Chapter IX: Prologue

"Not only to men Must we go with our question, We'll ask of the women," The peasants decided. They asked in the village "Split-up," but the people Replied to them shortly, "Not here will you find one. But go to the village 'Stripped-Naked'--a woman 10 Lives 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 village Matrona Korchagin-- The people there call her 'The Governor's Lady.'" 20 The peasants considered And went....

Now already
The corn-stalks are rising
Like tall graceful columns,
With gilded heads nodding,
And whispering softly
In gentle low voices.
Oh, beautiful summer!
No time is so gorgeous, 30
So regal, so rich.

You full yellow cornfields, To look at you now One would never imagine How sorely God's people Had toiled to array you Before you arose, In the sight of the peasant, And stood before him, Like a glorious army 40 n front of a Tsar! 'Tis not by warm dew-drops That you have been moistened, The sweat of the peasant Has fallen upon you.

The peasants are gladdened
At sight of the oats
And the rye and the barley,
But not by the wheat,
For it feeds but the chosen: 50
"We love you not, wheat!
But the rye and the barley
We love--they are kind,
They feed all men alike."

The flax, too, is growing So sweetly and bravely: "Ai! you little mite! You are caught and entangled!" A poor little lark In the flax has been captured; 60 It struggles for freedom. Pakhom picks it up, He kisses it tenderly: "Fly, little birdie!" ... The lark flies away To the blue heights of Heaven; The kind-hearted peasants Gaze lovingly upwards To see it rejoice In the freedom above.... 70 The peas have come on, too; Like locusts, the peasants Attack them and eat them. They're like a plump maiden-- The peas--for whoever Goes by must needs pinch them. Now peas are being carried In old hands, in young hands, They're spreading abroad Over seventy high-roads. 80 The vegetables--how They're flourishing also! Each toddler is clasping A radish or carrot, And many are cracking The seeds of the sunflower. The beetroots are dotted Like little red slippers All over the earth.

Our peasants are walking, 90
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 up
Like a beggar on crutches;
The thatch from the roofs
Has made food for the cattle;
The huts are like feeble
Old skeletons standing, 100
Like desolate rooks' nests
When young birds forsake them.
When wild Autumn winds
Have dismantled the birch-trees.
The people are all
In the fields; they are working.
Behind the poor village
A manor is standing;
It's built on the slope
Of a hill, and the peasants 110
Are making towards it
To look at it close.

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

They meet with a lackey 120
Near one of the gates:
He seems to be wearing
A 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 clutching 130
The edge of his shoulders!
"Heh! here's a fine joke!"
They are hotly discussing
What kind of a mantle
The lackey is wearing,
Till clever Pakhom
Has got hold of the riddle.
"The cunning old rascal,
He's stolen a carpet,
And cut in the middle 140
A hole for his head!"

Like weak, straddling beetles Shut up to be frozen In cold empty huts By the pitiless peasants. The servants are crawling All over the courtyard. Their master long since Has forgotten about them, And left them to live 150 As they can. They are hungry, All old and decrepit, And dressed in all manners, They look like a crowd In a gipsy encampment. And some are now dragging A net through the pond: "God come to your help! Have you caught something, brothers?" "One carp--nothing more; 160 There used once to be many, But now we have come To the end of the feast!"

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

"And what are those pretty
Carved poles you are burning?
They're balcony railings, 170
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 faster
Than you find the victuals
To cook in the pot!"

"I'm waiting and waiting,
And Mityenka sickens
Because of the musty 180
Old bread that I give him.
But what can I do?
This life--it is bitter!"
She fondles the head
Of a half-naked baby
Who sits by her side
In a little brass basin,
A button-nosed mite.

"The boy will take cold there,
The basin will chill him," 190
Says Prov; and he wishes
To 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 see
That's his carriage he's driving?
Drive on, little carriage!
Gee-up, little horses!
You see how he drives!" 200

The peasants each moment
Observe some new marvel;
And soon they have noticed
A strange kind of labour
Proceeding around them:
One man, it appears,
To the door has got fastened;
He's toiling away
To unscrew the brass handles,
His hands are so weak 210
He can scarcely control them.
Another is hugging
Some tiles: "See, Yegorshka,
I've dug quite a heap out!"
Some children are shaking
An apple-tree yonder:
"You see, little Uncles,
There aren't many left,
Though the tree was quite heavy."
"But why do you want them? 220
They're quite hard and green."
"We're thankful to get them!"

The peasants examine The park for a long time; Such wonders are seen here, Such cunning inventions: In one place a mountain Is raised; in another A ravine yawns deep! A lake has been made too; 230 Perhaps at one time There were swans on the water? The summer-house has some Inscriptions upon it, Demyan begins spelling Them out very slowly. A grey-haired domestic Is watching the peasants; He sees they have very Inquisitive natures, 240 And presently slowly Goes hobbling towards them, And holding a book. He says, "Will you buy it?" Demyan is a peasant Acquainted with letters, He tries for some time But he can't read a word.

"Just sit down yourself
On that seat near the linden, 250
And read the book leisurely
Like a Pomyeshchick!"

"You think you are clever," The grey-headed servant Retorts with resentment, "Yet books which are learned Are wasted upon you. You read but the labels On public-house windows, And that which is written 260 On every odd corner: 'Most strictly forbidden.'"

