Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?

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.

No wonder the peasants

Dislike a wet spring-tide:

The peasant needs greatly

A spring warm and early.

This year, though he howl

Like a wolf, I'm afraid

That the sun will not gladden

The earth with his brightness.

The clouds wander heavily,

Dropping the rain down 10

Like cows with full udders.

The snow has departed,

Yet no blade of grass,

Not a tiny green leaflet,

Is seen in the meadows.

The earth has not ventured

To don its new mantle

Of brightest green velvet,

But lies sad and bare

Like a corpse without grave-clothes

Beneath the dull heavens. 21

One pities the peasant;

Still more, though, his cattle:

For when they have eaten

The scanty reserves

Which remain from the winter,

Their master will drive them

To graze in the meadows,

And what will they find there

But bare, inky blackness? 30

Nor settled the weather

Until it was nearing

The feast of St. Nichol,

And then the poor cattle

Enjoyed the green pastures.

The day is a hot one,

The peasants are strolling

Along 'neath the birch-trees.

They say to each other,

"We passed through one village, 40

We passed through another,

And both were quite empty;

To-day is a feast-day,

But where are the people?"

They reach a large village;

The street is deserted

Except for small children,

And inside the houses

Sit only the oldest

Of all the old women. 50

The wickets are fastened

Securely with padlocks;

The padlock's a loyal

And vigilant watch-dog;

It barks not, it bites not,

But no one can pass it.

They walk through the village

And see a clear mirror

Beset with green framework—

A pond full of water; 60

And over its surface

Are hovering swallows

And all kinds of insects;

The gnats quick and meagre

Skip over the water

As though on dry land;

And in the laburnums

Which grow on the banksides

The landrails are squeaking.

A raft made of tree-trunks 70

Floats near, and upon it

The pope's heavy daughter

Is wielding her beetle,

She looks like a hay-stack,

Unsound and dishevelled,

Her skirts gathered round her.

Upon the raft, near her,

A duck and some ducklings

Are sleeping together.

And hark! from the water 80

The neigh of a horse comes;

The peasants are startled,

They turn all together:

Two heads they see, moving

Along through the water—

The one is a peasant's,

A black head and curly,

In one ear an ear-ring

Which gleams in the sunlight;

A horse's the other, 90

To which there is fastened

A rope of some yards length,

Held tight in the teeth

Of the peasant beside it.

The man swims, the horse swims;

The horse neighs, the man neighs;

They make a fine uproar!

The raft with the woman

And ducklings upon it

Is tossing and heaving. 100

The horse with the peasant

Astride has come panting

From out of the water,

The man with white body

And throat black with sunburn;

The water is streaming

From horse and from rider.

"Say, why is your village

So empty of people?

Are all dead and buried?" 110

"They've gone to Kousminsky;

A fair's being held there

Because it's a saint's day."

"How far is Kousminsky?"

"Three versts, I should fancy."

"We'll go to Kousminsky,"

The peasants decided,

And each to himself thought,

"Perhaps we shall find there

The happy, the free one." 120

The village Kousminsky

Is rich and commercial

And terribly dirty.

It's built on a hill-side,

And slopes down the valley,

Then climbs again upwards,—

So how could one ask of it

Not to be dirty?[15]

It boasts of two churches.

The one is "dissenting," 130

The other "Established."

The house with inscription,

"The School-House," is empty,

In ruins and deserted;

And near stands the barber's,

A hut with one window,

From which hangs the sign-board

Of "Barber and Bleeder."

A dirty inn also

There is, with its sign-board 140

Adorned by a picture:

A great nosy tea-pot

With plump little tea-cups

Held out by a waiter,

Suggesting a fat goose

Surrounded by goslings.

A row of small shops, too,

There is in the village.

The peasants go straight

To the market-place, find there 150

A large crowd of people

And goods in profusion.

How strange!—notwithstanding

There's no church procession

The men have no hats on,

Are standing bare-headed,

As though in the presence

Of some holy Image:

Look, how they're being swallowed—

The hoods of the peasants.[16] 160

The beer-shop and tavern

Are both overflowing;

All round are erected

Large tents by the roadside

For selling of vodka.

And though in each tent

There are five agile waiters,

All young and most active,

They find it quite hopeless

To try to get change right. 170

Just look how the peasants

Are stretching their hands out,

With hoods, shirts, and waistcoats!

