From thence, sometimes singing
Was heard, but more often
Came laughter and giggles.
Well, what was the upshot?
He taught them no singing, 50
But ruined them all.
Some Masters so skilful
There are, they will even
Lay siege to the ladies.
They first to the kitchens
Make sure of admission,
And then through the maids
Gained access to the mistress.
See, there he goes, strutting
Along through the courtyard 60
And jingling the keys
Of the house like a Barin.
And soon he will spit
In the teeth of the peasants;
The pious old women,
Who always before
At the house have been welcome,
He'll speedily banish.
The people, however,
Can see in these pilgrims 70
A good side as well.
For, who begs the money
For building the churches?
And who keeps the convent's
Collecting-box full?
And many, though useless,
Are perfectly harmless;
But some are uncanny,
One can't understand them:
The people know Fóma, 80
With chains round his middle
Some six stones in weight;
How summer and winter
He walks about barefoot,
And constantly mutters
Of Heaven knows what.
His life, though, is godly:
A stone for his pillow,
A crust for his dinner.
The people know also 90
The old man, Nikífor,
Adherent, most strange,
Of the sect called "The Hiders."
One day he appeared
In Usólovo village
Upbraiding the people
For lack of religion,
And calling them forth
To the great virgin forest
To seek for salvation. 100
The chief of police
Of the district just happened
To be in the village
And heard his oration:
"Ho! Question the madman!"
"Thou foe of Christ Jesus!
Thou Antichrist's herald!"
Nikífor retorts.
The Elders are nudging him:
"Now, then, be silent!" 110
He pays no attention.
They drag him to prison.
He stands in the waggon,
Undauntedly chiding
The chief of police,
And loudly he cries
To the people who follow him:
"Woe to you! Woe to you! Bondsmen, I mourn for you!
Though you're in rags, e'en the rags shall be torn from you!
Fiercely with knouts in the past did they mangle you: 120
Clutches of iron in the future will strangle you!"
"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.