Chapter XVIII: Prologue

A very old willow There is at the end Of the village of "Earthworms," Where most of the folk Have been diggers and delvers From times very ancient (Though some produced tar). This willow had witnessed The lives of the peasants: Their holidays, dances, 10 Their communal meetings, Their floggings by day, In the evening their wooing, And now it looked down On a wonderful feast.

The feast was conducted
In Petersburg fashion,
For Klimka, the peasant
(Our former acquaintance),
Had seen on his travels 20
Some noblemen's banquets,
With toasts and orations,
And he had arranged it.

The peasants were sitting
On tree-trunks cut newly
For building a hut.
With them, too, our seven
(Who always were ready
To see what was passing)
Were sitting and chatting 30
With Vlass, the old Elder.
As soon as they fancied
A drink would be welcome,
The Elder called out
To 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 are 40 Of the clerical college Named Sava and Grisha. The former, the eldest, Is nineteen years old. He looks like a churchman Already, while Grisha Has fine, curly hair, With a slight tinge of red, And a thin, sallow face. Both capital fellows 50 They are, kind and simple, They work with the ploughshare, The scythe, and the sickle, Drink vodka on feast-days, And mix with the peasants Entirely as equals....

The village lies close To the banks of the Volga; A small town there is On the opposite side. 60 (To speak more correctly, There's now not a trace Of the town, save some ashes: A fire has demolished it Two days ago.)

Some people are waiting To cross by the ferry, While some feed their horses (All friends of the peasants). Some beggars have crawled 70 To the spot; there are pilgrims, Both women and men; The women loquacious, The men very silent.

The old Prince Yutiatin Is dead, but the peasants Are not yet aware That instead of the hayfields His heirs have bequeathed them A long litigation. 80 So, drinking their vodka, They first of all argue Of how they'll dispose Of the beautiful hayfields.

You were not all cozened,[54] You people of Russia, And robbed of your land. In some blessed spots You were favoured by fortune! By some lucky chance-- 90 The Pomyeshchick's long absence, Some slip of posrednik's, By wiles of the commune, You managed to capture A slice of the forest. How proud are the peasants In such happy corners! The Elder may tap At the window for taxes, The peasant will bluster,-- 100 One answer has he: "Just sell off the forest, And don't bother me!"

So now, too, the peasants
Of "Earthworms" decided
To part with the fields
To the Elder for taxes.
They calculate closely:
"They'll pay both the taxes
And dues--with some over, 110
Heh, Vlasuchka, won't they?"

"Once taxes are paid I'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 you Agree to our plan?" 120

"The speeches of Klimka Are short, and as plain As the public-house signboard," Says Vlasuchka, joking. "And that is his manner: To start with a woman And end in the tavern."

"Well, where should one end, then? Perhaps in the prison? Now--as to the taxes, 130 Don't croak, but decide."

But Vlasuchka really Was far from a croaker. The kindest soul living Was he, and he sorrowed For all in the village, Not only for one. His conscience had pricked him While serving his haughty And rigorous Barin, 140 Obeying his orders, So cruel and oppressive. While young he had always Believed in 'improvements,' But soon he observed That they ended in nothing, Or worse--in misfortune. So now he mistrusted The new, rich in promise. The wheels that have passed 150 O'er the roadways of Moscow Are fewer by far Than the injuries done To the soul of the peasant. There's nothing to laugh at In that, so the Elder Perforce had grown gloomy. But now, the gay pranks Of the peasants of "Earthworms" Affected him too. 160 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 sun From the splendour of Heaven May cast a chance ray In the depths of the forest: 170 The dew shines like diamonds, The mosses are gilded.

"Drink, drink, little peasants! Disport yourselves bravely!" 'Twas gay beyond measure. In each breast awakens A wondrous new feeling, As though from the depths Of a bottomless gulf On the crest of a wave, 180 They've been borne to the surface To find there awaits them A feast without end.

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

And just as a dead man's
Relations and friends
Talk of nothing but him 190
Till the funeral's over,
Until they have finished
The funeral banquet
And 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, 200
And his sons, to oblige them
By singing a song
Called the "Merry Song" to them.

(This song was not really
A song of the people:
The deacon's son Grisha
Had sung it them first.
But since the great day
When the Tsar, Little Father,
Had broken the chains 210
Of his suffering children,
They always had danced
To this tune on the feast-days.
The "popes" and the house-serfs
Could sing the words also,
The peasants could not,
But whenever they heard it
They whistled and stamped,
And the "Merry Song" called it.)