law found A new superstition: She said to the neighbours That I was the reason Of all the misfortune; And why? I had caused it By changing my shirt On the day before Christmas! Well, I escaped lightly, For I had a husband 30 To shield and protect me, But one woman, having Offended, was beaten To death by the people. To play with the starving Is dangerous, my friends.

"The famine was scarcely At end, when another Misfortune befell us— The dreaded recruiting. 40 But I was not troubled By that, because Philip Was safe: one already Had served of his people. One night I sat working, My husband, his brothers, The family, all had Been out since the morning. My Father-in-law Had been called to take part 50 In the communal meeting. The women were standing And chatting with neighbours. But I was exhausted, For then I was heavy With child. I was ailing, And hourly expected My time. When the children Were fed and asleep I lay down on the oven. 60 The women came home soon And called for their suppers; But Father-in-law Had not come, so we waited. He came, tired and gloomy: 'Eh, wife, we are ruined! I'm weary with running, But nothing can save us: They've taken the eldest— Now give them the youngest! 70 I've counted the years To a day—I have proved them; They listen to nothing. They want to take Philip! I prayed to the commune— But what is it worth? I ran to the bailiff; He swore he was sorry, But couldn't assist us. I went to the clerk then; 80 You might just as well Set to work with a hatchet To chop out the shadows Up there, on the ceiling, As try to get truth Out of that little rascal! He's bought. They are all bought,— Not one of them honest! If only he knew it— The Governor—he'd teach them! 90 If he would but order The commune to show him The lists of the volost, And see how they cheat us!' The mother and daughters Are groaning and crying; But I! ... I am cold.... I am burning in fever! ... My thoughts ... I have no thoughts! I think I am dreaming! 100 My fatherless children Are standing before me, And crying with hunger. The family, frowning, Looks coldly upon them.... At home they are 'noisy,' At play they are 'clumsy,' At table they're 'gluttons'! And somebody threatens To punish my children— 110 They slap them and pinch them! Be silent, you mother! You wife of a soldier!"

* * * * *

"I now have no part In the village allotments, No share in the building, The clothes, and the cattle, And these are my riches: Three lakes of salt tear-drops, Three fields sown with grief!" 120

* * * * *

"And now, like a sinner, I bow to the neighbours; I ask their forgiveness; I hear myself saying, 'Forgive me for being So haughty and proud! I little expected That God, for my pride, Would have left me forsaken! I pray you, good people, 130 To show me more wisdom, To teach me to live And to nourish my children, What food they should have, And what drink, and what teaching.'"

* * * * *

"I'm sending my children To beg in the village; 'Go, children, beg humbly, But dare not to steal.' The children are sobbing, 140 'It's cold, little Mother, Our clothes are in rags; We are weary of passing From doorway to doorway; We stand by the windows And shiver. We're frightened To beg of the rich folk; The poor ones say, ''God will Provide for the orphans!'' We cannot come home, 150 For if we bring nothing We know you'll be angry!'"

* * * * *

"To go to God's church I have made myself tidy; I hear how the neighbours Are laughing around me: 'Now who is she setting Her cap at?' they whisper."

* * * * *

"Don't wash yourself clean. And don't dress yourself nicely; 160 The neighbours are sharp— They have eyes like the eagle And tongues like the serpent. Walk humbly and slowly, Don't laugh when you're cheerful, Don't weep when you're sad."

* * * * *

"The dull, endless winter Has come, and the fields And the pretty green meadows Are hidden away 170 'Neath the snow. Nothing living Is seen in the folds Of the gleaming white grave-clothes. No friend under Heaven There is for the woman, The wife of the soldier. Who knows what her thoughts are? Who cares for her words? Who is sad for her sorrow? And where can she bury 180 The insults they cast her? Perhaps in the woods?— But the woods are all withered! Perhaps in the meadows?— The meadows are frozen! The swift little stream?— But its waters are sleeping! No,—carry them with you To hide in your grave!"

* * * * *

"My husband is gone; 190 There is no one to shield me. Hark, hark! There's the drum! And the soldiers are coming! They halt;—they are forming A line in the market. 'Attention!' There's Philip! There's Philip! I see him! 'Attention! Eyes front!' It's Shalashnikov shouting.... Oh, Philip has fallen! 200 Have mercy! Have mercy! 'Try that—try some physic! You'll soon get to like it! Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha!' He is striking my husband! 'I flog, not with whips, But with knouts made for giants!'"

* * * * *

"I sprang from the stove, Though my burden was heavy; I listen.... All silent.... 210 The family sleeping. I creep to the doorway And open it softly, I pass down the street Through the night.... It is frosty. In Domina's hut, Where the youths and young maidens Assemble at night, They are singing in chorus My favourite song: 220

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands, The little cottage at its foot, And Mashenka is there. Her father comes to look for her, He wakens her and coaxes her: ''Eh, Mashenka, come home,'' he cries, ''Efeemovna, come home!''

"'''I won't come, and I won't listen! Black the night—no moon in Heaven! Swift the stream—no bridge, no ferry! Dark the wood—no guards.'' 231

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands, The little cottage at its foot, And Mashenka is there. Her mother comes to look for her, She wakens her and coaxes her: ''Now, Mashenka, come home,'' she says, ''Efeemovna, come home!''

"'''I won't come, and I won't listen! Black the night—no moon in Heaven! Swift the stream—no bridge, no ferry! Dark the wood—no guards!'' 242

"'The fir tree on the mountain stands, The little cottage at its foot, And Mashenka is there. Young Peter comes to look for her, He wakens her, and coaxes her: ''Oh, Mashenka, come home with me! My little dove, Efeemovna, Come home, my dear, with me.'' 250

"'''I will come, and I will listen, Fair the night—the moon in Heaven, Calm the stream with bridge and ferry, In the wood strong guards.'''"



