Prologue

The year doesn't matter,The land's not important,But seven good peasantsOnce met on a high-road.From Province "Hard-Battered,"From District "Most Wretched,"From "Destitute" Parish,From neighbouring hamlets--"Patched," "Barefoot," and "Shabby,""Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry,"From "Harvestless" also,They met and disputedOf who can, in Russia,Be happy and free?

Luka said, "The pope,"And Roman, "The Pomyeshchick,"Demyan, "The official,""The round-bellied merchant,"Said both brothers Goobin,Mitrodor and Ivan.Pakhom, who'd been lostIn profoundest reflection,Exclaimed, looking downAt the earth, "'Tis his Lordship,His most mighty Highness,The Tsar's Chief Adviser,"And Prov said, "The Tsar."

Like bulls are the peasants:Once folly is in themYou cannot dislodge itAlthough you should beat themWith stout wooden cudgels:They stick to their folly,And nothing can move them.They raised such a clamourThat those who were passingThought, "Surely the fellowsHave found a great treasureAnd share it amongst them!"

They all had set outOn particular errands:The one to the blacksmith's,Another in hasteTo fetch Father ProkoffyTo christen his baby.Pakhom had some honeyTo sell in the market;The two brothers GoobinWere seeking a horseWhich had strayed from their herd.

Long since should the peasantsHave turned their steps homewards,But still in a rowThey are hurrying onwardsAs quickly as thoughThe grey wolf were behind them.Still further, still fasterThey hasten, contending.Each shouts, nothing hearing,And time does not wait.In quarrel they mark notThe fiery-red sunsetWhich blazes in HeavenAs evening is falling,And all through the nightThey would surely have wanderedIf not for the woman,The pox-pitted "Blank-wits,"Who met them and cried:

"Heh, God-fearing peasants,Pray, what is your mission?What seek ye abroadIn the blackness of midnight?"

So shrilled the hag, mocking,And shrieking with laughterShe slashed at her horsesAnd galloped away.

The peasants are startled,Stand still, in confusion,Since long night has fallen,The numberless starsCluster bright in the heavens,The moon gliding onwards.Black shadows are spreadOn the road stretched beforeThe impetuous walkers.Oh, shadows, black shadows,Say, who can outrun you,Or who can escape you?Yet no one can catch you,Entice, or embrace you!

Pakhom, the old fellow,Gazed long at the wood,At the sky, at the roadway,Gazed, silently searchingHis brain for some counsel,And then spake in this wise:"Well, well, the wood-devilHas finely bewitched us!We've wandered at leastThirty versts from our homes.We all are too wearyTo think of returningTo-night; we must waitTill the sun rise to-morrow."

Thus, blaming the devil,The peasants make readyTo sleep by the roadside.They light a large fire,And collecting some farthingsSend two of their numberTo buy them some vodka,The rest cutting cupsFrom the bark of a birch-tree.The vodka's provided,Black bread, too, besides,And they all begin feasting:Each munches some breadAnd drinks three cups of vodka--But then comes the questionOf who can, in Russia,Be happy and free?

Luka cries, "The pope!"And Roman, "The Pomyeshchick!"And Prov shouts, "The Tsar!"And Demyan, "The official!""The round-bellied merchant!"Bawl both brothers Goobin,Mitrodor and Ivan.Pakhom shrieks, "His Lordship,His most mighty Highness,The Tsar's Chief Adviser!"

The obstinate peasantsGrow more and more heated,Cry louder and louder,Swear hard at each other;I really believeThey'll attack one another!Look! now they are fighting!Roman and Pakhom close,Demyan clouts Luka,While the two brothers GoobinAre drubbing fat Prov,And they all shout together.Then wakes the clear echo,Runs hither and thither,Runs calling and mockingAs if to encourageThe wrath of the peasants.The trees of the forestThrow furious words back:

"The Tsar!" "The Pomyeshchick!""The pope!" "The official!"Until the whole coppiceAwakes in confusion;The birds and the insects,The swift-footed beastsAnd the low crawling reptilesAre chattering and buzzingAnd stirring all round.The timid grey hareSpringing out of the bushesSpeeds startled away;The hoarse little jackdawFlies off to the topOf a birch-tree, and raisesA harsh, grating shriek,A most horrible clamour.A weak little peewitFalls headlong in terrorFrom out of its nest,And the mother comes flyingIn search of her fledgeling.She twitters in anguish.Alas! she can't find it.The crusty old cuckooAwakes and bethinks himTo call to a neighbour:Ten times he commencesAnd gets out of tune,But he won't give it up....

Call, call, little cuckoo,For all the young cornfieldsWill shoot into ear soon,And then it will choke you--The ripe golden grain,And your day will be ended!

From out the dark forestFly seven brown owls,And on seven tall pine-treesThey settle themselvesTo enjoy the disturbance.They laugh--birds of night--And their huge yellow eyes gleamLike fourteen wax candles.The raven--the wise one--Sits perched on a treeIn the light of the fire,Praying hard to the devilThat one of the wranglers,At least, should be beatenTo death in the tumult.A cow with a bellWhich had strayed from its fellowsThe evening before,Upon hearing men's voicesComes out of the forestAnd into the firelight,And fixing its eyes,Large and sad, on the peasants,Stands listening in silenceSome time to their raving,And then begins mooing,Most heartily moos.The silly cow moos,The jackdaw is screeching,The turbulent peasantsStill shout, and the echoMaliciously mocks them--The impudent echoWho cares but for mockingAnd teasing good people,For scaring old womenAnd innocent children:Though no man has seen itWe've all of us heard it;It lives--without body;It speaks--without tongue.