Oh, you, thirst of Russia,

Unquenchable, endless

You are! But the peasant,

When once he is sated,

Will soon get a new hood

At close of the fair….

The spring sun is playing 180

On heads hot and drunken,

On boisterous revels,

On bright mixing colours;

The men wear wide breeches

Of corduroy velvet,

With gaudy striped waistcoats

And shirts of all colours;

The women wear scarlet;

The girls' plaited tresses

Are decked with bright ribbons; 190

They glide about proudly,

Like swans on the water.

Some beauties are even

Attired in the fashion

Of Petersburg ladies;

Their dresses spread stiffly

On wide hoops around them;

But tread on their skirts—

They will turn and attack you,

Will gobble like turkeys! 200

Blame rather the fashion

Which fastens upon you

Great fishermen's baskets!

A woman dissenter

Looks darkly upon them,

And whispers with malice:

"A famine, a famine

Most surely will blight us.

The young growths are sodden,

The floods unabated; 210

Since women have taken

To red cotton dresses

The forests have withered,

And wheat—but no wonder!"

"But why, little Mother,

Are red cotton dresses

To blame for the trouble?

I don't understand you."

"The cotton is French,

And it's reddened in dog's blood! 220

D'you understand now?"

The peasants still linger

Some time in the market,

Then go further upward,

To where on the hill-side

Are piled ploughs and harrows,

With rakes, spades, and hatchets,

And all kinds of iron-ware,

And pliable wood

To make rims for the cart-wheels. 230

And, oh, what a hubbub

Of bargaining, swearing,

Of jesting and laughter!

And who could help laughing?

A limp little peasant

Is bending and testing

The wood for the wheel-rims.

One piece does not please him;

He takes up another

And bends it with effort; 240

It suddenly straightens,

And whack!—strikes his forehead.

The man begins roaring,

Abusing the bully,

The duffer, the block-head.

Another comes driving

A cart full of wood-ware,

As tipsy as can be;

He turns it all over!

The axle is broken, 250

And, trying to mend it,

He smashes the hatchet.

He gazes upon it,

Abusing, reproaching:

"A villain, a villain,

You are—not a hatchet.

You see, you can't do me

The least little service.

The whole of your life

You spend bowing before me, 260

And yet you insult me!"

Our peasants determine

To see the shop windows,

The handkerchiefs, ribbons,

And stuffs of bright colour;

And near to the boot-shop

Is fresh cause for laughter;

For here an old peasant

Most eagerly bargains

For small boots of goat-skin 270

To give to his grandchild.

He asks the price five times;

Again and again

He has turned them all over;

He finds they are faultless.

"Well, Uncle, pay up now,

Or else be off quickly,"

The seller says sharply.

But wait! The old fellow

Still gazes, and fondles 280

The tiny boots softly,

And then speaks in this wise:

"My daughter won't scold me,

Her husband I'll spit at,

My wife—let her grumble—

I'll spit at my wife too.

It's her that I pity—

My poor little grandchild.

She clung to my neck,

And she said, 'Little Grandfather, 290

Buy me a present.'

Her soft little ringlets

Were tickling my cheek,

And she kissed the old Grand-dad.

You wait, little bare-foot,

Wee spinning-top, wait then,

Some boots I will buy you,

Some boots made of goat-skin."

And then must old Vavil

Begin to boast grandly, 300

To promise a present

To old and to young.

But now his last farthing

Is swallowed in vodka,

And how can he dare

Show his eyes in the village?

"My daughter won't scold me,

Her husband I'll spit at,

My wife—let her grumble—

I'll spit at my wife too. 310

It's her that I pity—

My poor little grandchild."

And then he commences

The story again

Of the poor little grandchild.

He's very dejected.

A crowd listens round him,

Not laughing, but troubled

At sight of his sorrow.

If they could have helped him 320

With bread or by labour

They soon would have done so,

But money is money,

And who has got tenpence

To spare? Then came forward

Pavlóosha Varénko,

The "gentleman" nicknamed.

(His origin, past life,

Or calling they knew not,

But called him the 'Barin'.) 330

He listened with pleasure

To talk and to jesting;

His blouse, coat, and top-boots

Were those of a peasant;

He sang Russian folk-songs,

Liked others to sing them,

And often was met with

At taverns and inns.

