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 bra.s.s 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 ca.s.sock; 290 He sings ... on the balmy Soft air of the evening, The ba.s.s, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d 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 appet.i.tes fail.

We're orthodox peasants, From District 'Most Wretched,'

From 'Dest.i.tute 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 G.o.d'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 l.u.s.ty fellows As you, we may well look For ten sheaves apiece."