Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? Part 6

"Hi, you with the waggon, Look after your corn!"

"But where are you off to, 50 Olyenushka? Wait now-- I've still got some cakes.

You're like a black flea, girl, You eat all you want to And hop away quickly Before one can stroke you!"

"It's all very fine talk, This Tsar's precious Charter, It's not writ for us!"

"Give way there, you people!" 60 The exciseman dashes Amongst them, his bra.s.s plate Attached to his coat-front, And bells all a-jangle.

"G.o.d save us, Parasha, Don't go to St. Petersburg!

_I_ know the gentry: By day you're a maid, And by night you're a mistress.

You spit at it, love...." 70

"Now, where are you running?"

The pope bellows loudly To busy Pavloosha, The village policeman.

"An accident's happened Down here, and a man's killed."

"G.o.d pardon our sins!"

"How thin you've got, Dashka!"

"The spinning-wheel fattens By turning forever; 80 I work just as hard, But I never get fatter."

"Heh, you, silly fellow, Come hither and love me!

The dirty, dishevelled, And tipsy old woman.

The f--i--ilthy o--l--d woman!"

Our peasants, observing, Are still walking onwards.

They see just before them 90 A meek little fellow Most busily digging A hole in the road.

"Now, what are you doing?"

"A grave I am digging To bury my mother!"

"You fool!--Where's your mother?

Your new coat you've buried!

Roll into the ditch, Dip your snout in the water. 100 'Twill cool you, perhaps."

"Let's see who'll pull hardest!"

Two peasants are squatting, And, feet to feet pressing, Are straining and groaning, And tugging away At a stick held between them.

This soon fails to please them: "Let's try with our beards!"

And each man then clutches 110 The jaw of the other, And tugs at his beard!

Red, panting, and writhing, And gasping and yelping, But pulling and pulling!

"Enough there, you madmen!"...

Cold water won't part them!

And in the ditch near them Two women are squabbling; One cries, "To go home now 120 Were worse than to prison!"

The other, "You braggart!

In my house, I tell you, It's worse than in yours.

One son-in-law punched me And left a rib broken; The second made off With my big ball of cotton; The cotton don't matter, But in it was hidden 130 My rouble in silver.

The youngest--he always Is up with his knife out.

He'll kill me for sure!"

"Enough, enough, darling!

Now don't you be angry!"

Is heard not far distant From over a hillock-- "Come on, I'm all right!"

A mischievous night, this; 140 On right hand, on left hand, Wherever the eye falls, Are sauntering couples.

The wood seems to please them; They all stroll towards it, The wood--which is thrilling With nightingales' voices.

And later, the high-road Gets more and more ugly, And more and more often 150 The people are falling, Are staggering, crawling, Or lying like corpses.

As always it happens On feast days in Russia-- No word can be uttered Without a great oath.

And near to the tavern Is quite a commotion; Some wheels get entangled 160 And terrified horses Rush off without drivers.

Here children are crying, And sad wives and mothers Are anxiously waiting; And is the task easy Of getting the peasant Away from his drink?

Just near to the sign-post A voice that's familiar 170 Is heard by the peasants; They see there the Barin (The same that helped Vavil, And bought him the boots To take home to his grandchild).

He chats with the men.

The peasants all open Their hearts to the Barin; If some song should please him They'll sing it through five times; 180 "Just write the song down, sir!"

If some saying strike him; "Take note of the words!"

And when he has written Enough, he says quietly, "The peasants are clever, But one thing is bad: They drink till they're helpless And lie about tipsy, It's painful to see." 190

They listen in silence.

The Barin commences To write something down In the little black note-book When, all of a sudden, A small, tipsy peasant, Who up to that moment Has lain on his stomach And gazed at the speaker, Springs up straight before him 200 And s.n.a.t.c.hes his pencil Right out of his hand: "Wait, wait!" cries the fellow, "Stop writing your stories, Dishonest and heartless, About the poor peasant.

Say, what's your complaint?

That sometimes the heart Of the peasant rejoices?

At times we drink hard, 210 But we work ten times harder; Among us are drunkards, But many more sober.

Go, take through a village A pailful of vodka; Go into the huts-- In one, in another, They'll swallow it gladly.

But go to a third And you'll find they won't touch it!

One family drinks, 221 While another drinks nothing, Drinks nothing--and suffers As much as the drunkards: They, wisely or foolishly, Follow their conscience; And see how misfortune, The peasants' misfortune, Will swallow that household Hard-working and sober! 230 Pray, have you seen ever The time of the harvest In some Russian village?

Well, where were the people?

At work in the tavern?

Our fields may be broad, But they don't give too freely.

Who robes them in spring-time, And strips them in autumn?

You've met with a peasant 240 At nightfall, perchance, When the work has been finished?

He's piled up great mountains Of corn in the meadows, He'll sup off a pea!

Hey, you mighty monster!

You builder of mountains, I'll knock you flat down With the stroke of a feather!

"Sweet food is the peasant's! 250 But stomachs aren't mirrors, And so we don't whimper To see what we've eaten.

"We work single-handed, But when we have finished Three partners[20] are waiting To share in the profits; A fourth[21] one there is, too, Who eats like a Tartar-- Leaves nothing behind. 260 The other day, only, A mean little fellow Like you, came from Moscow And clung to our backs.

'Oh, please sing him folk-songs'

And 'tell him some proverbs,'

'Some riddles and rhymes.'

And then came another To put us his questions: How much do we work for? 270 How much and how little We stuff in our bellies?

To count all the people That live in the village Upon his five fingers.

He did not _ask how much The fire feeds the wind with Of peasants' hard work_.

Our drunkenness, maybe, Can never be measured, 280 But look at our labour-- Can that then be measured?

Our cares or our woes?