He now rescued Vavil,

And bought him the boots 340

To take home to his grandchild.

The old man fled blindly,

But clasping them tightly,

Forgetting to thank him,

Bewildered with joy.

The crowd was as pleased, too,

As if had been given

To each one a rouble.

The peasants next visit

The picture and book stall; 350

The pedlars are buying

Their stock of small pictures,

And books for their baskets

To sell on the road.

"'Tis generals, you want!"

The merchant is saying.

"Well, give us some generals;

But look—on your conscience—

Now let them be real ones,

Be fat and ferocious." 360

"Your notions are funny,"

The merchant says, smiling;

"It isn't a question

Of looks…."

"Well, of what, then?

You want to deceive us,

To palm off your rubbish,

You swindling impostor!

D'you think that the peasants

Know one from another? 370

A shabby one—he wants

An expert to sell him,

But trust me to part with

The fat and the fierce."

"You don't want officials?"

"To Hell with officials!"

However they took one

Because he was cheap:

A minister, striking

In view of his stomach 380

As round as a barrel,

And seventeen medals.

The merchant is serving

With greatest politeness,

Displaying and praising,

With patience unyielding,—

A thief of the first-class

He is, come from Moscow.

Of Blücher he sells them

A hundred small pictures, 390

As many of Fótyi[17]

The archimandrite,

And of Sipko[17] the brigand;

A book of the sayings

Of droll Balakireff[17]

The "English Milord," too.

The books were put into

The packs of the pedlars;

The pictures will travel

All over great Russia, 400

Until they find rest

On the wall of some peasant—

The devil knows why!

Oh, may it come quickly

The time when the peasant

Will make some distinction

Between book and book,

Between picture and picture;

Will bring from the market,

Not picture of Blücher, 410

Not stupid "Milord,"

But Belinsky and Gógol!

Oh, say, Russian people,

These names—have you heard them?

They're great. They were borne

By your champions, who loved you,

Who strove in your cause,

'Tis their little portraits

Should hang in your houses!

"I'd walk into Heaven 420

But can't find the doorway!"

Is suddenly shouted

By some merry blade.

"What door do you want, man?"

"The puppet-show, brothers!"

"I'll show you the way!"

The puppet-show tempted

The journeying peasants;

They go to inspect it.

A farce is being acted, 430

A goat for the drummer;

Real music is playing—

No common accordion.

The play is not too deep,

But not stupid, either.

A bullet shot deftly

Right into the eye

Of the hated policeman.

The tent is quite crowded,

The audience cracking 440

Their nuts, and exchanging

Remarks with each other.

And look—there's the vodka!

They're drinking and looking,

And looking and drinking,

Enjoying it highly,

With jubilant faces,

From time to time throwing

A right witty word

Into Peterkin's speeches, 450

Which you'd never hit on,

Although you should swallow

Your pen and your pad!…

Some folk there are always

Who crowd on the platform

(The comedy ended),

To greet the performers,

To gossip and chat.

"How now, my fine fellows,

And where do you come from?" 460

"As serfs we used only

To play for the masters,[18]

But now we are free,

And the man who will treat us

Alone is our Master!"

"Well spoken, my brothers;

Enough time you've wasted

Amusing the nobles;

Now play for the peasants!

Here, waiter, bring vodka, 470

Sweet wine, tea, and syrup,

And see you make haste!"

The sweet sparkling river

Comes rolling to meet them;

They'll treat the musicians

More handsomely, far,

Than their masters of old.

It is not the rushing

Of furious whirlwinds,

Not Mother Earth shaking— 480

'Tis shouting and singing

And swearing and fighting

And falling and kissing—

The people's carouse!

It seems to the peasants

That all in the village

Was reeling around them!

That even the church

With the very tall, steeple

Had swayed once or twice! 490

When things are in this state,

A man who is sober

Feels nearly as awkward

As one who is naked….

The peasants recrossing

The market-place, quitted

The turbulent village

At evening's approach.

This village did not end,

As many in Russia,

In windmill or tavern,

In corn-loft or barn,

But in a large building

Of wood, with iron gratings

In small narrow windows.