CHAPTER VII

THE GOVERNOR'S LADY

"I'm hurrying blindly, I've run through the village; Yet strangely the singing From Domina's cottage Pursues me and rings In my ears. My pace slackens, I rest for awhile, And look back at the village: I see the white snowdrift O'er valley and meadow, 10 The moon in the Heavens, My self, and my shadow....

"I do not feel frightened; A flutter of gladness Awakes in my bosom, 'You brisk winter breezes, My thanks for your freshness! I crave for your breath As the sick man for water.' My mind has grown clear, 20 To my knees I am falling: 'O Mother of Christ! I beseech Thee to tell me Why God is so angry With me. Holy Mother! No tiniest bone In my limbs is unbroken; No nerve in my body Uncrushed. I am patient,— I have not complained. 30 All the strength that God gave me I've spent on my work; All the love on my children. But Thou seest all things, And Thou art so mighty; Oh, succour thy slave!'

"I love now to pray On a night clear and frosty; To kneel on the earth 'Neath the stars in the winter. 40 Remember, my brothers, If trouble befall you, To counsel your women To pray in that manner; In no other place Can one pray so devoutly, At no other season....

"I prayed and grew stronger; I bowed my hot head To the cool snowy napkin, 50 And quickly my fever Was spent. And when later I looked at the roadway I found that I knew it; I'd passed it before On the mild summer evenings; At morning I'd greeted The sunrise upon it In haste to be off To the fair. And I walked now 60 The whole of the night Without meeting a soul.... But now to the cities The sledges are starting, Piled high with the hay Of the peasants. I watch them, And pity the horses: Their lawful provision Themselves they are dragging Away from the courtyard; 70 And afterwards they Will be hungry. I pondered: The horses that work Must eat straw, while the idlers Are fed upon oats. But when Need comes he hastens To empty your corn-lofts, Won't wait to be asked....

"I come within sight Of the town. On the outskirts 80 The merchants are cheating And wheedling the peasants, There's shouting and swearing, Abusing and coaxing.

"I enter the town As the bell rings for matins. I make for the market Before the cathedral. I know that the gates Of the Governor's courtyard 90 Are there. It is dark still, The square is quite empty; In front of the courtyard A sentinel paces: 'Pray tell me, good man, Does the Governor rise early?'

"'Don't know. Go away. I'm forbidden to chatter.' (I give him some farthings.) 'Well, go to the porter; 100 He knows all about it.'

"'Where is he? And what Is his name, little sentry?'

"'Makhar Fedosseich, He stands at the entrance.' I walk to the entrance, The doors are not opened. I sit on the doorsteps And think....

"It grows lighter, 110 A man with a ladder Is turning the lamps down.

"'Heh, what are you doing? And how did you enter?'

"I start in confusion, I see in the doorway A bald-headed man In a bed-gown. Then quickly I come to my senses, And bowing before him 120 (Makhar Fedosseich), I give him a rouble.

"'I come in great need To the Governor, and see him I must, little Uncle!'

"'You can't see him, woman. Well, well.... I'll consider.... Return in two hours.'

"I see in the market A pedestal standing, 130 A peasant upon it, He's just like Savyeli, And all made of brass: It's Susanin's memorial. While crossing the market I'm suddenly startled— A heavy grey drake From a cook is escaping; The fellow pursues With a knife. It is shrieking. 140 My God, what a sound! To the soul it has pierced me. ('Tis only the knife That can wring such a shriek.) The cook has now caught it; It stretches its neck, Begins angrily hissing, As if it would frighten The cook,—the poor creature! I run from the market, 150 I'm trembling and thinking, 'The drake will grow calm 'Neath the kiss of the knife!'

"The Governor's dwelling Again is before me, With balconies, turrets, And steps which are covered With beautiful carpets. I gaze at the windows All shaded with curtains. 160 'Now, which is your chamber,' I think, 'my desired one? Say, do you sleep sweetly? Of what are you dreaming?' I creep up the doorsteps, And keep to the side Not to tread on the carpets; And there, near the entrance, I wait for the porter.

"'You're early, my gossip!' 170 Again I am startled: A stranger I see,— For at first I don't know him; A livery richly Embroidered he wears now; He holds a fine staff; He's not bald any longer! He laughs—'You were frightened?'

"'I'm tired, little Uncle.'

"'You've plenty of courage, 180 God's mercy be yours! Come, give me another, And I will befriend you.'

"(I give him a rouble.) 'Now come, I will make you Some tea in my office.'

"His den is just under The stairs. There's a bedstead, A little iron stove, And a candlestick in it, 190 A big samovar, And a lamp in the corner. Some pictures are hung On the wall. 'That's His Highness,' The porter remarks, And he points with his finger. I look at the picture: A warrior covered With stars. 'Is he gentle?'

"'That's just as you happen 200 To find him. Why, neighbour, The same is with me: To-day I'm obliging, At times I'm as cross As a dog.'

"'You are dull here, Perhaps, little Uncle?'

"'Oh no, I'm not dull; I've a task that's exciting: Ten years have I fought 210 With a foe: Sleep his name is. And I can assure you That when I have taken An odd cup of vodka, The stove is red hot, And the smuts from the candle Have blackened the air, It's a desperate struggle!'

"There's somebody knocking. Makhar has gone out; 220 I am sitting alone now. I go to the door And look out. In the courtyard A carriage is waiting. I ask, 'Is he coming?' 'The lady is coming,' The porter makes answer, And hurries away To the foot of the staircase. A lady descends, 230 Wrapped in costliest sables, A lackey behind her. I know not what followed (The Mother of God Must have come to my aid), It seems that I fell At the feet of the lady, And cried, 'Oh, protect us! They try to deceive us! My husband—the only 240 Support of my children— They've taken away— Oh, they've acted unjustly!'...

