Chapter I: The Pope

The broad sandy high-roadWith borders of birch-treesWinds sadly and drearilyInto the distance;On either hand runningLow hills and young cornfields,Green pastures, and often--More often than any--Lands sterile and barren.And near to the riversAnd ponds are the hamletsAnd villages standing--The old and the new ones.The forests and meadowsAnd rivers of RussiaAre lovely in springtime,But O you spring cornfields,Your growth thin and scantyIs painful to see.

"'Twas not without meaningThat daily the snow fellThroughout the long winter,"Said one to anotherThe journeying peasants:--"The spring has now comeAnd the snow tells its story:At first it is silent--'Tis silent in falling,Lies silently sleeping,But when it is dyingIts voice is uplifted:The fields are all coveredWith loud, rushing waters,No roads can be traversedFor bringing manureTo the aid of the cornfields;The season is lateFor the sweet month of MayIs already approaching."The peasant is saddenedAt sight of the dirtyAnd squalid old village;But sadder the new ones:The new huts are pretty,But they are the tokenOf heartbreaking ruin.

As morning sets inThey begin to meet people,But mostly small people:Their brethren, the peasants,And soldiers and waggoners,Workmen and beggars.The soldiers and beggarsThey pass without speaking.Not asking if happyOr grievous their lot:The soldier, we know,Shaves his beard with a gimlet,Has nothing but smokeIn the winter to warm him,--What joy can be his?

As evening is fallingAppears on the high-roadA pope in his cart.The peasants uncoverTheir heads, and draw upIn a line on the roadway,Thus barring the passageIn front of the gelding.The pope raised his head,Looked inquiringly at them."Fear not, we won't harm you,"Luka said in answer.(Luka was thick-bearded,Was heavy and stolid,Was obstinate, stupid,And talkative too;He was like to the windmillWhich differs in one thingAlone from an eagle:No matter how boldlyIt waves its broad pinionsIt rises no higher.)

"We, orthodox peasants,From District 'Most Wretched,'From Province 'Hard Battered,'From 'Destitute' Parish,From neighbouring hamlets,'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,''Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,'From 'Harvestless' also,Are striving to settleA thing of importance;A trouble torments us,It draws us awayFrom our wives and our children,Away from our work,Kills our appetites too.Pray, give us your promiseTo answer us truly,Consulting your conscienceAnd searching your knowledge,Not feigning nor mockingThe question we put you.If not, we will goFurther on."

"I will promiseIf you will but put meA serious questionTo answer it gravely,With truth and with reason,Not feigning nor mocking,Amen!"

"We are grateful,And this is our story:We all had set outOn particular errands,And met in the roadway.Then one asked another:Who is he,--the manFree and happy in Russia?And I said, 'The pope,'And Roman, 'The Pomyeshchick,'And Prov said, 'The Tsar,'And Demyan, 'The official';'The round-bellied merchant,'Said both brothers Goobin,Mitrodor and Ivan;Pakhom said, 'His Lordship,The Tsar's Chief Adviser.'

"Like bulls are the peasants;Once folly is in themYou cannot dislodge itAlthough you should beat themWith stout wooden cudgels,They stick to their follyAnd nothing can move them.We argued and argued,While arguing quarrelled,While quarrelling fought,Till at last we decidedThat never againWould we turn our steps homewardTo kiss wives and children,To see the old people,Until we have foundThe reply to our question,Until we've discoveredFor once and foreverThe man who, in Russia,Is happy and free.Then say, in God's truth,Is the pope's life a sweet one?Would you, honoured father,Proclaim yourself happy?"

The pope in his cartCast his eyes on the roadway,Fell thoughtful and answered:

"Then, Christians, come, hear me:I will not complainOf the cross that I carry,But bear it in silence.I'll tell you my story,And you try to followAs well as you can."

"But first tell meThe gifts you considerAs true earthly welfare;Peace, honour, and riches,--Is that so, my children?"

They answer, "It is so."

"And now let us see, friends,What peace does the pope get?In truth, then, I oughtTo begin from my childhood,For how does the sonOf the pope gain his learning,And what is the priceThat he pays for the priesthood?'Tis best to be silent."

"Our roadways are poorAnd our parishes large,And the sick and the dying,The new-born that call us,Do not choose their season:In harvest and hay-time,In dark nights of autumn,Through frosts in the winter,Through floods in the springtime,Go--where they may call you.You go without murmur,If only the bodyNeed suffer alone!But no,--every momentThe heart's deepest feelingsAre strained and tormented.Believe me, my children,Some things on this earthOne can never get used to:No heart there existsThat can bear without anguishThe rattle of death,The lament for the lost one,The sorrow of orphans,Amen! Now you see, friends,The peace that the pope gets."

Not long did the peasantsStand thinking. They waitedTo let the pope rest,Then enquired with a bow:"And what more will you tell us?""Well, now let us seeIf the pope is much honoured;And that, O my friends,Is a delicate question--I fear to offend you....But answer me, Christians,Whom call you, 'The cursedStallion breed?' Can you tell me?"

The peasants stand silentIn painful confusion;The pope, too, is silent.

"Who is it you trembleTo meet in the roadwayFor fear of misfortune?"

The peasants stand shufflingTheir feet in confusion.

"Of whom do you makeLittle scandalous stories?Of whom do you singRhymes and songs most indecent?The pope's honoured wife,And his innocent daughters,Come, how do you treat them?At whom do you shoutHo, ho, ho, in derisionWhen once you are past him?"

The peasants cast downwardsTheir eyes and keep silent.The pope too is silent.The peasants stand musing;The pope fans his faceWith his hat, high and broad-rimmed,And looks at the heavens....

