Prologue

The day of St. Peter--And very hot weather;The mowers are allAt their work in the meadows.The peasants are passingA tumble-down village,Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"Of Government "Know-Nothing.'They are approachingThe banks of the Volga.They come to the river,The sea-gulls are wheelingAnd flashing above it;The sea-hens are walkingAbout on the sand-banks;And in the bare hayfields,Which look just as nakedAs any youth's cheekAfter yesterday's shaving,The Princes VolkonskyAre haughtily standing,And round them their children,Who (unlike all others)Are born at an earlierDate than their sires.

"The fields are enormous,"Remarks old Pakhom,"Why, the folk must be giants."The two brothers GoobinAre smiling at something:For some time they've noticedA very tall peasantWho stands with a pitcherOn top of a haystack;He drinks, and a womanBelow, with a hay-fork,Is looking at himWith her head leaning back.The peasants walk onTill they come to the haystack;The man is still drinking;They pass it quite slowly,Go fifty steps farther,Then all turn togetherAnd look at the haystack.Not much has been altered:The peasant is standingWith body bent backAs before,--but the pitcherHas turned bottom upwards....

The strangers go farther.The camps are thrown outOn the banks of the river;And there the old peopleAnd children are gathered,And horses are waitingWith big empty waggons;And then, in the fieldsBehind those that are finished,The distance is filledBy the army of workers,The white shirts of women,The men's brightly coloured,And voices and laughter,With all intermingledThe hum of the scythes....

"God help you, good fellows!""Our thanks to you, brothers!"

The peasants stand notingThe long line of mowers,The poise of the scythesAnd their sweep through the sunshine.The rhythmical swellOf melodious murmur.

The timid grass standsFor a moment, and trembles,Then falls with a sigh....

On the banks of the VolgaThe grass has grown highAnd the mowers work gladly.The peasants soon feelThat they cannot resist it."It's long since we've stretched ourselves,Come, let us help you!"And now seven womenHave yielded their places.The spirit of workIs devouring our peasants;Like teeth in a ravenousMouth they are working--The muscular arms,And the long grass is fallingTo songs that are strangeTo this part of the country,To songs that are taughtBy the blizzards and snow-storms,The wild savage windsOf the peasants' own homelands:"Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry,""Patched," "Bare-Foot," and "Shabby,"And "Harvestless," too....And when the strong cravingFor work is appeasedThey sit down by a haystack.

"From whence have you come?"A grey-headed old peasant(The one whom the womenCall Vlasuchka) asks them,"And where are you going?"

"We are--" say the peasants,Then suddenly stop,There's some music approaching!

"Oh, that's the PomyeshchickReturning from boating!"Says Vlasuchka, runningTo busy the mowers:"Wake up! Look alive there!And mind--above all things,Don't heat the PomyeshchickAnd don't make him angry!And if he abuse you,Bow low and say nothing,And if he should praise you,Start lustily cheering.You women, stop cackling!And get to your forks!"A big burly peasantWith beard long and bushyBestirs himself alsoTo busy them all,Then puts on his "kaftan,"And runs away quicklyTo meet the Pomyeshchick.

And now to the bank-sideThree boats are approaching.In one sit the servantsAnd band of musicians,Most busily playing;The second one groans'Neath a mountainous wet-nurse,Who dandles a baby,A withered old dry-nurse,A motionless bodyOf ancient retainers.And then in the thirdThere are sitting the gentry:Two beautiful ladies(One slender and fair-haired,One heavy and black-browed)And two moustached BarinsAnd three little Barins,And last--the Pomyeshchick,A very old manWearing long white moustaches(He seems to be all white);His cap, broad and high-crowned,Is white, with a peak,In the front, of red satin.His body is leanAs a hare's in the winter,His nose like a hawk's beak,His eyes--well, they differ:The one sharp and shining,The other--the left eye--Is sightless and blank,Like a dull leaden farthing.Some woolly white poodlesWith tufts on their anklesAre in the boat too.

