The people are crossing Themselves. The Nachalnik[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 Yevressina, Miraculous widow?

Let cholera only Break out in a village: At once like an envoy Of G.o.d 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 dest.i.tute 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, Yevgenka, Her plump little finger Has p.r.i.c.ked 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 Iona 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.

Iona, prostrating Himself to each icon, 260 Would say to the people, "Dispute not! Be patient, And G.o.d 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 Iona.

And now, without hurry Or noise, he's beginning To tell them a story, "Two Infamous Sinners,"

But first, most devoutly, He crosses himself.

_Two Infamous Sinners_

Come, let us praise the Omnipotent! 280 Let us the legend relate Told by a monk in the Priory.

Thus did I hear him narrate:

Once were twelve brigands notorious, One, Kudear, at their head; Torrents of blood of good Christians Foully the miscreants shed.

Deep in the forest their hiding-place, Rich was their booty and rare; Once Kudear from near Kiev Town 290 Stole a young maiden most fair.

Days Kudear with his mistress spent, Nights on the road with his horde; Suddenly, conscience awoke in him, Stirred by the grace of the Lord.

Sleep left his couch. Of iniquity Sickened his spirit at last; Shades of his victims appeared to him, Crowding in mult.i.tudes vast.

Long was this monster most obdurate, 300 Blind to the light from above, Then flogged to death his chief satellite, Cut off the head of his love,--

Scattered his gang in his penitence, And to the churches of G.o.d All his great riches distributed, Buried his knife in the sod,

Journeyed on foot to the Sepulchre, Filled with repentance and grief; Wandered and prayed, but the pilgrimage Brought to his soul no relief. 311

When he returned to his Fatherland Clad like a monk, old and bent, 'Neath a great oak, as an anchorite, Life in the forest he spent.

There, from the Maker Omnipotent, Grace day and night did he crave: "Lord, though my body thou castigate, Grant that my soul I may save!"

Pity had G.o.d on the penitent, 320 Showed him the pathway to take, Sent His own messenger unto him During his prayers, who thus spake:

"Know, for this oak sprang thy preference, Not without promptings divine; Lo! take the knife thou hast slaughtered with, Fell it, and grace shall be thine.

"Yea, though the task prove laborious, Great shall the recompense be, Let but the tree fall, and verily 330 Thou from thy load shalt be free."

Vast was the giant's circ.u.mference; Praying, his task he begins, Works with the tool of atrociousness, Offers amends for his sins.

Glory he sang to the Trinity, Sc.r.a.ped the hard wood with his blade.

Years pa.s.sed away. Though he tarried not, Slow was the progress he made.

'Gainst such a mighty antagonist 340 How could he hope to prevail?

Only a Samson could vanquish it, Not an old man, spent and frail.

Doubt, as he worked, began plaguing him: Once of a voice came the sound, "Heh, old man, say what thy purpose is?"

Crossing himself he looked round.

There, Pan[58] Glukhovsky was watching him On his brave Arab astride, Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350 Known in the whole countryside.

Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him, Filled were his subjects with hate, So the old hermit to caution him Told him his own sorry fate.

"Ho!" laughed Glukhovsky, derisively, "Hope of salvation's not mine; These are the things that I estimate-- Women, gold, honour, and wine.

"My life, old man, is the only one; 360 Many the serfs that I keep; What though I waste, hang, and torture them-- You should but see how I sleep!"

Lo! to the hermit, by miracle, Wrath a great strength did impart, Straight on Glukhovsky he flung himself, Buried the knife in his heart.