The people are crossing
Themselves. The Nachálnik[56]
Is striking the prophet:
"Remember the Judge
Of Jerusalem, sinner!"
The driver's so frightened
The reins have escaped him,
His hair stands on end….
And when will the people 130
Forget Yevressína,
Miraculous widow?
Let cholera only
Break out in a village:
At once like an envoy
Of God she appears.
She nurses and fosters
And buries the peasants.
The women adore her,
They pray to her almost. 140
It's evident, then,
That the door of the peasant
Is easily opened:
Just knock, and be certain
He'll gladly admit you.
He's never suspicious
Like wealthier people;
The thought does not strike him
At sight of the humble
And destitute stranger, 150
"Perhaps he's a thief!"
And as to the women,
They're simply delighted,
They'll welcome you warmly.
At night, in the Winter,
The family gathered
To work in the cottage
By light of "luchina," [57]
Are charmed by the pilgrim's
Remarkable stories. 160
He's washed in the steam-bath,
And dipped with his spoon
In the family platter,
First blessing its contents.
His veins have been thawed
By a streamlet of vodka,
His words flow like water.
The hut is as silent
As death. The old father
Was mending the laputs, 170
But now he has dropped them.
The song of the shuttle
Is hushed, and the woman
Who sits at the wheel
Is engrossed in the story.
The daughter, Yevgénka,
Her plump little finger
Has pricked with a needle.
The blood has dried up,
But she notices nothing; 180
Her sewing has fallen,
Her eyes are distended,
Her arms hanging limp.
The children, in bed
On the sleeping-planks, listen,
Their heads hanging down.
They lie on their stomachs
Like snug little seals
Upon Archangel ice-blocks.
Their hair, like a curtain, 190
Is hiding their faces:
It's yellow, of course!
But wait. Soon the pilgrim
Will finish his story—
(It's true)—from Mount Athos.
It tells how that sinner
The Turk had once driven
Some monks in rebellion
Right into the sea,—
Who meekly submitted, 200
And perished in hundreds.
(What murmurs of horror
Arise! Do you notice
The eyes, full of tears?)
And now conies the climax,
The terrible moment,
And even the mother
Has loosened her hold
On the corpulent bobbin,
It rolls to the ground…. 210
And see how cat Vaska
At once becomes active
And pounces upon it.
At times less enthralling
The antics of Vaska
Would meet their deserts;
But now he is patting
And touching the bobbin
And leaping around it
With flexible movements, 220
And no one has noticed.
It rolls to a distance,
The thread is unwound.
Whoever has witnessed
The peasant's delight
At the tales of the pilgrims
Will realise this:
Though never so crushing
His labours and worries,
Though never so pressing 230
The call of the tavern,
Their weight will not deaden
The soul of the peasant
And will not benumb it.
The road that's before him
Is broad and unending….
When old fields, exhausted,
Play false to the reaper,
He'll seek near the forest
For soil more productive. 240
The work may be hard,
But the new plot repays him:
It yields a rich harvest
Without being manured.
A soil just as fertile
Lies hid in the soul
Of the people of Russia:
O Sower, then come!
The pilgrim Ióna
Since long is well known 250
In the village of "Earthworms."
The peasants contend
For the honour of giving
The holy man shelter.
At last, to appease them,
He'd say to the women,
"Come, bring out your icons!"
They'd hurry to fetch them.
Ióna, prostrating
Himself to each icon, 260
Would say to the people,
"Dispute not! Be patient,
And God will decide:
The saint who looks kindest
At me I will follow."
And often he'd follow
The icon most poor
To the lowliest hovel.
That hut would become then
A Cup overflowing; 270
The women would run there
With baskets and saucepans,
All thanks to Ióna.
And now, without hurry
Or noise, he's beginning
To tell them a story,
"Two Infamous Sinners,"
But first, most devoutly,
He crosses himself.