The broad, sandy high-road,

With borders of birch-trees,

Spread out straight behind it— 10

The grim étape—prison.[19]

On week-days deserted

It is, dull and silent,

But now it is not so.

All over the high-road,

In neighbouring pathways,

Wherever the eye falls,

Are lying and crawling,

Are driving and climbing,

The numberless drunkards; 20

Their shout fills the skies.

The cart-wheels are screeching,

And like slaughtered calves' heads

Are nodding and wagging

The pates limp and helpless

Of peasants asleep.

They're dropping on all sides,

As if from some ambush

An enemy firing

Is shooting them wholesale. 30

The quiet night is falling,

The moon is in Heaven,

And God is commencing

To write His great letter

Of gold on blue velvet;

Mysterious message,

Which neither the wise man

Nor foolish can read.

The high-road is humming

Just like a great bee-hive; 40

The people's loud clamour

Is swelling and falling

Like waves in the ocean.

"We paid him a rouble—

The clerk, and he gave us

A written petition

To send to the Governor."

"Hi, you with the waggon,

Look after your corn!"

"But where are you off to, 50

Olyénushka? 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 brass plate

Attached to his coat-front,

And bells all a-jangle.

"God 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 Pavloósha,

The village policeman.

"An accident's happened

Down here, and a man's killed."

"God 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 snatches 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?

"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, prickly bog-grass! 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 lusty

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 masses

Of holiday people,

He roars to them hoarsely.

"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 God 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.

God'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 horny,

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, God 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 lustily 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 Ívan, "I love you,"

And Mariushka, "I you!"

Cries Ívan, "Press closer!"

And Mariushka, "Kiss me!"

Cries Ívan, "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,

God 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 Román 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.

In crowds gay and noisy

Our peasants are mixing,

Proclaiming their mission:

"Let any man here

Who esteems himself happy

Stand forth! If he prove it

A pailful of vodka

Is at his disposal;

As much as he wishes

So much he shall have!" 10

This fabulous promise

Sets sober folk smiling;

The tipsy and wise ones

Are ready to spit

In the beards of the pushing

Impertinent strangers!

But many are willing

To drink without payment,

And so when our peasants

Go back to the birch-tree 20

A crowd presses round them.

The first to come forward,

A lean discharged deacon,

With legs like two matches,

Lets forth a great mouthful

Of indistinct maxims:

That happiness lies not

In broad lands, in jewels,

In gold, and in sables—

"In what, then?" 30

A peaceful

And undisturbed conscience.

That all the dominions

Of land-owners, nobles,

And Tsars are but earthly

And limited treasures;

But he who is godly

Has part in Christ's kingdom

Of boundless extent:

"When warm in the sun, 40

With a cupful of vodka,

I'm perfectly happy,

I ask nothing more!"

"And who'll give you vodka?"

"Why, you! You have promised."

"Be off, you lean scamp!"

A one-eyed old woman

Comes next, bent and pock-marked,

And bowing before them

She says she is happy; 50

That in her allotment

A thousand fine turnips

Have grown, this last autumn.

"Such turnips, I tell you!

Such monsters! and tasty!

In such a small plot, too,

In length only one yard,

And three yards in width!"

They laugh at the woman,

But give her no vodka; 60

"Go, get you home, Mother!

You've vodka enough there

To flavour the turnips!"

A soldier with medals,

Quite drunk but still thirsty,

Says firmly, "I'm happy!"

"Then tell us, old fellow

In what he is happy—

The soldier? Take care, though,

To keep nothing back!" 70

"Well, firstly, I've been

Through at least twenty battles,

And yet I'm alive.

And, secondly, mark you

(It's far more important),

In times of peace, too,

Though I'm always half-famished,

Death never has conquered!

And, third, though they flogged me

For every offence, 80

Great or small, I've survived it!"

"Here, drink, little soldier!

With you one can't argue;

You're happy indeed!"

Then comes a young mason,

A huge, weighty hammer

Swung over his shoulder:

"I live in content,"

He declares, "with my wife

And beloved old mother; 90

We've nought to complain of."

"In what are you happy?"

"In this!"—like a feather

He swings the great hammer.

"Beginning at sunrise

And setting my back straight

As midnight draws near,

I can shatter a mountain!

Before now, it's happened

That, working one day, 100

I've piled enough stones up

To earn my five roubles!"

