Part IV Dedicated to Serge Petrovitch Botkin
A Feast for the Whole Village
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,
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 Klímka, the peasant
(Our former acquaintance),
Had seen on his travels
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
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
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
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.
(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
To the spot; there are pilgrims,
Both women and men;
The women loquacious,
The men very silent.
The old Prince Yutiátin
Is dead, but the peasants
Are not yet aware
That instead of the hayfields
His heirs have bequeathed them
A long litigation.
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—
The Pomyéshchick’s long absence,
Some slip of posrédnik’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,—
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,
Heh, Vlásuchka, 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 Klímka,
“Now, Vlásuchka, do you
Agree to our plan?”
“The speeches of Klímka
Are short, and as plain
As the public-house signboard,”
Says Vlásuchka, 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,
Don’t croak, but decide.”
But Vlásuchka 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,
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
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.
His thoughts became brighter:
No taxes … no barschin …
No stick held above you,
Dear God, am I dreaming?
Old Vlásuchka 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:
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,
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
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 Pomyéshchicks.
The deacon they ask,
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
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.)