Chapter II: Pilgrims and Wanderers

We know that in RussiaAre numbers of peopleWho wander at largeWithout kindred or home.They sow not, they reap not,They feed at the fountainThat's common to all,That nourishes likewiseThe tiniest mouseAnd the mightiest army:The sweat of the peasant.The peasants will tell youThat whole populationsOf villages sometimesTurn out in the autumnTo wander like pilgrims.They beg, and esteem itA paying profession.The people considerThat misery drives themMore often than cunning,And so to the pilgrimsContribute their mite.Of course, there are casesOf downright deception:One pilgrim's a thief,Or another may wheedleSome cloth from the wifeOf a peasant, exchangingSome "sanctified wafers"Or "tears of the Virgin"He's brought from Mount Athos,And then she'll discoverHe's been but as farAs a cloister near Moscow.One saintly old greybeardEnraptured the peopleBy wonderful singing,And offered to teachThe young girls of the villageThe songs of the churchWith their mothers' permission.And all through the winterHe locked himself upWith the girls in a stable.From thence, sometimes singingWas heard, but more oftenCame laughter and giggles.Well, what was the upshot?He taught them no singing,But ruined them all.

Some Masters so skilfulThere are, they will evenLay siege to the ladies.They first to the kitchensMake sure of admission,And then through the maidsGained access to the mistress.See, there he goes, struttingAlong through the courtyardAnd jingling the keysOf the house like a Barin.And soon he will spitIn the teeth of the peasants;The pious old women,Who always beforeAt the house have been welcome,He'll speedily banish.The people, however,Can see in these pilgrimsA good side as well.For, who begs the moneyFor building the churches?And who keeps the convent'sCollecting-box full?And many, though useless,Are perfectly harmless;But some are uncanny,One can't understand them:The people know Foma,With chains round his middleSome six stones in weight;How summer and winterHe walks about barefoot,And constantly muttersOf Heaven knows what.His life, though, is godly:A stone for his pillow,A crust for his dinner.

The people know alsoThe old man, Nikifor,Adherent, most strange,Of the sect called "The Hiders."One day he appearedIn Usolovo villageUpbraiding the peopleFor lack of religion,And calling them forthTo the great virgin forestTo seek for salvation.The chief of policeOf the district just happenedTo be in the villageAnd 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!"He pays no attention.They drag him to prison.He stands in the waggon,Undauntedly chidingThe chief of police,And loudly he criesTo 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:Clutches of iron in the future will strangle you!"

The people are crossingThemselves. The NachalnikIs striking the prophet:"Remember the JudgeOf Jerusalem, sinner!"The driver's so frightenedThe reins have escaped him,His hair stands on end....

And when will the peopleForget Yevressina,Miraculous widow?Let cholera onlyBreak out in a village:At once like an envoyOf God she appears.She nurses and fostersAnd buries the peasants.The women adore her,They pray to her almost.

It's evident, then,That the door of the peasantIs easily opened:Just knock, and be certainHe'll gladly admit you.He's never suspiciousLike wealthier people;The thought does not strike himAt sight of the humbleAnd destitute stranger,"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 gatheredTo work in the cottageBy light of "luchina,"Are charmed by the pilgrim'sRemarkable stories.He's washed in the steam-bath,And dipped with his spoonIn the family platter,First blessing its contents.His veins have been thawedBy a streamlet of vodka,His words flow like water.The hut is as silentAs death. The old fatherWas mending the laputs,But now he has dropped them.

The song of the shuttleIs hushed, and the womanWho sits at the wheelIs engrossed in the story.The daughter, Yevgenka,Her plump little fingerHas pricked with a needle.The blood has dried up,But she notices nothing;Her sewing has fallen,Her eyes are distended,Her arms hanging limp.The children, in bedOn the sleeping-planks, listen,Their heads hanging down.They lie on their stomachsLike snug little sealsUpon Archangel ice-blocks.Their hair, like a curtain,Is hiding their faces:It's yellow, of course!

But wait. Soon the pilgrimWill finish his story--(It's true)--from Mount Athos.It tells how that sinnerThe Turk had once drivenSome monks in rebellionRight into the sea,--Who meekly submitted,And perished in hundreds.

(What murmurs of horrorArise! Do you noticeThe eyes, full of tears?)And now conies the climax,The terrible moment,And even the motherHas loosened her holdOn the corpulent bobbin,It rolls to the ground....And see how cat VaskaAt once becomes activeAnd pounces upon it.At times less enthrallingThe antics of VaskaWould meet their deserts;But now he is pattingAnd touching the bobbinAnd leaping around itWith flexible movements,And no one has noticed.It rolls to a distance,The thread is unwound.

Whoever has witnessedThe peasant's delightAt the tales of the pilgrimsWill realise this:Though never so crushingHis labours and worries,Though never so pressingThe call of the tavern,Their weight will not deadenThe soul of the peasantAnd will not benumb it.The road that's before himIs broad and unending....When old fields, exhausted,Play false to the reaper,He'll seek near the forestFor soil more productive.The work may be hard,But the new plot repays him:It yields a rich harvestWithout being manured.A soil just as fertileLies hid in the soulOf the people of Russia:O Sower, then come!

The pilgrim IonaSince long is well knownIn the village of "Earthworms."The peasants contendFor the honour of givingThe 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, prostratingHimself to each icon,Would say to the people,"Dispute not! Be patient,And God will decide:The saint who looks kindestAt me I will follow."And often he'd followThe icon most poorTo the lowliest hovel.That hut would become thenA Cup overflowing;The women would run thereWith baskets and saucepans,All thanks to Iona.

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