The pathways are filthy, The graceful stone ladies Bereft of their noses. "The fruit and the berries, The geese and the swans Which were once on the water, The thieving old rascals Have stuffed in their maws. 270 Like church without pastor, Like fields without peasants, Are all these fine gardens Without a Pomyeshchick," The peasants remark. For long the Pomyeshchick Has gathered his treasures, When all of a sudden.... (The six peasants laugh, But the seventh is silent, 280 He hangs down his head.)

A song bursts upon them!
A voice is resounding
Like blasts of a trumpet.
The heads of the peasants
Are eagerly lifted,
They gaze at the tower.
On the balcony round it
A man is now standing;
He wears a pope's cassock; 290
He sings ... on the balmy
Soft air of the evening,
The bass, like a huge
Silver bell, is vibrating,
And throbbing it enters
The hearts of the peasants.
The words are not Russian,
But some foreign language,
But, like Russian songs,
It is full of great sorrow, 300
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 woman Now feeding her baby With steaming ukha.[43]

"A singer, my brothers, 310
A born Little Russian,
The Barin once brought him
Away from his home,
With a promise to send him
To Italy later.
But long the Pomyeshchick
Has been in strange parts
And forgotten his promise;
And now the poor fellow
Would be but too glad 320
To get back to his village.
There's nothing to do here,
He hasn't a farthing,
There's nothing before him
And nothing behind him
Excepting his voice.
You have not really heard it;
You will if you stay here
Till sunrise to-morrow:
Some three versts away 330
There is living a deacon,
And he has a voice too.
They greet one another:
Each morning at sunrise
Will our little singer
Climb up to the watch-tower,
And call to the other,
'Good-morrow to Father
Ipat, and how fares he?'
(The windows all shake 340
At the sound.)
From the distance
The 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 air
Will hang quivering around us
For more than an hour, 350
Like the neigh of a stallion."

The cattle are now
Coming home, and the evening
Is filled with the fragrance
Of milk; and the woman,
The mother of Mityenka,
Sighs; she is thinking,
"If only one cow
Would turn into the courtyard!"
But hark! In the distance 360
Some 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 filled
With relief; because after
The whining old servants
The people who meet them
Returning from work 370
In the fields seem such healthy
And beautiful people.
The men and the women
And pretty young girls
Are all singing together.

"Good health to you! Which is
Among you the woman
Matrona Korchagin?"
The peasants demand.

"And what do you want 380 With Matrona Korchagin?"

The woman Matrona
Is tall, finely moulded,
Majestic in bearing,
And strikingly handsome.
Of thirty-eight years
She appears, and her black hair
Is mingled with grey.
Her complexion is swarthy,
Her eyes large and dark 390
And severe, with rich lashes.
A white shirt, and short
Sarafan[44] she is wearing,
She walks with a hay-fork
Slung over her shoulder.

"Well, what do you want
With Matrona Korchagin?"
The peasants are silent;
They wait till the others
Have gone in advance, 400
And then, bowing, they answer:

"We come from afar, And a trouble torments us, A trouble so great That for it we've forsaken Our homes and our work, And our appetites fail. We're orthodox peasants, From District 'Most Wretched,' From 'Destitute Parish,' 410 From neighbouring hamlets-- 'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,' 'Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,' And 'Harvestless,' too. We met in the roadway And argued about Who is happy in Russia. Luka said, 'The pope,' And Demyan, 'The Pomyeshchick,' And Prov said, 'The Tsar,' 420 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 them You cannot dislodge it Although you should beat them 430 With stout wooden cudgels, They stick to their folly And nothing will move them. We argued and quarrelled, While quarrelling fought, And while fighting decided That never again Would we turn our steps homewards To kiss wives and children, To see the old people, 440 Until we have found The reply to our question, Of who can in Russia Be 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 go 450 To the Tsar--Little Father, Though whether he'll see us We cannot be sure. But rumour has told us That _you're_ free and happy. Then say, in God's name, If the rumour be true."

Matrona Korchagin Does not seem astonished, But only a sad look 460 Creeps into her eyes, And her face becomes thoughtful.

"Your errand is surely
A foolish one, brothers,"
She says to the peasants,
"For this is the season
Of work, and no peasant
For chatter has time."

"Till now on our journey
Throughout half the Empire 470
We'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't
Get some work done to-morrow!"
The peasants reply. 480

Matrona sees clearly Enough that this offer Must not be rejected; "Agreed," she said, smiling, "To such lusty fellows As you, we may well look For ten sheaves apiece."

"You give us your promise
To open your heart to us?"

"I will hide nothing." 490

Matrona Korchagin Now enters her cottage, And while she is working Within it, the peasants Discover a very Nice spot just behind it, And sit themselves down. There's a barn close beside them And two immense haystacks, A flax-field around them; 500 And lying just near them A fine plot of turnips, And spreading above them A wonderful oak-tree, A king among oaks. They're sitting beneath it, And now they're producing The magic white napkin: "Heh, napkin enchanted, Give food to the peasants!" 510 The napkin unfolds, Two hands have come floating From no one sees where, Place a pailful of vodka, A large pile of bread On the magic white napkin, And dwindle away. The two brothers Goobin Are chuckling together, For they have just pilfered 520 A very big horse-radish Out of the garden-- It's really a monster!

The skies are dark blue now, The bright stars are twinkling, The moon has arisen And sails high above them; The woman Matrona Comes out of the cottage To tell them her tale. 530