Prologue

"Not only to menMust we go with our question,We'll ask of the women,"The peasants decided.They asked in the village"Split-up," but the peopleReplied to them shortly,"Not here will you find one.But go to the village'Stripped-Naked'--a womanLives there who is happy.She's hardly a woman,She's more like a cow,For a woman so healthy,So smooth and so clever,Could hardly be found.You must seek in the villageMatrona Korchagin--The people there call her'The Governor's Lady.'"The peasants consideredAnd went....

Now alreadyThe corn-stalks are risingLike tall graceful columns,With gilded heads nodding,And whispering softlyIn gentle low voices.Oh, beautiful summer!No time is so gorgeous,So regal, so rich.

You full yellow cornfields,To look at you nowOne would never imagineHow sorely God's peopleHad toiled to array youBefore you arose,In the sight of the peasant,And stood before him,Like a glorious armyn front of a Tsar!'Tis not by warm dew-dropsThat you have been moistened,The sweat of the peasantHas fallen upon you.

The peasants are gladdenedAt sight of the oatsAnd the rye and the barley,But not by the wheat,For it feeds but the chosen:"We love you not, wheat!But the rye and the barleyWe love--they are kind,They feed all men alike."

The flax, too, is growingSo sweetly and bravely:"Ai! you little mite!You are caught and entangled!"A poor little larkIn the flax has been captured;It struggles for freedom.Pakhom picks it up,He kisses it tenderly:"Fly, little birdie!" ...The lark flies awayTo the blue heights of Heaven;The kind-hearted peasantsGaze lovingly upwardsTo see it rejoiceIn the freedom above....The peas have come on, too;Like locusts, the peasantsAttack them and eat them.They're like a plump maiden--The peas--for whoeverGoes by must needs pinch them.Now peas are being carriedIn old hands, in young hands,They're spreading abroadOver seventy high-roads.The vegetables--howThey're flourishing also!Each toddler is claspingA radish or carrot,And many are crackingThe seeds of the sunflower.The beetroots are dottedLike little red slippersAll over the earth.

Our peasants are walking,Now faster--now slower.At last they have reached it--The village 'Stripped-Naked,'It's not much to look at:Each hut is propped upLike a beggar on crutches;The thatch from the roofsHas made food for the cattle;The huts are like feebleOld skeletons standing,Like desolate rooks' nestsWhen young birds forsake them.When wild Autumn windsHave dismantled the birch-trees.The people are allIn the fields; they are working.Behind the poor villageA manor is standing;It's built on the slopeOf a hill, and the peasantsAre making towards itTo look at it close.

The house is gigantic,The courtyard is huge,There's a pond in it too;A watch-tower arisesFrom over the house,With a gallery round it,A flagstaff upon it.

They meet with a lackeyNear one of the gates:He seems to be wearingA strange kind of mantle;"Well, what are you up to?"He says to the friends,"The Pomyeshchick's abroad now,The manager's dying."He shows them his back,And they all begin laughing:A tiger is clutchingThe edge of his shoulders!"Heh! here's a fine joke!"They are hotly discussingWhat kind of a mantleThe lackey is wearing,Till clever PakhomHas got hold of the riddle."The cunning old rascal,He's stolen a carpet,And cut in the middleA hole for his head!"

Like weak, straddling beetlesShut up to be frozenIn cold empty hutsBy the pitiless peasants.The servants are crawlingAll over the courtyard.Their master long sinceHas forgotten about them,And left them to liveAs they can. They are hungry,All old and decrepit,And dressed in all manners,They look like a crowdIn a gipsy encampment.And some are now draggingA net through the pond:"God come to your help!Have you caught something, brothers?""One carp--nothing more;There used once to be many,But now we have comeTo the end of the feast!"

"Do try to get five!"Says a pale, pregnant woman,Who's fervently blowingA fire near the pond.

"And what are those prettyCarved poles you are burning?They're balcony railings,I think, are they not?""Yes, balcony railings."