The old man alightingHas mounted the bank,Where for long he reposesUpon a red carpetSpread out by the servants.And then he arisesTo visit the mowers,To pass through the fieldsOn a tour of inspection.He leans on the arm--Now of one of the Barins,And now upon thoseOf the beautiful ladies.And so with his suite--With the three little Barins,The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,The ancient retainers,The woolly white poodles,--Along through the hayfieldsProceeds the Pomyeshchick.

The peasants on all sidesBow down to the ground;And the big, burly peasant(The Elder he isAs the peasants have noticed)Is cringing and bendingBefore the Pomyeshchick,Just like the Big DevilBefore the high altar:"Just so! Yes, Your Highness,It's done, at your bidding!"I think he will soon fallBefore the PomyeshchickAnd roll in the dust....

So moves the procession,Until it stops shortIn the front of a haystackOf wonderful size,Only this day erected.The old man is pokingHis forefinger in it,He thinks it is damp,And he blazes with fury:"Is this how you rotThe best goods of your master?I'll rot you with barschin,I'll make you repent it!Undo it--at once!"

The Elder is writhingIn great agitation:"I was not quite carefulEnough, and it is damp.It's my fault, Your Highness!"He summons the peasants,Who run with their pitchforksTo punish the monster.And soon they have spread itIn small heaps around,At the feet of the master;His wrath is appeased.

(In the meantime the strangersExamine the hay--It'slike tinder--so dry!)

A lackey comes flyingAlong, with a napkin;He's lame--the poor man!"Please, the luncheon is served."And then the procession,The three little Barins,The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,The ancient retainers,The woolly white poodles,Moves onward to lunch.

The peasants stand watching;From one of the boatsComes an outburst of musicTo greet the Pomyeshchick.

The table is shiningAll dazzlingly whiteOn the bank of the river.The strangers, astonished,Draw near to old Vlasuchka;"Pray, little Uncle,"They say, "what's the meaningOf all these strange doings?And who is that curiousOld man?"

"Our Pomyeshchick,The great Prince Yutiatin."

"But why is he fussingAbout in that manner?For things are all changed now,And he seems to thinkThey are still as of old.The hay is quite dry,Yet he told you to dry it!"

"But funnier stillThat the hay and the hayfieldsAre not his at all."

"Then whose are they?""The Commune's."

"Then why is he pokingHis nose into mattersWhich do not concern him?For are you not free?"

"Why, yes, by God's mercyThe order is changed nowFor us as for others;But ours is a special case."

"Tell us about it."The old man lay downAt the foot of the haystackAnd answered them--nothing.

The peasants producingThe magic white napkinSit down and say softly,"O napkin enchanted,Give food to the peasants!"The napkin unfolds,And two hands, which come floatingFrom no one sees where,Place a bucket of vodka,A large pile of breadOn the magic white napkin,And dwindle away....

The peasants, still wishingTo question old Vlasuchka,Wisely present himA cupful of vodka:"Now come, little Uncle,Be gracious to strangers,And tell us your story."

"There's nothing to tell you.You haven't told me yetWho you are and whenceYou have journeyed to these parts,And whither you go."

"We will not be surlyLike you. We will tell you.We've come a great distance,And seek to discoverA thing of importance.A trouble torments us,It draws us awayFrom our work, from our homes,From the love of our food...."The peasants then tell himAbout their chance meeting,Their argument, quarrel,Their vow, and decision;Of how they had soughtIn the Government "Tight-Squeeze"And Government "Shot-Strewn"The man who, in Russia,Is happy and free....

Old Vlasuchka listens,Observing them keenly."I see," he remarks,When the story is finished,"I see you are veryPeculiar people.We're said to be strange here,But you are still stranger."

"Well, drink some more vodkaAnd tell us your tale."

And when by the vodkaHis tongue becomes loosened,Old Vlasuchka tells themThe following story.