"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 340 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!' 350 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,"

Pakhom said. "I notice That you are a bird Of remarkable talent. 360 So charm our old clothing To keep it upon us."

"Our coats, that they fall not In tatters," Roman 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,"

Luka added lastly. 370

The little bird answered, "The magic white napkin Will mend, wash, and dry for you.

Now free my child."

Pakhom then spread open His palm, wide and s.p.a.cious, Releasing the fledgeling, Which fluttered away To a hole in a pine-tree.

The mother who followed it 380 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: 390 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, 400 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; 410 Place a bucket of vodka, A large pile of bread On the magic white napkin, And dwindle away.

"The cuc.u.mbers, tea, And sour qwa.s.s--where are they then?"

At once they appear!

The peasants unloosen Their waistbelts, and gather Around the white napkin 420 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 G.o.d has commanded; That nought shall persuade them 430 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 440 To keep this, their promise, And daybreak beholds them Embosomed in slumber As deep and as dreamless As that of the dead.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

THE POPE[7]

The broad sandy high-road With borders of birch-trees Winds sadly and drearily Into the distance; On either hand running Low hills and young cornfields, Green pastures, and often-- More often than any-- Lands sterile and barren.

And near to the rivers 10 And ponds are the hamlets And villages standing-- The old and the new ones.

The forests and meadows And rivers of Russia Are lovely in springtime, But O you spring cornfields, Your growth thin and scanty Is painful to see.

"'Twas not without meaning 20 That daily the snow fell Throughout the long winter,"

Said one to another The journeying peasants:-- "The spring has now come And the snow tells its story: At first it is silent-- 'Tis silent in falling, Lies silently sleeping, But when it is dying 30 Its voice is uplifted: The fields are all covered With loud, rushing waters, No roads can be traversed For bringing manure To the aid of the cornfields; The season is late For the sweet month of May Is already approaching."

The peasant is saddened 40 At sight of the dirty And squalid old village; But sadder the new ones: The new huts are pretty, But they are the token Of heartbreaking ruin.[8]

As morning sets in They begin to meet people, But mostly small people: Their brethren, the peasants, 50 And soldiers and waggoners, Workmen and beggars.

The soldiers and beggars They pa.s.s without speaking.

Not asking if happy Or grievous their lot: The soldier, we know, Shaves his beard with a gimlet, Has nothing but smoke In the winter to warm him,-- 60 What joy can be his?

As evening is falling Appears on the high-road A pope in his cart.

The peasants uncover Their heads, and draw up In a line on the roadway, Thus barring the pa.s.sage In front of the gelding.

The pope raised his head, 70 Looked inquiringly at them.

"Fear not, we won't harm you,"

Luka said in answer.

(Luka was thick-bearded, Was heavy and stolid, Was obstinate, stupid, And talkative too; He was like to the windmill Which differs in one thing Alone from an eagle: 80 No matter how boldly It waves its broad pinions It rises no higher.)

"We, orthodox peasants, From District 'Most Wretched,'

From Province 'Hard Battered,'

From 'Dest.i.tute' Parish, From neighbouring hamlets, 'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,'

'Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,' 90 From 'Harvestless' also, Are striving to settle A thing of importance; A trouble torments us, It draws us away From our wives and our children, Away from our work, Kills our appet.i.tes too.

Pray, give us your promise To answer us truly, 100 Consulting your conscience And searching your knowledge, Not feigning nor mocking The question we put you.

If not, we will go Further on."

"I will promise If you will but put me A serious question To answer it gravely, 110 With truth and with reason, Not feigning nor mocking, Amen!"

"We are grateful, And this is our story: We all had set out On particular errands, And met in the roadway.

Then one asked another: Who is he,--the man 120 Free and happy in Russia?

And I said, 'The pope,'

And Roman, 'The Pomyeshchick,'

And Prov said, 'The Tsar,'

And Demyan, 'The official'; 'The round-bellied merchant,'

Said both brothers Goobin, Mitrodor and ivan; Pakhom said, 'His Lordship, The Tsar's Chief Adviser.' 130

"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.

We argued and argued, While arguing quarrelled, While quarrelling fought, 140 Till at last we decided That never again Would we turn our steps homeward To kiss wives and children, To see the old people, Until we have found The reply to our question, Until we've discovered For once and forever The man who, in Russia, 150 Is happy and free.

Then say, in G.o.d's truth, Is the pope's life a sweet one?

Would you, honoured father, Proclaim yourself happy?"

The pope in his cart Cast his eyes on the roadway, Fell thoughtful and answered:

"Then, Christians, come, hear me: I will not complain 160 Of the cross that I carry, But bear it in silence.

I'll tell you my story, And you try to follow As well as you can."