Prologue

A very old willowThere is at the endOf the village of "Earthworms,"Where most of the folkHave been diggers and delversFrom times very ancient(Though some produced tar).This willow had witnessedThe lives of the peasants:Their holidays, dances,Their communal meetings,Their floggings by day,In the evening their wooing,And now it looked downOn a wonderful feast.

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

The peasants were sittingOn tree-trunks cut newlyFor building a hut.With them, too, our seven(Who always were readyTo see what was passing)Were sitting and chattingWith Vlass, the old Elder.As soon as they fanciedA drink would be welcome,The Elder called outTo 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 areOf the clerical collegeNamed Sava and Grisha.The former, the eldest,Is nineteen years old.He looks like a churchmanAlready, while GrishaHas fine, curly hair,With a slight tinge of red,And a thin, sallow face.Both capital fellowsThey are, kind and simple,They work with the ploughshare,The scythe, and the sickle,Drink vodka on feast-days,And mix with the peasantsEntirely as equals....

The village lies closeTo the banks of the Volga;A small town there isOn the opposite side.(To speak more correctly,There's now not a traceOf the town, save some ashes:A fire has demolished itTwo days ago.)

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

The old Prince YutiatinIs dead, but the peasantsAre not yet awareThat instead of the hayfieldsHis heirs have bequeathed themA long litigation.So, drinking their vodka,They first of all argueOf how they'll disposeOf the beautiful hayfields.

You were not all cozened,You people of Russia,And robbed of your land.In some blessed spotsYou were favoured by fortune!By some lucky chance--The Pomyeshchick's long absence,Some slip of posrednik's,By wiles of the commune,You managed to captureA slice of the forest.How proud are the peasantsIn such happy corners!The Elder may tapAt the window for taxes,The peasant will bluster,--One answer has he:"Just sell off the forest,And don't bother me!"

So now, too, the peasantsOf "Earthworms" decidedTo part with the fieldsTo the Elder for taxes.They calculate closely:"They'll pay both the taxesAnd dues--with some over,Heh, Vlasuchka, won't they?"

"Once taxes are paidI'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 youAgree to our plan?"

"The speeches of KlimkaAre short, and as plainAs the public-house signboard,"Says Vlasuchka, joking."And that is his manner:To start with a womanAnd end in the tavern."

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

But Vlasuchka reallyWas far from a croaker.The kindest soul livingWas he, and he sorrowedFor all in the village,Not only for one.His conscience had pricked himWhile serving his haughtyAnd rigorous Barin,Obeying his orders,So cruel and oppressive.While young he had alwaysBelieved in 'improvements,'But soon he observedThat they ended in nothing,Or worse--in misfortune.So now he mistrustedThe new, rich in promise.The wheels that have passedO'er the roadways of MoscowAre fewer by farThan the injuries doneTo the soul of the peasant.There's nothing to laugh atIn that, so the ElderPerforce had grown gloomy.But now, the gay pranksOf the peasants of "Earthworms"Affected him too.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 sunFrom the splendour of HeavenMay cast a chance rayIn the depths of the forest:The dew shines like diamonds,The mosses are gilded.

"Drink, drink, little peasants!Disport yourselves bravely!"'Twas gay beyond measure.In each breast awakensA wondrous new feeling,As though from the depthsOf a bottomless gulfOn the crest of a wave,They've been borne to the surfaceTo find there awaits themA feast without end.

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

And just as a dead man'sRelations and friendsTalk of nothing but himTill the funeral's over,Until they have finishedThe funeral banquetAnd 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,And his sons, to oblige themBy singing a songCalled the "Merry Song" to them.

(This song was not reallyA song of the people:The deacon's son GrishaHad sung it them first.But since the great dayWhen the Tsar, Little Father,Had broken the chainsOf his suffering children,They always had dancedTo this tune on the feast-days.The "popes" and the house-serfsCould sing the words also,The peasants could not,But whenever they heard itThey whistled and stamped,And the "Merry Song" called it.)