Prologue
The year doesn’t matter,
The land’s not important,
But seven good peasants
Once 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, 11
They met and disputed
Of who can, in Russia,
Be happy and free?
Luká said, “The pope,” [2]
And Román, “The Pomyéshchick,” [3]
Demyán, “The official,”
“The round-bellied merchant,”
Said both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan.
Pakhóm, who’d been lost
In profoundest reflection,
Exclaimed, looking down
At 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 them
You cannot dislodge it
Although you should beat them
With stout wooden cudgels:
They stick to their folly,
And nothing can move them.
They raised such a clamour
That those who were passing
Thought, “Surely the fellows
Have found a great treasure
And share it amongst them!”
They all had set out
On particular errands:
The one to the blacksmith’s,
Another in haste
To fetch Father Prokóffy
To christen his baby.
Pakhóm had some honey
To sell in the market;
The two brothers Goóbin
Were seeking a horse
Which had strayed from their herd.
Long since should the peasants
Have turned their steps homewards,
But still in a row
They are hurrying onwards
As quickly as though
The grey wolf were behind them.
Still further, still faster
They hasten, contending.
Each shouts, nothing hearing,
And time does not wait.
In quarrel they mark not
The fiery-red sunset
Which blazes in Heaven
As evening is falling,
And all through the night
They would surely have wandered
If 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 abroad
In the blackness of midnight?”
So shrilled the hag, mocking,
And shrieking with laughter
She slashed at her horses
And galloped away.
The peasants are startled,
Stand still, in confusion,
Since long night has fallen,
The numberless stars
Cluster bright in the heavens,
The moon gliding onwards.
Black shadows are spread
On the road stretched before
The 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!
Pakhóm, the old fellow,
Gazed long at the wood,
At the sky, at the roadway,
Gazed, silently searching
His brain for some counsel,
And then spake in this wise:
“Well, well, the wood-devil
Has finely bewitched us!
We’ve wandered at least
Thirty versts from our homes.
We all are too weary
To think of returning
To-night; we must wait
Till the sun rise to-morrow.”
Thus, blaming the devil,
The peasants make ready
To sleep by the roadside.
They light a large fire,
And collecting some farthings
Send two of their number
To buy them some vodka,
The rest cutting cups
From the bark of a birch-tree.
The vodka’s provided,
Black bread, too, besides,
And they all begin feasting:
Each munches some bread
And drinks three cups of vodka—
But then comes the question
Of who can, in Russia,
Be happy and free?
Luká cries, “The pope!”
And Román, “The Pomyéshchick!”
And Prov shouts, “The Tsar!”
And Demyán, “The official!”
“The round-bellied merchant!”
Bawl both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan.
Pakhóm shrieks, “His Lordship,
His most mighty Highness,
The Tsar’s Chief Adviser!”
The obstinate peasants
Grow more and more heated,
Cry louder and louder,
Swear hard at each other;
I really believe
They’ll attack one another!
Look! now they are fighting!
Román and Pakhom close,
Demyán clouts Luká,
While the two brothers Goóbin
Are drubbing fat Prov,
And they all shout together.
Then wakes the clear echo,
Runs hither and thither,
Runs calling and mocking
As if to encourage
The wrath of the peasants.
The trees of the forest
Throw furious words back:
“The Tsar!” “The Pomyéshchick!”
“The pope!” “The official!”
Until the whole coppice
Awakes in confusion;
The birds and the insects,
The swift-footed beasts
And the low crawling reptiles
Are chattering and buzzing
And stirring all round.
The timid grey hare
Springing out of the bushes
Speeds startled away;
The hoarse little jackdaw
Flies off to the top
Of a birch-tree, and raises
A harsh, grating shriek,
A most horrible clamour.
A weak little peewit
Falls headlong in terror
From out of its nest,
And the mother comes flying
In search of her fledgeling.
She twitters in anguish.
Alas! she can’t find it.
The crusty old cuckoo
Awakes and bethinks him
To call to a neighbour:
Ten times he commences
And gets out of tune,
But he won’t give it up….
Call, call, little cuckoo,
For all the young cornfields
Will shoot into ear soon,
And then it will choke you—
The ripe golden grain,
And your day will be ended!4
From out the dark forest
Fly seven brown owls,
And on seven tall pine-trees
They settle themselves
To enjoy the disturbance.
They laugh—birds of night—
And their huge yellow eyes gleam
Like fourteen wax candles.
The raven—the wise one—
Sits perched on a tree
In the light of the fire,
Praying hard to the devil
That one of the wranglers,
At least, should be beaten
To death in the tumult.
A cow with a bell
Which had strayed from its fellows
The evening before,
Upon hearing men’s voices
Comes out of the forest
And into the firelight,
And fixing its eyes,
Large and sad, on the peasants,
Stands listening in silence
Some time to their raving,
And then begins mooing,
Most heartily moos.
