"The cloudlets in springtime
Play round the great sun
Like small grandchildren frisking
Around a hale grandsire,
And now, on his right side
A bright little cloud
Has grown suddenly dismal,
Begins to shed tears.
The grey thread is hanging
In rows to the earth,
While the red sun is laughing
And beaming upon it
Through torn fleecy clouds,
Like a merry young girl
Peeping out from the corn."
The priest goes on to sketch the sort of life he is condemned to lead and concludes on this note:
"'At times you are sent for
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 bereavèd ones;
And then the old mother
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;
Your words of condolence
Are frozen, and blindly,
Like one deeply insulted,
You make your way homeward.'"
In chapter two we are taken to the village fair.
"The spring sun is playing
On heads hot and drunken,
On boisterous revels,
On bright mixing colours;
The men wear wide breeches
Of corduroy velvet,
With gaudy striped waistcoats
And shirts of all colours;
The women wear scarlet;
The girls' plaited tresses
Are decked with bright ribbons;
They glide about proudly,
Like swans on the water."
In chapter three, "The Drunken Night," occurs the exquisite metaphor:
"The moon is in Heaven,
And God is commencing
To write His great letter
Of gold on blue velvet....
Then suddenly singing
Is heard in a chorus
Harmonious and bold,
A row of young fellows,
Half drunk, but not falling,
Come staggering onwards,
All lustily singing:
They sing of the Volga,
The daring of youths
And the beauty of maidens ...
A hush falls all over
The road, and it listens:
And only the singing
Is heard, sweet and tuneful,
Like wind-ruffled corn."
They then accost the pomyèschick (the landowner) and inquire of him whether he is not the happiest of all the Russians, to which he answers:
"'The joy and the beauty,
The pride of all Russia—
The Lord's holy churches—
Which brighten the hill-sides
And gleam like great jewels
On the slopes of the valleys,
Were rivalled by one thing
In glory, and that
Was the nobleman's manor.
Adjoining the manor
Were glass-houses sparkling,
And bright Chinese arbours,
While parks spread around it.
On each of the buildings
Gay banners displaying
Their radiant colours,
And beckoning softly,
Invited the guest
To partake of the pleasures
Of rich hospitality.
Never did Frenchmen
In dreams even picture
Such sumptuous revels
As we used to hold.
Not only for one day,
Or two, did they last—
But for two months together!
We fattened great turkeys,
We brewed our own liquors,
We kept our own actors,
And troupes of musicians,
And legions of servants!
Why, I kept five cooks,
Besides pastry-cooks, working,
Two blacksmiths, three carpenters,
Eighteen musicians,
And twenty-one-huntsmen ...
My God ...'