Pakhóm tries to lift it—

The "happiness." After

Prodigiously straining

And cracking all over,

He sets it down, gladly,

And pours out some vodka.

"Well, weighty it is, man!

But will you be able 110

To bear in old age

Such a 'happiness,' think you?"

"Don't boast of your strength!"

Gasped a wheezing old peasant,

Half stifled with asthma.

(His nose pinched and shrivelled

Like that of a dead man,

His eyes bright and sunken,

His hands like a rake—

Stiffened, scraggy, and bony, 120

His legs long and narrow

Like spokes of a wheel,

A human mosquito.)

"I was not a worse man

Than he, the young mason,

And boasted of my strength.

God punished me for it!

The manager knew

I was simple—the villain!

He flattered and praised me. 130

I was but a youngster,

And pleased at his notice

I laboured like four men.

One day I had mounted

Some bricks to my shoulder,

When, just then, the devil

Must bring him in sight.

"'What's that!' he said laughing,

'Tis surely not Trifon

With such a light burden? 140

Ho, does it not shame

Such a strapping young fellow?'

'Then put some more bricks on,

I'll carry them, master,'

Said I, sore offended.

For full half an hour

I stood while he piled them,

He piled them—the dog!

I felt my back breaking,

But would not give way, 150

And that devilish burden

I carried right up

To the high second story!

He stood and looked on,

He himself was astounded,

And cried from beneath me:

'Well done, my brave fellow!

You don't know yourself, man,

What you have been doing!

It's forty stone, Trifon, 160

You've carried up there!'

"I did know; my heart

Struck my breast like a hammer,

The blood stood in circles

Round both of my eyeballs;

My back felt disjointed,

My legs weak and trembling …

'Twas then that I withered.

Come, treat me, my friends!"

"But why should we treat you?

In what are you happy? 171

In what you have told us?"

"No, listen—that's coming,

It's this: I have also,

Like each of us peasants,

Besought God to let me

Return to the village

To die. And when coming

From Petersburg, after

The illness I suffered 180

Through what I have told you,

Exhausted and weakened,

Half-dazed, half-unconscious,

I got to the station.

And all in the carriage

Were workmen, as I was,

And ill of the fever;

And all yearned for one thing:

To reach their own homes

Before death overcame them. 190

'Twas then I was lucky;

The heat then was stifling,

And so many sick heads

Made Hell of the waggon.

Here one man was groaning,

There, rolling all over

The floor, like a lunatic,

Shouting and raving

Of wife or of mother.

And many such fellows 200

Were put out and left

At the stations we came to.

I looked at them, thinking,

Shall I be left too?

I was burning and shaking,

The blood began starting

All over my eyeballs,

And I, in my fever,

Half-waking, was dreaming

Of cutting of cocks' throats 210

(We once were cock-farmers,

And one year it happened

We fattened a thousand).

They came to my thoughts, now,

The damnable creatures,

I tried to start praying,

But no!—it was useless.

And, would you believe me?

I saw the whole party

In that hellish waggon 220

Come quivering round me,

Their throats cut, and spurting

With blood, and still crowing,

And I, with the knife, shrieked:

'Enough of your noise!'

And yet, by God's mercy,

Made no sound at all.

I sat there and struggled

To keep myself silent.

At last the day ended, 230

And with it the journey,

And God had had pity

Upon His poor orphan;

I crawled to the village.

And now, by His mercy,

I'm better again."

"Is that what you boast of—

Your happiness, peasant?"

Exclaims an old lackey

With legs weak and gouty. 240

"Treat me, little brothers,

I'm happy, God sees it!

For I was the chief serf

Of Prince Pereméteff,

A rich prince, and mighty,

My wife, the most favoured

By him, of the women;

My daughter, together

With his, the young lady,

Was taught foreign languages, 250

French and some others;

And she was permitted

To sit, and not stand,

In her mistress's presence.

Good Lord! How it bites!"

(He stoops down to rub it,

The gouty right knee-cap.)

The peasants laugh loudly!

"What laugh you at, stupids?"

He cries, getting angry, 260

"I'm ill, I thank God,

And at waking and sleeping

I pray, 'Leave me ever

My honoured complaint, Lord!

For that makes me noble!'