"'Who are you, my pigeon?'

"My answer I know not, Or whether I gave one; A sudden sharp pang tore My body in twain."

* * * * *

"I opened my eyes In a beautiful chamber, 250 In bed I was laid 'Neath a canopy, brothers, And near me was sitting A nurse, in a head-dress All streaming with ribbons. She's nursing a baby. 'Who's is it?' I ask her.

"'It's yours, little Mother.' I kiss my sweet child. It seems, when I fell 260 At the feet of the lady, I wept so and raved so, Already so weakened By grief and exhaustion, That there, without warning, My labour had seized me. I bless the sweet lady, Elyen Alexandrovna, Only a mother Could bless her as I do. 270 She christened my baby, Lidorushka called him."

"And what of your husband?"

"They sent to the village And started enquiries, And soon he was righted. Elyen Alexandrovna Brought him herself To my side. She was tender And clever and lovely, 280 And healthy, but childless, For God would not grant her A child. While I stayed there My baby was never Away from her bosom. She tended and nursed him Herself, like a mother. The spring had set in And the birch trees were budding, Before she would let us 290 Set out to go home.

"Oh, how fair and bright In God's world to-day! Glad my heart and gay!

"Homewards lies our way, Near the wood we pause, See, the meadows green, Hark! the waters play. Rivulet so pure, Little child of Spring, 300 How you leap and sing, Rippling in the leaves! High the little lark Soars above our heads, Carols blissfully! Let us stand and gaze; Soon our eyes will meet, I will laugh to thee, Thou wilt smile at me, Wee Lidorushka! 310

"Look, a beggar comes, Trembling, weak, old man, Give him what we can. 'Do not pray for us,' Let us to him say, 'Father, you must pray For Elyenushka, For the lady fair, Alexandrovna!'

"Look, the church of God! 320 Sign the cross we twain Time and time again.... 'Grant, O blessed Lord, Thy most fair reward To the gentle heart Of Elyenushka, Alexandrovna!'

"Green the forest grows, Green the pretty fields, In each dip and dell 330 Bright a mirror gleams. Oh, how fair it is In God's world to-day, Glad my heart and gay! Like the snowy swan O'er the lake I sail, O'er the waving steppes Speeding like the quail.

"Here we are at home. Through the door I fly 340 Like the pigeon grey; Low the family Bow at sight of me, Nearly to the ground, Pardon they beseech For the way in which They have treated me. 'Sit you down,' I say, 'Do not bow to me. Listen to my words: 350 You must bow to one Better far than I, Stronger far than I, Sing your praise to her.'

"'Sing to whom,' you say? 'To Elyenushka, To the fairest soul God has sent on earth: Alexandrovna!'"



CHAPTER VIII

THE WOMAN'S LEGEND

Matrona is silent. You see that the peasants Have seized the occasion— They are not forgetting To drink to the health Of the beautiful lady! But noticing soon That Matrona is silent, In file they approach her.

"What more will you tell us?" 10

"What more?" says Matrona, "My fame as the 'lucky one' Spread through the volost, Since then they have called me 'The Governor's Lady.' You ask me, what further? I managed the household, And brought up my children. You ask, was I happy? Well, that you can answer 20 Yourselves. And my children? Five sons! But the peasant's Misfortunes are endless: They've robbed me of one." She lowers her voice, And her lashes are trembling, But turning her head She endeavours to hide it. The peasants are rather Confused, but they linger: 30 "Well, neighbour," they say, "Will you tell us no more?"

"There's one thing: You're foolish To seek among women For happiness, brothers."

"That's all?"

"I can tell you That twice we were swallowed By fire, and that three times The plague fell upon us; 40 But such things are common To all of us peasants. Like cattle we toiled, My steps were as easy As those of a horse In the plough. But my troubles Were not very startling: No mountains have moved From their places to crush me; And God did not strike me 50 With arrows of thunder. The storm in my soul Has been silent, unnoticed, So how can I paint it To you? O'er the Mother Insulted and outraged, The blood of her first-born As o'er a crushed worm Has been poured; and unanswered The deadly offences 60 That many have dealt her; The knout has been raised Unopposed o'er her body. But one thing I never Have suffered: I told you That Sitnikov died, That the last, irreparable Shame had been spared me. You ask me for happiness? Brothers, you mock me! 70 Go, ask the official, The Minister mighty, The Tsar—Little Father, But never a woman! God knows—among women Your search will be endless, Will lead to your graves.

"A pious old woman Once asked us for shelter; The whole of her lifetime 80 The Flesh she had conquered By penance and fasting; She'd bathed in the Jordan, And prayed at the tomb Of Christ Jesus. She told us The keys to the welfare And freedom of women Have long been mislaid— God Himself has mislaid them. And hermits, chaste women, 90 And monks of great learning, Have sought them all over The world, but not found them. They're lost, and 'tis thought By a fish they've been swallowed. God's knights have been seeking In towns and in deserts, Weak, starving, and cold, Hung with torturing fetters. They've asked of the seers, 100 The stars they have counted To learn;—but no keys! Through the world they have journeyed; In underground caverns, In mountains, they've sought them. At last they discovered Some keys. They were precious, But only—not ours. Yet the warriors triumphed: They fitted the lock 110 On the fetters of serfdom! A sigh from all over The world rose to Heaven, A breath of relief, Oh, so deep and so joyful! Our keys were still missing.... Great champions, though, Till to-day are still searching, Deep down in the bed Of the ocean they wander, 120 They fly to the skies, In the clouds they are seeking, But never the keys. Do you think they will find them? Who knows? Who can say? But I think it is doubtful, For which fish has swallowed Those treasures so priceless, In which sea it swims— God Himself has forgotten!" 130



PART IV.