"See here. They're like tinder;Don't blow on them, Mother!I bet they'll burn fasterThan you find the victualsTo cook in the pot!"

"I'm waiting and waiting,And Mityenka sickensBecause of the mustyOld bread that I give him.But what can I do?This life--it is bitter!"She fondles the headOf a half-naked babyWho sits by her sideIn a little brass basin,A button-nosed mite.

"The boy will take cold there,The basin will chill him,"Says Prov; and he wishesTo lift the child up,But it screams at him, angry."No, no! Don't you touch him,"The mother says quickly,"Why, can you not seeThat's his carriage he's driving?Drive on, little carriage!Gee-up, little horses!You see how he drives!"

The peasants each momentObserve some new marvel;And soon they have noticedA strange kind of labourProceeding around them:One man, it appears,To the door has got fastened;He's toiling awayTo unscrew the brass handles,His hands are so weakHe can scarcely control them.Another is huggingSome tiles: "See, Yegorshka,I've dug quite a heap out!"Some children are shakingAn apple-tree yonder:"You see, little Uncles,There aren't many left,Though the tree was quite heavy.""But why do you want them?They're quite hard and green.""We're thankful to get them!"

The peasants examineThe park for a long time;Such wonders are seen here,Such cunning inventions:In one place a mountainIs raised; in anotherA ravine yawns deep!A lake has been made too;Perhaps at one timeThere were swans on the water?The summer-house has someInscriptions upon it,Demyan begins spellingThem out very slowly.A grey-haired domesticIs watching the peasants;He sees they have veryInquisitive natures,And presently slowlyGoes hobbling towards them,And holding a book.He says, "Will you buy it?"Demyan is a peasantAcquainted with letters,He tries for some timeBut he can't read a word.

"Just sit down yourselfOn that seat near the linden,And read the book leisurelyLike a Pomyeshchick!"

"You think you are clever,"The grey-headed servantRetorts with resentment,"Yet books which are learnedAre wasted upon you.You read but the labelsOn public-house windows,And that which is writtenOn every odd corner:'Most strictly forbidden.'"

The pathways are filthy,The graceful stone ladiesBereft of their noses."The fruit and the berries,The geese and the swansWhich were once on the water,The thieving old rascalsHave stuffed in their maws.Like church without pastor,Like fields without peasants,Are all these fine gardensWithout a Pomyeshchick,"The peasants remark.For long the PomyeshchickHas gathered his treasures,When all of a sudden....(The six peasants laugh,But the seventh is silent,He hangs down his head.)

A song bursts upon them!A voice is resoundingLike blasts of a trumpet.The heads of the peasantsAre eagerly lifted,They gaze at the tower.On the balcony round itA man is now standing;He wears a pope's cassock;He sings ... on the balmySoft air of the evening,The bass, like a hugeSilver bell, is vibrating,And throbbing it entersThe hearts of the peasants.The words are not Russian,But some foreign language,But, like Russian songs,It is full of great sorrow,Of passionate grief,Unending, unfathomed;It wails and laments,It is bitterly sobbing....

"Pray tell us, good woman,What man is that singing?"Roman asks the womanNow feeding her babyWith steaming ukha.

"A singer, my brothers,A born Little Russian,The Barin once brought himAway from his home,With a promise to send himTo Italy later.But long the PomyeshchickHas been in strange partsAnd forgotten his promise;And now the poor fellowWould be but too gladTo get back to his village.There's nothing to do here,He hasn't a farthing,There's nothing before himAnd nothing behind himExcepting his voice.You have not really heard it;You will if you stay hereTill sunrise to-morrow:Some three versts awayThere is living a deacon,And he has a voice too.They greet one another:Each morning at sunriseWill our little singerClimb up to the watch-tower,And call to the other,'Good-morrow to FatherIpat, and how fares he?'(The windows all shakeAt the sound.)From the distanceThe deacon will answer,'Good-morrow, good-morrow,To our little sweet-throat!I go to drink vodka,I'm going ... I'm going....'The voice on the airWill hang quivering around usFor more than an hour,Like the neigh of a stallion."

