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.
(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!