Dedicated to Serge Petrovitch Botkin

A FEAST FOR THE WHOLE VILLAGE

PROLOGUE

A very old willow There is at the end Of the village of "Earthworms," Where most of the folk Have been diggers and delvers From times very ancient (Though some produced tar). This willow had witnessed The lives of the peasants: Their holidays, dances, 10 Their communal meetings, Their floggings by day, In the evening their wooing, And now it looked down On a wonderful feast.

The feast was conducted In Petersburg fashion, For Klimka, the peasant (Our former acquaintance), Had seen on his travels 20 Some noblemen's banquets, With toasts and orations, And he had arranged it.

The peasants were sitting On tree-trunks cut newly For building a hut. With them, too, our seven (Who always were ready To see what was passing) Were sitting and chatting 30 With Vlass, the old Elder. As soon as they fancied A drink would be welcome, The Elder called out To his son, "Run for Trifon!" With Trifon the deacon, A jovial fellow, A chum of the Elder's, His sons come as well.

Two pupils they are 40 Of the clerical college Named Sava and Grisha. The former, the eldest, Is nineteen years old. He looks like a churchman Already, while Grisha Has fine, curly hair, With a slight tinge of red, And a thin, sallow face. Both capital fellows 50 They are, kind and simple, They work with the ploughshare, The scythe, and the sickle, Drink vodka on feast-days, And mix with the peasants Entirely as equals....

The village lies close To the banks of the Volga; A small town there is On the opposite side. 60 (To speak more correctly, There's now not a trace Of the town, save some ashes: A fire has demolished it Two days ago.)

Some people are waiting To cross by the ferry, While some feed their horses (All friends of the peasants). Some beggars have crawled 70 To the spot; there are pilgrims, Both women and men; The women loquacious, The men very silent.

The old Prince Yutiatin Is dead, but the peasants Are not yet aware That instead of the hayfields His heirs have bequeathed them A long litigation. 80 So, drinking their vodka, They first of all argue Of how they'll dispose Of the beautiful hayfields.

You were not all cozened,[54] You people of Russia, And robbed of your land. In some blessed spots You were favoured by fortune! By some lucky chance— 90 The Pomyeshchick's long absence, Some slip of posrednik's, By wiles of the commune, You managed to capture A slice of the forest. How proud are the peasants In such happy corners! The Elder may tap At the window for taxes, The peasant will bluster,— 100 One answer has he: "Just sell off the forest, And don't bother me!"

So now, too, the peasants Of "Earthworms" decided To part with the fields To the Elder for taxes. They calculate closely: "They'll pay both the taxes And dues—with some over, 110 Heh, Vlasuchka, won't they?"

"Once taxes are paid I'll uncover to no man. I'll work if it please me, I'll lie with my wife, Or I'll go to the tavern." "Bravo!" cry the peasants, In answer to Klimka, "Now, Vlasuchka, do you Agree to our plan?" 120

"The speeches of Klimka Are short, and as plain As the public-house signboard," Says Vlasuchka, joking. "And that is his manner: To start with a woman And end in the tavern."

"Well, where should one end, then? Perhaps in the prison? Now—as to the taxes, 130 Don't croak, but decide."

But Vlasuchka really Was far from a croaker. The kindest soul living Was he, and he sorrowed For all in the village, Not only for one. His conscience had pricked him While serving his haughty And rigorous Barin, 140 Obeying his orders, So cruel and oppressive. While young he had always Believed in 'improvements,' But soon he observed That they ended in nothing, Or worse—in misfortune. So now he mistrusted The new, rich in promise. The wheels that have passed 150 O'er the roadways of Moscow Are fewer by far Than the injuries done To the soul of the peasant. There's nothing to laugh at In that, so the Elder Perforce had grown gloomy. But now, the gay pranks Of the peasants of "Earthworms" Affected him too. 160 His thoughts became brighter: No taxes ... no barschin ... No stick held above you, Dear God, am I dreaming? Old Vlasuchka smiles.... A miracle surely! Like that, when the sun From the splendour of Heaven May cast a chance ray In the depths of the forest: 170 The dew shines like diamonds, The mosses are gilded.

"Drink, drink, little peasants! Disport yourselves bravely!" 'Twas gay beyond measure. In each breast awakens A wondrous new feeling, As though from the depths Of a bottomless gulf On the crest of a wave, 180 They've been borne to the surface To find there awaits them A feast without end.

Another pail's started, And, oh, what a clamour Of voices arises, And singing begins.

And just as a dead man's Relations and friends Talk of nothing but him 190 Till the funeral's over, Until they have finished The funeral banquet And started to yawn,— So over the vodka, Beneath the old willow, One topic prevails: The "break in the chain" Of their lords, the Pomyeshchicks.

The deacon they ask, 200 And his sons, to oblige them By singing a song Called the "Merry Song" to them.

(This song was not really A song of the people: The deacon's son Grisha Had sung it them first. But since the great day When the Tsar, Little Father, Had broken the chains 210 Of his suffering children, They always had danced To this tune on the feast-days. The "popes" and the house-serfs Could sing the words also, The peasants could not, But whenever they heard it They whistled and stamped, And the "Merry Song" called it.)



CHAPTER I

BITTER TIMES—BITTER SONGS

The Merry Song

* * * * *

The "Merry Song" finished, They struck up a chorus, A song of their own, A wailing lament (For, as yet, they've no others). And is it not strange That in vast Holy Russia, With masses and masses Of people unnumbered, No song has been born 10 Overflowing with joy Like a bright summer morning? Yes, is it not striking, And is it not tragic? O times that are coming, You, too, will be painted In songs of the people, But how? In what colours? And will there be ever A smile in their hearts? 20

"Eh, that's a fine song! 'Tis a shame to forget it." Our peasants regret That their memories trick them. And, meanwhile, the peasants Of "Earthworms" are saying, "We lived but for 'barschin,' Pray, how would you like it? You see, we grew up 'Neath the snout of the Barin, 30 Our noses were glued To the earth. We'd forgotten The faces of neighbours, Forgot how to speak. We got tipsy in silence, Gave kisses in silence, Fought silently, too."