The silly cow moos,
The jackdaw is screeching,
The turbulent peasants
Still shout, and the echo
Maliciously mocks them—
The impudent echo
Who cares but for mocking
And teasing good people,
For scaring old women
And innocent children:
Though no man has seen it
We’ve all of us heard it;
It lives—without body;
It speaks—without tongue.
The pretty white owl
Called the Duchess of Moscow
Comes plunging about
In the midst of the peasants,
Now circling above them,
Now striking the bushes
And earth with her body.
And even the fox, too,
The cunning old creature,
With woman’s determined
And deep curiosity,
Creeps to the firelight
And stealthily listens;
At last, quite bewildered,
She goes; she is thinking,
“The devil himself
Would be puzzled, I know!”
And really the wranglers
Themselves have forgotten
The cause of the strife.
But after awhile
Having pummelled each other
Sufficiently soundly,
They come to their senses;
They drink from a rain-pool
And wash themselves also,
And then they feel sleepy.
And, meanwhile, the peewit,
The poor little fledgeling,
With short hops and flights
Had come fluttering towards them.
Pakhóm took it up
In his palm, held it gently
Stretched 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 once
You’d be blown to a distance,
And if I should sneeze
You would straightway be wafted
Right into the flames.
One flick from my finger
Would 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 flying
All over the Empire,
To seek and inquire,
To search and discover
The man who in Russia—
Is happy and free.”
“No wings would be needful
If we could be certain
Of bread every day;
For then we could travel
On foot at our leisure,”
Said Prov, of a sudden
Grown weary and sad.
“But not without vodka,
A bucket each morning,”
Cried both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan,
Who dearly loved vodka.
“Salt cucumbers, also,
Each morning a dozen!”
The peasants cry, jesting.
“Sour qwass,5 too, a jug
To refresh us at mid-day!”
“A can of hot tea
Every night!” they say, laughing.
But while they were talking
The little bird’s mother
Was flying and wheeling
In circles above them;
She listened to all,
And descending just near them
She chirruped, and making
A brisk little movement
She said to Pakhóm
In a voice clear and human:
“Release my poor child,
I will pay a great ransom.”
“And what is your offer?”
“A loaf each a day
And a bucket of vodka,
Salt cucumbers also,
Each morning a dozen.
At mid-day sour qwass
And hot tea in the evening.”
“And where, little bird,”
Asked the two brothers Goóbin,
“And where will you find
Food and drink for all seven?”
“Yourselves you will find it,
But I will direct you
To where you will find it.”
“Well, speak. We will listen.”
“Go straight down the road,
Count the poles until thirty:
Then enter the forest
And walk for a verst.
By then you’ll have come
To a smooth little lawn
With two pine-trees upon it.
Beneath these two pine-trees
Lies buried a casket
Which you must discover.
The casket is magic,
And in it there lies
An enchanted white napkin.
Whenever you wish it
This napkin will serve you
With food and with vodka:
You need but say softly,
‘O napkin enchanted,
Give food to the peasants!’
At once, at your bidding,
Through my intercession
The napkin will serve you.
And now, free my child.”
“But wait. We are poor,
And we’re thinking of making
A very long journey,”
Pakhóm said. “I notice
That you are a bird
Of remarkable talent.
So charm our old clothing
To keep it upon us.”
“Our coats, that they fall not
In tatters,” Román said.
“Our laputs,6 that they too
May last the whole journey,”
Demyan next demanded.
“Our shirts, that the fleas
May not breed and annoy us,”
Luká added lastly.
The little bird answered,
“The magic white napkin
Will mend, wash, and dry for you.
Now free my child.”
Pakhóm then spread open
His palm, wide and spacious,
Releasing the fledgeling,
Which fluttered away
To a hole in a pine-tree.
The mother who followed it
Added, departing:
“But one thing remember:
Food, summon at pleasure
As much as you fancy,
But vodka, no more
Than a bucket a day.
If once, even twice
You neglect my injunction
Your wish shall be granted;
The third time, take warning:
Misfortune will follow.”
The peasants set off
In a file, down the road,
Count the poles until thirty
And enter the forest,
And, silently counting
Each footstep, they measure
A verst as directed.
They find the smooth lawn
With the pine-trees upon it,
They dig all together
And soon reach the casket;
They open it—there lies
The 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 floating
From no one sees where;
Place a bucket of vodka,
A large pile of bread
On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away.
“The cucumbers, tea,
And sour qwass—where are they then?”
At once they appear!
The peasants unloosen
Their waistbelts, and gather
Around the white napkin
To hold a great banquet.
In joy, they embrace
One another, and promise
That never again
Will they beat one another
Without sound reflection,
But settle their quarrels
In reason and honour
As God has commanded;
That nought shall persuade them
To turn their steps homewards
To kiss wives and children,
To see the old people,
Until they have settled
For once and forever
The subject of discord:
Until they’ve discovered
The man who, in Russia,
Is happy and free.
They swear to each other
To keep this, their promise,
And daybreak beholds them
Embosomed in slumber
As deep and as dreamless
As that of the dead.