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 pass 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 passage
In front of the gelding.
The pope raised his head, 70
Looked inquiringly at them.
"Fear not, we won't harm you,"
LukÁ said in answer.
(LukÁ 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 'Destitute' 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 appetites 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 RomÁn, 'The PomyÉshchick,'
And Prov said, 'The Tsar,'
And DemyÁn, 'The official';
'The round-bellied merchant,'
Said both brothers GoÓbin,
MitrÓdor and Ívan;
PakhÓm 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 God'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."

"Begin."

"But first tell me
The gifts you consider
As true earthly welfare;
Peace, honour, and riches,— 170
Is that so, my children?"

They answer, "It is so."

"And now let us see, friends,
What peace does the pope get?
In truth, then, I ought
To begin from my childhood,
For how does the son
Of the pope gain his learning,
And what is the price
That he pays for the priesthood? 180
'Tis best to be silent." [9]

* * * * *

"Our roadways are poor
And our parishes large,
And the sick and the dying,
The new-born that call us,
Do not choose their season:
In harvest and hay-time,
In dark nights of autumn,
Through frosts in the winter,
Through floods in the springtime, 190
Go—where they may call you.
You go without murmur,
If only the body
Need suffer alone!
But no,—every moment
The heart's deepest feelings
Are strained and tormented.
Believe me, my children,
Some things on this earth
One can never get used to: 200
No heart there exists
That can bear without anguish
The rattle of death,
The lament for the lost one,
The sorrow of orphans,
Amen! Now you see, friends,
The peace that the pope gets."

Not long did the peasants
Stand thinking. They waited
To let the pope rest, 210
Then enquired with a bow:
"And what more will you tell us?"
"Well, now let us see
If the pope is much honoured;
And that, O my friends,
Is a delicate question—
I fear to offend you….
But answer me, Christians,
Whom call you, 'The cursed
Stallion breed?' Can you tell me?"

The peasants stand silent 221
In painful confusion;
The pope, too, is silent.

"Who is it you tremble
To meet in the roadway[10]
For fear of misfortune?"

The peasants stand shuffling
Their feet in confusion.

"Of whom do you make
Little scandalous stories? 230
Of whom do you sing
Rhymes and songs most indecent?
The pope's honoured wife,
And his innocent daughters,
Come, how do you treat them?
At whom do you shout
Ho, ho, ho, in derision
When once you are past him?"

The peasants cast downwards
Their eyes and keep silent. 240
The pope too is silent.
The peasants stand musing;
The pope fans his face
With his hat, high and broad-rimmed,
And looks at the heavens….

The cloudlets in springtime
Play round the great sun
Like small grandchildren frisking
Around a hale grandsire,
And now, on his right side 250
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. 260
The cloud has moved nearer,
The rain begins here,
And the pope puts his hat on.
But on the sun's right side
The joy and the brightness
Again are established.
The rain is now ceasing….
It stops altogether,
And God's wondrous miracle,
Long golden sunbeams, 270
Are streaming from Heaven
In radiant splendour.

* * * * *

"It isn't our own fault;
It comes from our parents,"
Say, after long silence,
The two brothers GoÓbin.
The others approve him:
"It isn't our own fault,
It comes from our parents."

The pope said, "So be it! 280
But pardon me, Christians,
It is not my meaning
To censure my neighbours;
I spoke but desiring
To tell you the truth.
You see how the pope
Is revered by the peasants;
The gentry—"
"Pass over them,
Father—we know them." 290
"Then let us consider
From whence the pope's riches.
In times not far distant
The great Russian Empire
Was filled with estates
Of wealthy PomyÉshchicks.[11]
They lived and increased,
And they let us live too.
What weddings were feasted!
What numbers and numbers 300
Of children were born
In each rich, merry life-time!
Although they were haughty
And often oppressive,
What liberal masters!
They never deserted
The parish, they married,
Were baptized within it,
To us they confessed,
And by us they were buried. 310
And if a PomyÉshchick
Should chance for some reason
To live in a city,
He cherished one longing,
To die in his birthplace;
But did the Lord will it
That he should die suddenly
Far from the village,
An order was found
In his papers, most surely, 320
That he should be buried
At home with his fathers.
Then see—the black car
With the six mourning horses,—
The heirs are conveying
The dead to the graveyard;
And think—what a lift
For the pope, and what feasting
All over the village!
But now that is ended, 330
PomyÉshchicks are scattered
Like Jews over Russia
And all foreign countries.
They seek not the honour
Of lying with fathers
And mothers together.
How many estates
Have passed into the pockets
Of rich speculators!
O you, bones so pampered 340
Of great Russian gentry,
Where are you not buried,
What far foreign graveyard
Do you not repose in?

"Myself from dissenters[12]
(A source of pope's income)
I never take money,
I've never transgressed,
For I never had need to;
Because in my parish 350
Two-thirds of the people
Are Orthodox churchmen.
But districts there are
Where the whole population
Consists of dissenters—
Then how can the pope live?

"But all in this world
Is subjected to changes:
The laws which in old days
Applied to dissenters 360
Have now become milder;
And that in itself
Is a check to pope's income.
I've said the PomyÉshchicks
Are gone, and no longer
They seek to return
To the home of their childhood;
And then of their ladies
(Rich, pious old women),
How many have left us 370
To live near the convents!
And nobody now
Gives the pope a new cassock
Or church-work embroidered.
He lives on the peasants,
Collects their brass farthings,
Their cakes on the feast-days,
At Easter their eggs.
The peasants are needy
Or they would give freely— 380
Themselves they have nothing;
And who can take gladly
The peasant's last farthing?

"Their lands are so poor,
They are sand, moss, or boggy,
Their cattle half-famished,
Their crops yield but twofold;
And should Mother Earth
Chance at times to be kinder,
That too is misfortune: 390
The market is crowded,
They sell for a trifle
To pay off the taxes.
Again comes a bad crop—-
Then pay for your bread
Three times higher than ever,
And sell all your cattle!
Now, pray to God, Christians,
For this year again
A great misery threatens: 400
We ought to have sown
For a long time already;
But look you—the fields
Are all deluged and useless….
O God, have Thou pity
And send a round[13] rainbow
To shine in Thy heavens!"

Then taking his hat off
He crossed himself thrice,
And the peasants did likewise.

"Our village is poor 411
And the 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.