"Eh, who speaks of silence? We'd more cause to hate it Than you," said a peasant 40 Who came from a Volost Near by, with a waggon Of hay for the market. (Some heavy misfortune Had forced him to sell it.) "For once our young lady, Miss Gertrude, decided That any one swearing Must soundly be flogged. Dear Lord, how they flogged us 50 Until we stopped swearing! Of course, not to swear For the peasant means—silence. We suffered, God knows! Then freedom was granted, We feasted it finely, And then we made up For our silence, believe me: We swore in such style That Pope John was ashamed 60 For the church-bells to hear us. (They rang all day long.) What stories we told then! We'd no need to seek For the words. They were written All over our backs."

"A funny thing happened In our parts,—a strange thing," Remarked a tall fellow With bushy black whiskers. 70 (He wore a round hat With a badge, a red waistcoat With ten shining buttons, And stout homespun breeches. His legs, to contrast With the smartness above them, Were tied up in rags! There are trees very like him, From which a small shepherd Has stripped all the bark off 80 Below, while above Not a scratch can be noticed! And surely no raven Would scorn such a summit For building a nest.)

"Well, tell us about it."

"I'll first have a smoke."

And while he is smoking Our peasants are asking, "And who is this fellow? 90 What sort of a goose?"

"An unfortunate footman Inscribed in our Volost, A martyr, a house-serf Of Count Sinegusin's. His name is Vikenti. He sprang from the foot-board Direct to the ploughshare; We still call him 'Footman.' He's healthy enough, 100 But his legs are not strong, And they're given to trembling. His lady would drive In a carriage and four To go hunting for mushrooms. He'll tell you some stories: His memory's splendid; You'd think he had eaten The eggs of a magpie." [55]

Now, setting his hat straight, 110 Vikenti commences To tell them the story.



The Dutiful Serf—Jacob the Faithful

Once an official, of rather low family, Bought a small village from bribes he had stored, Lived in it thirty-three years without leaving it, Feasted and hunted and drank like a lord. Greedy and miserly, not many friends he made, Sometimes he'd drive to his sister's to tea. Cruel was his nature, and not to his serfs alone: On his own daughter no pity had he, 120 Horsewhipped her husband, and drove them both penniless Out of his house; not a soul dare resist. Jacob, his dutiful servant, Ever of orders observant, Often he'd strike in the mouth with his fist.

Hearts of men born into slavery Sometimes with dogs' hearts accord: Crueller the punishments dealt to them More they will worship their lord. 129

Jacob, it seems, had a heart of that quality, Only two sources of joy he possessed: Tending and serving his Barin devotedly, Rocking his own little nephew to rest. So they lived on till old age was approaching them, Weak grew the legs of the Barin at last, Vainly, to cure them, he tried every remedy; Feast and debauch were delights of the past.

Plump are his hands and white, Keen are his eyes and bright, Rosy his cheek remains, 140 But on his legs—are chains!

Helpless the Barin now lies in his dressing-gown, Bitterly, bitterly cursing his fate. Jacob, his "brother and friend,"—so the Barin says,— Nurses him, humours him early and late. Winter and summer they pass thus in company, Mostly at card-games together they play, Sometimes they drive for a change to the sister's house, Eight miles or so, on a very fine day. Jacob himself bears his lord to the carriage then, 150 Drives him with care at a moderate pace, Carries him into the old lady's drawing-room.... So they live peacefully on for a space.

Grisha, the nephew of Jacob, a youth becomes, Falls at the feet of his lord: "I would wed." "Who will the bride be?" "Her name is Arisha, sir." Thunders the Barin, "You'd better be dead!" Looking at her he had often bethought himself, "Oh, for my legs! Would the Lord but relent!" 159 So, though the uncle entreated his clemency, Grisha to serve in the army he sent. Cut to the heart was the slave by this tyranny, Jacob the Faithful went mad for a spell: Drank like a fish, and his lord was disconsolate, No one could please him: "You fools, go to Hell!" Hate in each bosom since long has been festering: Now for revenge! Now the Barin must pay, Roughly they deal with his whims and infirmities, Two quite unbearable weeks pass away. Then the most faithful of servants appeared again, 170 Straight at the feet of his master he fell, Pity has softened his heart to the legless one, Who can look after the Barin so well? "Barin, recall not your pitiless cruelty, While I am living my cross I'll embrace." Peacefully now lies the lord in his dressing-gown, Jacob, once more, is restored to his place. Brother again the Pomyeshchick has christened him. "Why do you wince, little Jacob?" says he. "Barin, there's something that stings ... in my memory...." 180 Now they thread mushrooms, play cards, and drink tea, Then they make brandy from cherries and raspberries, Next for a drive to the sister's they start, See how the Barin lies smoking contentedly, Green leaves and sunshine have gladdened his heart. Jacob is gloomy, converses unwillingly, Trembling his fingers, the reins are hung slack, "Spirits unholy!" he murmurs unceasingly, "Leave me! Begone!" (But again they attack.) Just on the right lies a deep, wooded precipice, Known in those parts as "The Devil's Abyss," 191 Jacob turns into the wood by the side of it. Queries his lord, "What's the meaning of this?" Jacob replies not. The path here is difficult, Branches and ruts make their steps very slow; Rustling of trees is heard. Spring waters noisily Cast themselves into the hollow below. Then there's a halt,—not a step can the horses move: Straight in their path stand the pines like a wall; Jacob gets down, and, the horses unharnessing, Takes of the Barin no notice at all. 201

Vainly the Barin's exclaiming and questioning, Jacob is pale, and he shakes like a leaf, Evilly smiles at entreaties and promises: "Am I a murderer, then, or a thief? No, Barin, you shall not die. There's another way!" Now he has climbed to the top of a pine, Fastened the reins to the summit, and crossed himself, Turning his face to the sun's bright decline. Thrusting his head in the noose ... he has hanged himself! 210 Horrible! Horrible! See, how he sways Backwards and forwards.... The Barin, unfortunate, Shouts for assistance, and struggles and prays. Twisting his head he is jerking convulsively, Straining his voice to the utmost he cries, All is in vain, there is no one to rescue him, Only the mischievous echo replies.