I've none of your low things,

Your peasants' diseases,

My illness is lofty,

And only acquired

By the most elevated, 270

The first in the Empire;

I suffer, you villains,

From gout, gout its name is!

It's only brought on

By the drinking of claret,

Of Burgundy, champagne,

Hungarian syrup,

By thirty years' drinking!

For forty years, peasants,

I've stood up behind it— 280

The chair of His Highness,

The Prince Pereméteff,

And swallowed the leavings

In plates and in glasses,

The finest French truffles,

The dregs of the liquors.

Come, treat me, you peasants!"

"Excuse us, your Lordship,

Our wine is but simple,

The drink of the peasants! 290

It wouldn't suit you!"

A bent, yellow-haired man

Steals up to the peasants,

A man from White Russia.

He yearns for the vodka.

"Oh, give me a taste!"

He implores, "I am happy!"

"But wait! You must tell us

In what you are happy."

"In bread I am happy; 300

At home, in White Russia,

The bread is of barley,

All gritty and weedy.

At times, I can tell you,

I've howled out aloud,

Like a woman in labour,

With pains in my stomach!

But now, by God's mercy,

I work for Gubónine,

And there they give rye-bread, 310

I'm happy in that."

A dark-looking peasant,

With jaw turned and twisted,

Which makes him look sideways,

Says next, "I am happy.

A bear-hunter I am,

And six of my comrades

Were killed by old Mishka;[26]

On me God has mercy."

"Look round to the left side." 320

He tries to, but cannot,

For all his grimaces!

"A bear knocked my jaw round,

A savage young female."

"Go, look for another,

And give her the left cheek,

She'll soon put it straight!"

They laugh, but, however,

They give him some vodka.

Some ragged old beggars 330

Come up to the peasants,

Drawn near by the smell

Of the froth on the vodka;

They say they are happy.

"Why, right on his threshold

The shopman will meet us!

We go to a house-door,

From there they conduct us

Right back to the gate!

When we begin singing 340

The housewife runs quickly

And brings to the window

A loaf and a knife.

And then we sing loudly,

'Oh, give us the whole loaf,

It cannot be cut

And it cannot be crumbled,

For you it is quicker,

For us it is better!'"

The peasants observe 350

That their vodka is wasted,

The pail's nearly empty.

They say to the people,

"Enough of your chatter,

You, shabby and ragged,

You, humpbacked and corny,

Go, get you all home!"

"In your place, good strangers,"

The peasant, Fedócy,

From "Swallow-Smoke" village, 360

Said, sitting beside them,

"I'd ask Érmil Gírin.

If he will not suit you,

If he is not happy,

Then no one can help you."

"But who is this Érmil,

A noble—a prince?"

"No prince—not a noble,

But simply a peasant."

"Well, tell us about him." 370

"I'll tell you; he rented

The mill of an orphan,

Until the Court settled

To sell it at auction.

Then Érmil, with others,

Went into the sale-room.

The small buyers quickly

Dropped out of the bidding;

Till Érmil alone,

With a merchant, Altérnikoff, 380

Kept up the fight.

The merchant outbid him,

Each time by a farthing,

Till Érmil grew angry

And added five roubles;

The merchant a farthing

And Érmil a rouble.

The merchant gave in then,

When suddenly something

Unlooked for occurred: 390

The sellers demanded

A third of the money

Paid down on the spot;

'Twas one thousand roubles,

And Érmil had not brought

So much money with him;

'Twas either his error,

Or else they deceived him.

The merchant said gaily,

'The mill comes to me, then?' 400

'Not so,' replied Érmil;

He went to the sellers;

'Good sirs, will you wait

Thirty minutes?' he asked.

"'But how will that help you?'

'I'll bring you the money.'

"'But where will you find it?

You're out of your senses!

It's thirty-five versts

To the mill; in an hour now 410

The sales will be finished.'

"'You'll wait half an hour, sirs?'

'An hour, if you wish.'

Then Érmil departed,

The sellers exchanging

Sly looks with the merchant,

And grinning—the foxes!

But Érmil went out

And made haste to the market-place

Crowded with people 420

('Twas market-day, then),

And he mounted a waggon,

And there he stood crossing

Himself, and low bowing

In all four directions.