The pretty white owlCalled the Duchess of MoscowComes plunging aboutIn the midst of the peasants,Now circling above them,Now striking the bushesAnd earth with her body.And even the fox, too,The cunning old creature,With woman's determinedAnd deep curiosity,Creeps to the firelightAnd stealthily listens;At last, quite bewildered,She goes; she is thinking,"The devil himselfWould be puzzled, I know!"

And really the wranglersThemselves have forgottenThe cause of the strife.

But after awhileHaving pummelled each otherSufficiently soundly,They come to their senses;They drink from a rain-poolAnd wash themselves also,And then they feel sleepy.And, meanwhile, the peewit,The poor little fledgeling,With short hops and flightsHad come fluttering towards them.Pakhom took it upIn his palm, held it gentlyStretched out to the firelight,And looked at it, saying,"You are but a mite,Yet how sharp is your claw;If I breathed on you onceYou'd be blown to a distance,And if I should sneezeYou would straightway be waftedRight into the flames.One flick from my fingerWould kill you entirely.Yet you are more powerful,More free than the peasant:Your wings will grow stronger,And then, little birdie,You'll fly where it please you.Come, give us your wings, now,You frail little creature,And we will go flyingAll over the Empire,To seek and inquire,To search and discoverThe man who in Russia--Is happy and free."

"No wings would be needfulIf we could be certainOf bread every day;For then we could travelOn foot at our leisure,"Said Prov, of a suddenGrown weary and sad.

"But not without vodka,A bucket each morning,"Cried both brothers Goobin,Mitrodor and Ivan,Who dearly loved vodka.

"Salt cucumbers, also,Each morning a dozen!"The peasants cry, jesting.

"Sour qwass, too, a jugTo refresh us at mid-day!"

"A can of hot teaEvery night!" they say, laughing.

But while they were talkingThe little bird's motherWas flying and wheelingIn circles above them;She listened to all,And descending just near themShe chirruped, and makingA brisk little movementShe said to PakhomIn a voice clear and human:"Release my poor child,I will pay a great ransom.""And what is your offer?"

"A loaf each a dayAnd a bucket of vodka,Salt cucumbers also,Each morning a dozen.At mid-day sour qwassAnd hot tea in the evening."

"And where, little bird,"Asked the two brothers Goobin,"And where will you findFood and drink for all seven?"

"Yourselves you will find it,But I will direct youTo where you will find it.""Well, speak. We will listen."

"Go straight down the road,Count the poles until thirty:Then enter the forestAnd walk for a verst.By then you'll have comeTo a smooth little lawnWith two pine-trees upon it.Beneath these two pine-treesLies buried a casketWhich you must discover.The casket is magic,And in it there liesAn enchanted white napkin.Whenever you wish itThis napkin will serve youWith food and with vodka:You need but say softly,'O napkin enchanted,Give food to the peasants!'At once, at your bidding,Through my intercessionThe napkin will serve you.And now, free my child."

"But wait. We are poor,And we're thinking of makingA very long journey,"Pakhom said. "I noticeThat you are a birdOf remarkable talent.So charm our old clothingTo keep it upon us."

"Our coats, that they fall notIn tatters," Roman said.

"Our laputs, that they tooMay last the whole journey,"Demyan next demanded.

"Our shirts, that the fleasMay not breed and annoy us,"Luka added lastly.

The little bird answered,"The magic white napkinWill mend, wash, and dry for you.Now free my child."

Pakhom then spread openHis palm, wide and spacious,Releasing the fledgeling,Which fluttered awayTo a hole in a pine-tree.The mother who followed itAdded, departing:"But one thing remember:Food, summon at pleasureAs much as you fancy,But vodka, no moreThan a bucket a day.If once, even twiceYou neglect my injunctionYour wish shall be granted;The third time, take warning:Misfortune will follow."

The peasants set offIn a file, down the road,Count the poles until thirtyAnd enter the forest,And, silently countingEach footstep, they measureA verst as directed.They find the smooth lawnWith the pine-trees upon it,They dig all togetherAnd soon reach the casket;They open it--there liesThe magic white napkin!They cry in a chorus,"O napkin enchanted,Give food to the peasants!"

Look, look! It's unfolding!Two hands have come floatingFrom no one sees where;Place a bucket of vodka,A large pile of breadOn the magic white napkin,And dwindle away.

"The cucumbers, tea,And sour qwass--where are they then?"At once they appear!

The peasants unloosenTheir waistbelts, and gatherAround the white napkinTo hold a great banquet.In joy, they embraceOne another, and promiseThat never againWill they beat one anotherWithout sound reflection,But settle their quarrelsIn reason and honourAs God has commanded;That nought shall persuade themTo turn their steps homewardsTo kiss wives and children,To see the old people,Until they have settledFor once and foreverThe subject of discord:Until they've discoveredThe man who, in Russia,Is happy and free.

They swear to each otherTo keep this, their promise,And daybreak beholds themEmbosomed in slumberAs deep and as dreamlessAs that of the dead.