Gloomy the hollow now lies in its winding-sheet, Black is the night. Hear the owls on the wing, Striking the earth as they pass, while the horses stand 220 Chewing the leaves, and their bells faintly ring. Two eyes are burning like lamps at the train's approach, Steadily, brightly they gleam in the night, Strange birds are flitting with movements mysterious, Somewhere at hand they are heard to alight. Straight over Jacob a raven exultingly Hovers and caws. Now a hundred fly round! Feebly the Barin is waving his crutch at them, Merciful Heaven, what horrors abound!

So the poor Barin all night in the carriage lies, Shouting, from wolves to protect his old bones. 231 Early next morning a hunter discovers him, Carries him home, full of penitent groans: "Oh, I'm a sinner most infamous! Punish me!" Barin, I think, till you rest in your grave, One figure surely will haunt you incessantly, Jacob the Faithful, your dutiful slave.

"What sinners! What sinners!" The peasants are saying, "I'm sorry for Jacob, 240 Yet pity the Barin, Indeed he was punished! Ah, me!" Then they listen To two or three more tales As strange and as fearful, And hotly they argue On who must be reckoned The greatest of sinners: "The publican," one says, And one, "The Pomyeshchick," 250 Another, "The peasant." This last was a carter, A man of good standing And sound reputation, No ignorant babbler. He'd seen many things In his life, his own province Had traversed entirely. He should have been heard. The peasants, however, 260 Were all so indignant They would not allow him To speak. As for Klimka, His wrath is unbounded, "You fool!" he is shouting.

"But let me explain."

"I see you are all fools," A voice remarks roughly: The voice of a trader Who squeezes the peasants 270 For laputs or berries Or any spare trifles. But chiefly he's noted For seizing occasions When taxes are gathered, And peasants' possessions Are bartered at auction. "You start a discussion And miss the chief point. Why, who's the worst sinner? 280 Consider a moment."

"Well, who then? You tell us."

"The robber, of course."

"You've not been a serf, man," Says Klimka in answer; "The burden was heavy, But not on your shoulders. Your pockets are full, So the robber alarms you; The robber with this case 290 Has nothing to do."

"The case of the robber Defending the robber," The other retorts.

"Now, pray!" bellows Klimka, And leaping upon him, He punches his jaw. The trader repays him With buffets as hearty, "Take leave of your carcase!" 300 He roars.

"Here's a tussle!" The peasants are clearing A space for the battle; They do not prevent it Nor do they applaud it. The blows fall like hail.

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you! Write home to your parents!"

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you! 310 Heh, send for the pope!"

The trader, bent double By Klimka, who, clutching His hair, drags his head down, Repeating, "He's bowing!" Cries, "Stop, that's enough!" When Klimka has freed him He sits on a log, And says, wiping his face With a broadly-checked muffler, 320 "No wonder he conquered: He ploughs not, he reaps not, Does nothing but doctor The pigs and the horses; Of course he gets strong!"

The peasants are laughing, And Klimka says, mocking, "Here, try a bit more!"

"Come on, then! I'm ready," The trader says stoutly, 330 And rolling his sleeves up, He spits on his palms.

"The hour has now sounded For me, though a sinner, To speak and unite you," Iona pronounces. The whole of the evening That diffident pilgrim Has sat without speaking, And crossed himself, sighing. 340 The trader's delighted, And Klimka replies not. The rest, without speaking, Sit down on the ground.



CHAPTER II

PILGRIMS AND WANDERERS

We know that in Russia Are numbers of people Who wander at large Without kindred or home. They sow not, they reap not, They feed at the fountain That's common to all, That nourishes likewise The tiniest mouse And the mightiest army: The sweat of the peasant. 10 The peasants will tell you That whole populations Of villages sometimes Turn out in the autumn To wander like pilgrims. They beg, and esteem it A paying profession. The people consider That misery drives them 20 More often than cunning, And so to the pilgrims Contribute their mite. Of course, there are cases Of downright deception: One pilgrim's a thief, Or another may wheedle Some cloth from the wife Of a peasant, exchanging Some "sanctified wafers" 30 Or "tears of the Virgin" He's brought from Mount Athos, And then she'll discover He's been but as far As a cloister near Moscow. One saintly old greybeard Enraptured the people By wonderful singing, And offered to teach The young girls of the village 40 The songs of the church With their mothers' permission. And all through the winter He locked himself up With the girls in a stable. From thence, sometimes singing Was heard, but more often Came laughter and giggles. Well, what was the upshot? He taught them no singing, 50 But ruined them all.

Some Masters so skilful There are, they will even Lay siege to the ladies. They first to the kitchens Make sure of admission, And then through the maids Gained access to the mistress. See, there he goes, strutting Along through the courtyard 60 And jingling the keys Of the house like a Barin. And soon he will spit In the teeth of the peasants; The pious old women, Who always before At the house have been welcome, He'll speedily banish. The people, however, Can see in these pilgrims 70 A good side as well. For, who begs the money For building the churches? And who keeps the convent's Collecting-box full? And many, though useless, Are perfectly harmless; But some are uncanny, One can't understand them: The people know Foma, 80 With chains round his middle Some six stones in weight; How summer and winter He walks about barefoot, And constantly mutters Of Heaven knows what. His life, though, is godly: A stone for his pillow, A crust for his dinner.