He cried to the people,

'Be silent a moment,

I've something to ask you!'

The place became still

And he told them the story: 430

"'Since long has the merchant

Been wooing the mill,

But I'm not such a dullard.

Five times have I been here

To ask if there would be

A second day's bidding,

They answered, 'There will.'

You know that the peasant

Won't carry his money

All over the by-ways 440

Without a good reason,

So I have none with me;

And look—now they tell me

There's no second bidding

And ask for the money!

The cunning ones tricked me

And laughed—the base heathens!

And said to me sneering:

'But, what can you do

In an hour? Where find money?' 450

"'They're crafty and strong,

But the people are stronger!

The merchant is rich—

But the people are richer!

Hey! What is his worth

To their treasury, think you?

Like fish in the ocean

The wealth of the people;

You'll draw it and draw it—

But not see its end! 460

Now, brother, God hears me,

Come, give me this money!

Next Friday I'll pay you

The very last farthing.

It's not that I care

For the mill—it's the insult!

Whoever knows Érmil,

Whoever believes him,

Will give what he can.'

"A miracle happened; 470

The coat of each peasant

Flew up on the left

As though blown by a wind!

The peasants are bringing

Their money to Érmil,

Each gives what he can.

Though Érmil's well lettered

He writes nothing down;

It's well he can count it

So great is his hurry. 480

They gather his hat full

Of all kinds of money,

From farthings to bank-notes,

The notes of the peasant

All crumpled and torn.

He has the whole sum now,

But still the good people

Are bringing him more.

"'Here, take this, too, Érmil,

You'll pay it back later!' 490

"He bows to the people

In all four directions,

Gets down from the waggon,

And pressing the hat

Full of money against him,

Runs back to the sale-room

As fast as he can.

"The sellers are speechless

And stare in amazement,

The merchant turns green 500

As the money is counted

And laid on the table.

"The sellers come round him

All craftily praising

His excellent bargain.

But Érmil sees through them;

He gives not a farthing,

He speaks not a word.

"The whole town assembles

At market next Friday, 510

When Érmil is paying

His debt to the people.

How can he remember

To whom he must pay it?

No murmur arises,

No sound of discussion,

As each man tells quietly

The sum to be paid him.

"And Érmil himself said,

That when it was finished 520

A rouble was lying

With no one to claim it;

And though till the evening

He went, with purse open,

Demanding the owner,

It still was unclaimed.

The sun was just setting

When Érmil, the last one

To go from the market,

Assembled the beggars 530

And gave them the rouble." …

"'Tis strange!" say the peasants,

"By what kind of magic

Can one single peasant

Gain such a dominion

All over the country?"

"No magic he uses

Save truthfulness, brothers!

But say, have you ever

Heard tell of Prince Yurloff's 540

Estate, Adovshina?"

"We have. What about it?"

"The manager there

Was a Colonel, with stars,

Of the Corps of Gendarmes.

He had six or seven

Assistants beneath him,

And Érmil was chosen

As principal clerk.

He was but a boy, then, 550

Of nineteen or twenty;

And though 'tis no fine post,

The clerk's—to the peasants

The clerk is a great man;

To him they will go

For advice and with questions.

Though Érmil had power to,

He asked nothing from them;

And if they should offer

He never accepted. 560

(He bears a poor conscience,

The peasant who covets

The mite of his brother!)

Well, five years went by,

And they trusted in Érmil,

When all of a sudden

The master dismissed him

For sake of another.

And sadly they felt it.

The new clerk was grasping; 570

He moved not a finger

Unless it was paid for;

A letter—three farthings!

A question—five farthings!

Well, he was a pope's son

And God placed him rightly!

But still, by God's mercy,

He did not stay long:

"The old Prince soon died,

And the young Prince was master. 580

He came and dismissed them—

The manager-colonel,

The clerk and assistants,

And summoned the peasants

To choose them an Elder.

They weren't long about it!

And eight thousand voices

Cried out, 'Érmil Gírin!'

As though they were one.

Then Érmil was sent for 590

To speak with the Barin,

And after some minutes

The Barin came out

On the balcony, standing

In face of the people;

He cried, 'Well, my brothers,

Your choice is elected

With my princely sanction!

But answer me this:

Don't you think he's too youthful?' 600

"'No, no, little Father!

