Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? Part 7

"The vodka prostrates us; But does not our labour, Our trouble, prostrate us?

The peasant won't grumble At each of his burdens, He'll set out to meet it, And struggle to bear it; 290 The peasant does not flinch At life-wasting labour, And tremble for fear That his health may be injured.

Then why should he number Each cupful of vodka For fear that an odd one May topple him over?

You say that it's painful To see him lie tipsy?-- 300 Then go to the bog; You'll see how the peasant Is squeezing the corn out, Is wading and crawling Where no horse or rider, No man, though unloaded, Would venture to tread.

You'll see how the army Of profligate peasants Is toiling in danger, 310 Is springing from one clod Of earth to another, Is pushing through bog-slime With backs nearly breaking!

The sun's beating down On the peasants' bare heads, They are sweating and covered With mud to the eyebrows, Their limbs torn and bleeding By sharp, p.r.i.c.kly bog-gra.s.s! 320

"Does this picture please you?

You say that you suffer; At least suffer wisely.

Don't use for a peasant A gentleman's judgement; We are not white-handed And tender-skinned creatures, But men rough and l.u.s.ty In work and in play.

"The heart of each peasant 330 Is black as a storm-cloud, Its thunder should peal And its blood rain in torrents; But all ends in drink-- For after one cupful The soul of the peasant Is kindly and smiling; But don't let that hurt you!

Look round and be joyful!

Hey, fellows! Hey, maidens! 340 You know how to foot it!

Their bones may be aching, Their limbs have grown weary, But youth's joy and daring Is not quite extinguished, It lives in them yet!"

The peasant is standing On top of a hillock, And stamping his feet, And after being silent 350 A moment, and gazing With glee at the ma.s.ses Of holiday people, He roars to them hoa.r.s.ely.

"Hey you, peasant kingdom!

You, hatless and drunken!

More racket! More noise!"

"Come, what's your name, uncle?"

"To write in the note-book?

Why not? Write it down: 360 'In Barefoot the village Lives old Jacob Naked, He'll work till he's taken, He drinks till he's crazed.'"

The peasants are laughing, And telling the Barin The old fellow's story: How shabby old Jacob Had lived once in Peter,[22]

And got into prison 370 Because he bethought him To get him to law With a very rich merchant; How after the prison He'd come back amongst them All stripped, like a linden, And taken to ploughing.

For thirty years since On his narrow allotment He'd worked in all weathers, 380 The harrow his shelter From sunshine and storm.

He lived with the sokha,[23]

And when G.o.d would take him He'd drop from beneath it Just like a black clod.

An accident happened One year to old Jacob: He bought some small pictures To hang in the cottage 390 For his little son; The old man himself, too, Was fond of the pictures.

G.o.d's curse had then fallen; The village was burnt, And the old fellow's money, The fruit of a life-time (Some thirty-five roubles),[24]

Was lost in the flames.

He ought to have saved it, 400 But, to his misfortune, He thought of the pictures And seized them instead.

His wife in the meantime Was saving the icons.[25]

And so, when the cottage Fell in, all the roubles Were melted together In one lump of silver.

Old Jacob was offered 410 Eleven such roubles For that silver lump.

"O old brother Jacob, You paid for them dearly, The little chap's pictures!

I warrant you've hung them Again in the new hut."

"I've hung them--and more,"

He replied, and was silent.

The Barin was looking, 420 Examining Jacob, The toiler, the earth-worm, His chest thin and meagre, His stomach as shrunk As though something had crushed it, His eyes and mouth circled By numberless wrinkles, Like drought-shrivelled earth.

And he altogether Resembled the earth, 430 Thought the Barin, while noting His throat, like a dry lump Of clay, brown and hardened; His brick-coloured face; His hands--black and h.o.r.n.y, Like bark on the tree-trunk; His hair--stiff and sandy....

The peasants, remarking That old Jacob's speech Had not angered the Barin, 440 Themselves took his words up: "Yes, yes, he speaks truly, We must drink, it saves us, It makes us feel strong.

Why, if we did not drink Black gloom would engulf us.

If work does not kill us Or trouble destroy us, We shan't die from drink!"

"That's so. Is it not, sir?" 450

"Yes, G.o.d will protect us!"

"Come, drink with us, Barin!"

They go to buy vodka And drink it together.

To Jacob the Barin Has offered two cups.

"Ah, Barin," says Jacob, "I see you're not angry.

A wise little head, yours, And how could a wise head 460 Judge falsely of peasants?

Why, only the pig Glues his nose to the garbage And never sees Heaven!"

Then suddenly singing Is heard in a chorus Harmonious and bold.

A row of young fellows, Half drunk, but not falling, Come staggering onwards, 470 All l.u.s.tily singing; They sing of the Volga, The daring of youths And the beauty of maidens ...

A hush falls all over The road, and it listens; And only the singing Is heard, broadly rolling In waves, sweet and tuneful, Like wind-ruffled corn. 480 The hearts of the peasants Are touched with wild anguish, And one little woman Grows pensive and mournful, And then begins weeping And sobs forth her grief: "My life is like day-time With no sun to warm it!

My life is like night With no glimmer of moon! 490 And I--the young woman-- Am like the swift steed On the curb, like the swallow With wings crushed and broken; My jealous old husband Is drunken and snoring, But even while snoring He keeps one eye open, And watches me always, Me--poor little wife!" 500

And so she lamented, The sad little woman; Then all of a sudden Springs down from the waggon!

"Where now?" cries her husband, The jealous old man.

And just as one lifts By the tail a plump radish, He clutches her pig-tail, And pulls her towards him. 510

O night wild and drunken, Not bright--and yet star-lit, Not hot--but fanned softly By tender spring breezes, You've not left our peasants Untouched by your sweetness; They're thinking and longing For their little women.

And they are quite right too; Still sweeter 'twould be 520 With a nice little wife!

Cries ivan, "I love you,"

And Mariushka, "I you!"

Cries ivan, "Press closer!"

And Mariushka, "Kiss me!"

Cries ivan, "The night's cold,"

And Mariushka, "Warm me!"

They think of this song now, And all make their minds up To shorten the journey. 530

A birch-tree is growing Alone by the roadside, G.o.d knows why so lonely!

And under it spreading The magic white napkin, The peasants sit round it:

"Hey! Napkin enchanted!

Give food to the peasants!"

Two hands have come floating From no one sees where, 540 Place a bucket of vodka, A large pile of bread, On the magic white napkin, And dwindle away.

The peasants feel strengthened, And leaving Roman there On guard near the vodka, They mix with the people, To try to discover The one who is happy. 550

They're all in a hurry To turn towards home.

CHAPTER IV