The people know also 90 The old man, Nikifor, Adherent, most strange, Of the sect called "The Hiders." One day he appeared In Usolovo village Upbraiding the people For lack of religion, And calling them forth To the great virgin forest To seek for salvation. 100 The chief of police Of the district just happened To be in the village And heard his oration: "Ho! Question the madman!"

"Thou foe of Christ Jesus! Thou Antichrist's herald!" Nikifor retorts. The Elders are nudging him: "Now, then, be silent!" 110 He pays no attention. They drag him to prison. He stands in the waggon, Undauntedly chiding The chief of police, And loudly he cries To the people who follow him:

"Woe to you! Woe to you! Bondsmen, I mourn for you! Though you're in rags, e'en the rags shall be torn from you! Fiercely with knouts in the past did they mangle you: 120 Clutches of iron in the future will strangle you!"

The people are crossing Themselves. The Nachalnik[56] Is striking the prophet: "Remember the Judge Of Jerusalem, sinner!" The driver's so frightened The reins have escaped him, His hair stands on end....

And when will the people 130 Forget Yevressina, Miraculous widow? Let cholera only Break out in a village: At once like an envoy Of God she appears. She nurses and fosters And buries the peasants. The women adore her, They pray to her almost. 140

It's evident, then, That the door of the peasant Is easily opened: Just knock, and be certain He'll gladly admit you. He's never suspicious Like wealthier people; The thought does not strike him At sight of the humble And destitute stranger, 150 "Perhaps he's a thief!" And as to the women, They're simply delighted, They'll welcome you warmly.

At night, in the Winter, The family gathered To work in the cottage By light of "luchina," [57] Are charmed by the pilgrim's Remarkable stories. 160 He's washed in the steam-bath, And dipped with his spoon In the family platter, First blessing its contents. His veins have been thawed By a streamlet of vodka, His words flow like water. The hut is as silent As death. The old father Was mending the laputs, 170 But now he has dropped them.

The song of the shuttle Is hushed, and the woman Who sits at the wheel Is engrossed in the story. The daughter, Yevgenka, Her plump little finger Has pricked with a needle. The blood has dried up, But she notices nothing; 180 Her sewing has fallen, Her eyes are distended, Her arms hanging limp. The children, in bed On the sleeping-planks, listen, Their heads hanging down. They lie on their stomachs Like snug little seals Upon Archangel ice-blocks. Their hair, like a curtain, 190 Is hiding their faces: It's yellow, of course!

But wait. Soon the pilgrim Will finish his story— (It's true)—from Mount Athos. It tells how that sinner The Turk had once driven Some monks in rebellion Right into the sea,— Who meekly submitted, 200 And perished in hundreds.

(What murmurs of horror Arise! Do you notice The eyes, full of tears?) And now conies the climax, The terrible moment, And even the mother Has loosened her hold On the corpulent bobbin, It rolls to the ground.... 210 And see how cat Vaska At once becomes active And pounces upon it. At times less enthralling The antics of Vaska Would meet their deserts; But now he is patting And touching the bobbin And leaping around it With flexible movements, 220 And no one has noticed. It rolls to a distance, The thread is unwound.

Whoever has witnessed The peasant's delight At the tales of the pilgrims Will realise this: Though never so crushing His labours and worries, Though never so pressing 230 The call of the tavern, Their weight will not deaden The soul of the peasant And will not benumb it. The road that's before him Is broad and unending.... When old fields, exhausted, Play false to the reaper, He'll seek near the forest For soil more productive. 240 The work may be hard, But the new plot repays him: It yields a rich harvest Without being manured. A soil just as fertile Lies hid in the soul Of the people of Russia: O Sower, then come!

The pilgrim Iona Since long is well known 250 In the village of "Earthworms." The peasants contend For the honour of giving The holy man shelter. At last, to appease them, He'd say to the women, "Come, bring out your icons!" They'd hurry to fetch them. Iona, prostrating Himself to each icon, 260 Would say to the people, "Dispute not! Be patient, And God will decide: The saint who looks kindest At me I will follow." And often he'd follow The icon most poor To the lowliest hovel. That hut would become then A Cup overflowing; 270 The women would run there With baskets and saucepans, All thanks to Iona.

And now, without hurry Or noise, he's beginning To tell them a story, "Two Infamous Sinners," But first, most devoutly, He crosses himself.



Two Infamous Sinners

Come, let us praise the Omnipotent! 280 Let us the legend relate Told by a monk in the Priory. Thus did I hear him narrate:

Once were twelve brigands notorious, One, Kudear, at their head; Torrents of blood of good Christians Foully the miscreants shed.

Deep in the forest their hiding-place, Rich was their booty and rare; Once Kudear from near Kiev Town 290 Stole a young maiden most fair.

Days Kudear with his mistress spent, Nights on the road with his horde; Suddenly, conscience awoke in him, Stirred by the grace of the Lord.

Sleep left his couch. Of iniquity Sickened his spirit at last; Shades of his victims appeared to him, Crowding in multitudes vast.

Long was this monster most obdurate, 300 Blind to the light from above, Then flogged to death his chief satellite, Cut off the head of his love,—

Scattered his gang in his penitence, And to the churches of God All his great riches distributed, Buried his knife in the sod,

Journeyed on foot to the Sepulchre, Filled with repentance and grief; Wandered and prayed, but the pilgrimage Brought to his soul no relief. 311

When he returned to his Fatherland Clad like a monk, old and bent, 'Neath a great oak, as an anchorite, Life in the forest he spent.