The cloudlets in springtimePlay round the great sunLike small grandchildren friskingAround a hale grandsire,And now, on his right sideA bright little cloudHas grown suddenly dismal,Begins to shed tears.The grey thread is hangingIn rows to the earth,While the red sun is laughingAnd beaming upon itThrough torn fleecy clouds,Like a merry young girlPeeping out from the corn.The cloud has moved nearer,The rain begins here,And the pope puts his hat on.But on the sun's right sideThe joy and the brightnessAgain are established.The rain is now ceasing....It stops altogether,And God's wondrous miracle,Long golden sunbeams,Are streaming from HeavenIn radiant splendour.

"It isn't our own fault;It comes from our parents,"Say, after long silence,The two brothers Goobin.The others approve him:"It isn't our own fault,It comes from our parents."

The pope said, "So be it!But pardon me, Christians,It is not my meaningTo censure my neighbours;I spoke but desiringTo tell you the truth.You see how the popeIs revered by the peasants;The gentry--""Pass over them,Father--we know them.""Then let us considerFrom whence the pope's riches.In times not far distantThe great Russian EmpireWas filled with estatesOf wealthy Pomyeshchicks.They lived and increased,And they let us live too.What weddings were feasted!What numbers and numbersOf children were bornIn each rich, merry life-time!Although they were haughtyAnd often oppressive,What liberal masters!They never desertedThe parish, they married,Were baptized within it,To us they confessed,And by us they were buried.And if a PomyeshchickShould chance for some reasonTo live in a city,He cherished one longing,To die in his birthplace;But did the Lord will itThat he should die suddenlyFar from the village,An order was foundIn his papers, most surely,That he should be buriedAt home with his fathers.Then see--the black carWith the six mourning horses,--The heirs are conveyingThe dead to the graveyard;And think--what a liftFor the pope, and what feastingAll over the village!But now that is ended,Pomyeshchicks are scatteredLike Jews over RussiaAnd all foreign countries.They seek not the honourOf lying with fathersAnd mothers together.How many estatesHave passed into the pocketsOf rich speculators!O you, bones so pamperedOf great Russian gentry,Where are you not buried,What far foreign graveyardDo you not repose in?

"Myself from dissenters(A source of pope's income)I never take money,I've never transgressed,For I never had need to;Because in my parishTwo-thirds of the peopleAre Orthodox churchmen.But districts there areWhere the whole populationConsists of dissenters--Then how can the pope live?

"But all in this worldIs subjected to changes:The laws which in old daysApplied to dissentersHave now become milder;And that in itselfIs a check to pope's income.I've said the PomyeshchicksAre gone, and no longerThey seek to returnTo the home of their childhood;And then of their ladies(Rich, pious old women),How many have left usTo live near the convents!And nobody nowGives the pope a new cassockOr church-work embroidered.He lives on the peasants,Collects their brass farthings,Their cakes on the feast-days,At Easter their eggs.The peasants are needyOr they would give freely--Themselves they have nothing;And who can take gladlyThe peasant's last farthing?

"Their lands are so poor,They are sand, moss, or boggy,Their cattle half-famished,Their crops yield but twofold;And should Mother EarthChance at times to be kinder,That too is misfortune:The market is crowded,They sell for a trifleTo pay off the taxes.Again comes a bad crop---Then pay for your breadThree times higher than ever,And sell all your cattle!Now, pray to God, Christians,For this year againA great misery threatens:We ought to have sownFor a long time already;But look you--the fieldsAre all deluged and useless....O God, have Thou pityAnd send a round rainbowTo shine in Thy heavens!"

Then taking his hat offHe crossed himself thrice,And the peasants did likewise.

"Our village is poorAnd the people are sickly,The women are sadAnd are scantily nourished,But pious and laborious;God give them courage!Like slaves do they toil;'Tis hard to lay handsOn the fruits of such labour.

"At times you are sent forTo pray by the dying,But Death is not reallyThe awful thing present,But rather the living--The family losingTheir only support.You pray by the dead.Words of comfort you utter,To calm the bereaved ones;And then the old motherComes tottering towards you,And stretching her bonyAnd toil-blistered hand out;You feel your heart sicken,For there in the palmLie the precious brass farthings!Of course it is onlyThe price of your praying.You take it, becauseIt is what you must live on;Your words of condolenceAre frozen, and blindly,Like one deep insulted,You make your way homeward.Amen...."

The pope finishedHis speech, and touched lightlyThe back of the gelding.The peasants make way,And they bow to him deeply.The cart moves on slowly,Then six of the comradesAs though by agreementAttack poor LukaWith indignant reproaches.

"Now, what have you got?--You great obstinate blockhead,You log of the village!You too must needs argue;Pray what did you tell us?'The popes live like princes,The lords of the belfry,Their palaces risingAs high as the heavens,Their bells set a-chimingAll over God's world.

"'Three years,' you declared,'Did I work as pope's servant.It wasn't a life--'Twas a strawberry, brethren;Pope's kasha is madeAnd served up with fresh butter.Pope's stchee made with fish,And pope's pie stuffed to bursting;The pope's wife is fat too,And white the pope's daughter,His horse like a barrel,His bees are all swollenAnd booming like church bells.'

"Well, there's your pope's life,--There's your 'strawberry,' boaster!For that you've been shoutingAnd making us quarrel,You limb of the Devil!Pray is it becauseOf your beard like a shovelYou think you're so clever?If so, let me tell youThe goat walked in EdenWith just such anotherBefore Father Adam,And yet down to our timeThe goat is consideredThe greatest of duffers!"

The culprit was silent,Afraid of a beating;And he would have got itHad not the pope's face,Turning sadly upon them,Looked over a hedgeAt a rise in the road.