The cattle are nowComing home, and the eveningIs filled with the fragranceOf milk; and the woman,The mother of Mityenka,Sighs; she is thinking,"If only one cowWould turn into the courtyard!"But hark! In the distanceSome voices in chorus!"Good-bye, you poor mourners,May God send you comfort!The people are coming,We're going to meet them."

The peasants are filledWith relief; because afterThe whining old servantsThe people who meet themReturning from workIn the fields seem such healthyAnd beautiful people.The men and the womenAnd pretty young girlsAre all singing together.

"Good health to you! Which isAmong you the womanMatrona Korchagin?"The peasants demand.

"And what do you wantWith Matrona Korchagin?"

The woman MatronaIs tall, finely moulded,Majestic in bearing,And strikingly handsome.Of thirty-eight yearsShe appears, and her black hairIs mingled with grey.Her complexion is swarthy,Her eyes large and darkAnd severe, with rich lashes.A white shirt, and shortSarafan she is wearing,She walks with a hay-forkSlung over her shoulder.

"Well, what do you wantWith Matrona Korchagin?"The peasants are silent;They wait till the othersHave gone in advance,And then, bowing, they answer:

"We come from afar,And a trouble torments us,A trouble so greatThat for it we've forsakenOur homes and our work,And our appetites fail.We're orthodox peasants,From District 'Most Wretched,'From 'Destitute Parish,'From neighbouring hamlets--'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,''Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,'And 'Harvestless,' too.We met in the roadwayAnd argued aboutWho is happy in Russia.Luka said, 'The pope,'And Demyan, 'The Pomyeshchick,'And Prov said, 'The Tsar,'And Roman, 'The official.''The round-bellied merchant,'Said both brothers Goobin,Mitrodor and Ivan.Pakhom said, 'His Highness,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 will move them.We argued and quarrelled,While quarrelling fought,And while fighting decidedThat never againWould we turn our steps homewardsTo kiss wives and children,To see the old people,Until we have foundThe reply to our question,Of who can in RussiaBe happy and free?We've questioned the pope,We've asked the Pomyeshchick,And now we ask you.We'll seek the official,The Minister, merchant,We even will goTo the Tsar--Little Father,Though whether he'll see usWe cannot be sure.But rumour has told usThat you're free and happy.Then say, in God's name,If the rumour be true."

Matrona KorchaginDoes not seem astonished,But only a sad lookCreeps into her eyes,And her face becomes thoughtful.

"Your errand is surelyA foolish one, brothers,"She says to the peasants,"For this is the seasonOf work, and no peasantFor chatter has time."

"Till now on our journeyThroughout half the EmpireWe've met no denial,"The peasants protest.

"But look for yourselves, now,The corn-ears are bursting.We've not enough hands."

"And we? What are we for?Just give us some sickles,And see if we don'tGet some work done to-morrow!"The peasants reply.

Matrona sees clearlyEnough that this offerMust not be rejected;"Agreed," she said, smiling,"To such lusty fellowsAs you, we may well lookFor ten sheaves apiece."

"You give us your promiseTo open your heart to us?"

"I will hide nothing."

Matrona KorchaginNow enters her cottage,And while she is workingWithin it, the peasantsDiscover a veryNice spot just behind it,And sit themselves down.There's a barn close beside themAnd two immense haystacks,A flax-field around them;And lying just near themA fine plot of turnips,And spreading above themA wonderful oak-tree,A king among oaks.They're sitting beneath it,And now they're producingThe magic white napkin:"Heh, napkin enchanted,Give food to the peasants!"The napkin unfolds,Two hands have come floatingFrom no one sees where,Place a pailful of vodka,A large pile of breadOn the magic white napkin,And dwindle away.The two brothers GoobinAre chuckling together,For they have just pilferedA very big horse-radishOut of the garden--It's really a monster!

The skies are dark blue now,The bright stars are twinkling,The moon has arisenAnd sails high above them;The woman MatronaComes out of the cottageTo tell them her tale.