There, from the Maker Omnipotent, Grace day and night did he crave: "Lord, though my body thou castigate, Grant that my soul I may save!"

Pity had God on the penitent, 320 Showed him the pathway to take, Sent His own messenger unto him During his prayers, who thus spake:

"Know, for this oak sprang thy preference, Not without promptings divine; Lo! take the knife thou hast slaughtered with, Fell it, and grace shall be thine.

"Yea, though the task prove laborious, Great shall the recompense be, Let but the tree fall, and verily 330 Thou from thy load shalt be free."

Vast was the giant's circumference; Praying, his task he begins, Works with the tool of atrociousness, Offers amends for his sins.

Glory he sang to the Trinity, Scraped the hard wood with his blade. Years passed away. Though he tarried not, Slow was the progress he made.

'Gainst such a mighty antagonist 340 How could he hope to prevail? Only a Samson could vanquish it, Not an old man, spent and frail.

Doubt, as he worked, began plaguing him: Once of a voice came the sound, "Heh, old man, say what thy purpose is?" Crossing himself he looked round.

There, Pan[58] Glukhovsky was watching him On his brave Arab astride, Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350 Known in the whole countryside.

Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him, Filled were his subjects with hate, So the old hermit to caution him Told him his own sorry fate.

"Ho!" laughed Glukhovsky, derisively, "Hope of salvation's not mine; These are the things that I estimate— Women, gold, honour, and wine.

"My life, old man, is the only one; 360 Many the serfs that I keep; What though I waste, hang, and torture them— You should but see how I sleep!"

Lo! to the hermit, by miracle, Wrath a great strength did impart, Straight on Glukhovsky he flung himself, Buried the knife in his heart.

Scarce had the Pan, in his agony, Sunk to the blood-sodden ground, Crashed the great tree, and lay subjugate, Trembled the earth at the sound. 371

Lo! and the sins of the anchorite Passed from his soul like a breath. "Let us pray God to incline to us, Slaves in the shadow of Death...."



CHAPTER III

OLD AND NEW

Iona has finished. He crosses himself, And the people are silent. And then of a sudden

The trader cries loudly In great irritation, "What's wrong with the ferry? A plague on the sluggards! Ho, ferry ahoy!"

"You won't get the ferry 10 Till sunrise, for even In daytime they're frightened To cross: the boat's rotten! About Kudear, now—"

"Ho, ferry ahoy!"

He strides to his waggon. A cow is there tethered; He churlishly kicks her. His hens begin clucking; He shouts at them, "Silence!" 20 The calf, which is shifting About in the cart. Gets a crack on the forehead. He strikes the roan mare With the whip, and departing He makes for the Volga. The moon is now shining, It casts on the roadway A comical shadow, Which trots by his side. 30

"Oho!" says the Elder, "He thought himself able To fight, but discussion Is not in his line.... My brothers, how grievous The sins of the nobles!"

"And yet not as great As the sin of the peasant," The carter cannot here Refrain from remarking. 40

"A plaguey old croaker!" Says Klim, spitting crossly; "Whatever arises The raven must fly To his own little brood! What is it, then, tell us, The sin of the peasant?"



The Sin of Gleb the Peasant

A'miral Widower sailed on the sea, Steering his vessels a-sailing went he. 49 Once with the Turk a great battle he fought, His was the victory, gallantly bought. So to the hero as valour's reward Eight thousand souls[59] did the Empress award. A'miral Widower lived on his land Rich and content, till his end was at hand. As he lay dying this A'miral bold Handed his Elder a casket of gold. "See that thou cherish this casket," he said, "Keep it and open it when I am dead. There lies my will, and by it you will see Eight thousand souls are from serfdom set free." 61 Dead, on the table, the A'miral lies, A kinsman remote to the funeral hies. Buried! Forgotten! His relative soon Calls Gleb, the Elder, with him to commune. And, in a trice, by his cunning and skill, Learns of the casket, and terms of the will. Offers him riches and bliss unalloyed, Gives him his freedom,—the will is destroyed! Thus, by Gleb's longing for criminal gains, Eight thousand souls were left rotting in chains, 71 Aye, and their sons and their grandsons as well, Think, what a crowd were thrown back into Hell! God forgives all. Yes, but Judas's crime Ne'er will be pardoned till end of all time. Peasant, most infamous sinner of all, Endlessly grieve to atone for thy fall!

Wrathful, relentless, The carter thus finished The tale of the peasant 80 In thunder-like tones. The others sigh deeply And rise. They're exclaiming, "So, that's what it is, then, The sin of the peasant. He's right. 'Tis indeed A most terrible sin!"

"The story speaks truly; Our grief shall be endless, Ah, me!" says the Elder. 90 (His faith in improvements Has vanished again.) And Klimka, who always Is swayed in an instant By joy or by sorrow, Despondingly echoes, "A terrible sin!"

The green by the Volga, Now flooded with moonlight, Has changed of a sudden: 100 The peasants no longer Seem men independent With self-assured movements, They're "Earthworms" again— Those "Earthworms" whose victuals Are never sufficient, Who always are threatened With drought, blight, or famine, Who yield to the trader The fruits of extortion 110 Their tears, shed in tar. The miserly haggler Not only ill-pays them, But bullies as well: "For what do I pay you? The tar costs you nothing. The sun brings it oozing From out of your bodies As though from a pine."

Again the poor peasants 120 Are sunk in the depths Of the bottomless gulf! Dejected and silent, They lie on their stomachs Absorbed in reflection. But then they start singing; And slowly the song, Like a ponderous cloud-bank, Rolls mournfully onwards. They sing it so clearly 130 That quickly our seven Have learnt it as well.