Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia | Page 9

people are sickly,
The women are
sad
And are scantily nourished,
But pious and laborious;
God
give them courage!
Like slaves do they toil;
'Tis hard to lay hands

On the fruits of such labour.
"At times you are sent for 420
To pray by the dying,
But Death is
not really
The awful thing present,
But rather the living--
The
family losing
Their only support.
You pray by the dead.
Words of
comfort you utter,
To calm the bereaved ones;
And then the old
mother 430
Comes tottering towards you,
And stretching her bony

And toil-blistered hand out;
You feel your heart sicken,
For there
in the palm
Lie the precious brass farthings!
Of course it is only


The price of your praying.
You take it, because
It is what you must
live on; 440
Your words of condolence
Are frozen, and blindly,

Like one deep insulted,
You make your way homeward.
Amen...."

The pope finished
His speech, and touched lightly
The back of the
gelding.
The peasants make way,
And they bow to him deeply. 450

The cart moves on slowly,
Then six of the comrades
As though
by agreement
Attack poor Luká
With indignant reproaches.
"Now, what have you got?--
You great obstinate blockhead,
You
log of the village!
You too must needs argue;
Pray what did you tell
us? 460
'The popes live like princes,
The lords of the belfry,
Their
palaces rising
As high as the heavens,
Their bells set a-chiming

All over God's world.
"'Three years,' you declared,
'Did I work as pope's servant.
It wasn't
a life--
'Twas a strawberry, brethren; 470
Pope's kasha[14] is made

And served up with fresh butter.
Pope's stchee[14] made with fish,

And pope's pie stuffed to bursting;
The pope's wife is fat too,

And white the pope's daughter,
His horse like a barrel,
His bees are
all swollen
And booming like church bells.'
"Well, there's your pope's life,-- 480
There's your 'strawberry,' boaster!

For that you've been shouting
And making us quarrel,
You limb
of the Devil!
Pray is it because

Of your beard like a shovel
You
think you're so clever?
If so, let me tell you
The goat walked in
Eden
With just such another 490
Before Father Adam,
And yet
down to our time
The goat is considered
The greatest of duffers!"
The culprit was silent,
Afraid of a beating;
And he would have got
it
Had not the pope's face,
Turning sadly upon them,
Looked over
a hedge 500
At a rise in the road.

CHAPTER II
THE VILLAGE FAIR
No wonder the peasants
Dislike a wet spring-tide:
The peasant
needs greatly
A spring warm and early.
This year, though he howl

Like a wolf, I'm afraid
That the sun will not gladden
The earth
with his brightness.
The clouds wander heavily,
Dropping the rain
down 10
Like cows with full udders.
The snow has departed,
Yet
no blade of grass,
Not a tiny green leaflet,
Is seen in the meadows.

The earth has not ventured
To don its new mantle
Of brightest
green velvet,
But lies sad and bare
Like a corpse without
grave-clothes
Beneath the dull heavens. 21
One pities the peasant;

Still more, though, his cattle:
For when they have eaten
The
scanty reserves
Which remain from the winter,
Their master will
drive them
To graze in the meadows,
And what will they find there

But bare, inky blackness? 30
Nor settled the weather
Until it was
nearing
The feast of St. Nichol,
And then the poor cattle
Enjoyed
the green pastures.
The day is a hot one,
The peasants are strolling
Along 'neath the
birch-trees.
They say to each other,
"We passed through one village,
40
We passed through another,
And both were quite empty;

To-day is a feast-day,

But where are the people?"
They reach a large village;
The street is deserted
Except for small
children,
And inside the houses
Sit only the oldest
Of all the old
women. 50
The wickets are fastened
Securely with padlocks;
The
padlock's a loyal
And vigilant watch-dog;
It barks not, it bites not,

But no one can pass it.
They walk through the village
And see a clear mirror
Beset with
green framework--
A pond full of water; 60
And over its surface

Are hovering swallows
And all kinds of insects;
The gnats quick

and meagre
Skip over the water
As though on dry land;
And in
the laburnums
Which grow on the banksides
The landrails are
squeaking.
A raft made of tree-trunks 70
Floats near, and upon it
The pope's
heavy daughter
Is wielding her beetle,
She looks like a hay-stack,

Unsound and dishevelled,
Her skirts gathered round her.
Upon the
raft, near her,
A duck and some ducklings
Are sleeping together.
And hark! from the water 80
The neigh of a horse comes;
The
peasants are startled,
They turn all together:
Two heads they see,
moving
Along through the water--
The one is a peasant's,
A black
head and curly,
In one ear an ear-ring
Which gleams in the sunlight;

A horse's the other, 90
To which there is fastened
A rope of some
yards length,
Held tight in the teeth
Of the peasant beside it.
The
man swims, the horse swims;
The horse neighs, the man neighs;

They make a fine uproar!
The raft with the woman
And ducklings
upon it
Is tossing and heaving. 100
The horse with the peasant
Astride has come panting
From out of
the water,
The man with white body
And throat black with sunburn;

The water is streaming
From horse and from rider.
"Say, why is your village
So empty of people?
Are all dead and
buried?" 110
"They've gone to Kousminsky;
A fair's being held there
Because it's
a saint's day."
"How far is Kousminsky?"
"Three versts, I should fancy."
"We'll go
to Kousminsky,"
The peasants decided,
And each to himself
thought,
"Perhaps we shall find there
The happy, the free one." 120
The village