He's young, but he's wise!'

"So Érmil was Elder,

For seven years ruled

In the Prince's dominion.

Not once in that time

Did a coin of the peasants

Come under his nail,

Did the innocent suffer,

The guilty escape him, 610

He followed his conscience."

"But stop!" exclaimed hoarsely

A shrivelled grey pope,

Interrupting the speaker,

"The harrow went smoothly

Enough, till it happened

To strike on a stone,

Then it swerved of a sudden.

In telling a story

Don't leave an odd word out 620

And alter the rhythm!

Now, if you knew Érmil

You knew his young brother,

Knew Mítyenka, did you?"

The speaker considered,

Then said, "I'd forgotten,

I'll tell you about it:

It happened that once

Even Érmil the peasant

Did wrong: his young brother, 630

Unjustly exempted

From serving his time,

On the day of recruiting;

And we were all silent,

And how could we argue

When even the Barin

Himself would not order

The Elder's own brother

To unwilling service?

And only one woman, 640

Old Vlásevna, shedding

Wild tears for her son,

Went bewailing and screaming:

'It wasn't our turn!'

Well, of course she'd be certain

To scream for a time,

Then leave off and be silent.

But what happened then?

The recruiting was finished,

But Érmil had changed; 650

He was mournful and gloomy;

He ate not, he drank not,

Till one day his father

Went into the stable

And found him there holding

A rope in his hands.

Then at last he unbosomed

His heart to his father:

'Since Vlásevna's son

Has been sent to the service, 660

I'm weary of living,

I wish but to die!'

His brothers came also,

And they with the father

Besought him to hear them,

To listen to reason.

But he only answered:

'A villain I am,

And a criminal; bind me,

And bring me to justice!' 670

And they, fearing worse things,

Obeyed him and bound him.

The commune assembled,

Exclaiming and shouting;

They'd never been summoned

To witness or judge

Such peculiar proceedings.

"And Érmil's relations

Did not beg for mercy

And lenient treatment, 680

But rather for firmness:

'Bring Vlásevna's son back

Or Érmil will hang himself,

Nothing will save him!'

And then appeared Érmil

Himself, pale and bare-foot,

With ropes bound and handcuffed,

And bowing his head

He spoke low to the people:

'The time was when I was 690

Your judge; and I judged you,

In all things obeying

My conscience. But I now

Am guiltier far

Than were you. Be my judges!'

He bowed to our feet,

The demented one, sighing,

Then stood up and crossed himself,

Trembling all over;

It pained us to witness 700

How he, of a sudden,

Fell down on his knees there

At Vlásevna's feet.

Well, all was put right soon,

The nobles have fingers

In every small corner,

The lad was brought back

And young Mítyenka started;

They say that his service

Did not weigh too heavy, 710

The prince saw to that.

And we, as a penance,

Imposed upon Érmil

A fine, and to Vlásevna

One part was given,

To Mítya another,

The rest to the village

For vodka. However,

Not quickly did Érmil

Get over his sorrow: 720

He went like a lost one

For full a year after,

And—though the whole district

Implored him to keep it—

He left his position.

He rented the mill, then,

And more than of old

Was beloved by the people.

He took for his grinding

No more than was honest, 730

His customers never

Kept waiting a moment,

And all men alike:

The rich landlord, the workman.

The master and servant,

The poorest of peasants

Were served as their turn came;

Strict order he kept.

Myself, I have not been

Since long in that district, 740

But often the people

Have told me about him.

And never could praise him

Enough. So in your place

I'd go and ask Érmil."

"Your time would be wasted,"

The grey-headed pope,

Who'd before interrupted,

Remarked to the peasants,

"I knew Érmil Gírin, 750

I chanced in that district

Some five years ago.

I have often been shifted,

Our bishop loved vastly

To keep us all moving,

So I was his neighbour.

Yes, he was a peasant

Unique, I bear witness,

And all things he owned

That can make a man happy: 760

Peace, riches, and honour,

And that kind of honour

Most valued and precious,

Which cannot be purchased

By might or by money,

But only by righteousness,

Wisdom and kindness.

But still, I repeat it,

Your time will be wasted

In going to Érmil: 770

In prison he lies."

"How's that?"

"God so willed it.

You've heard how the peasants

Of 'Log' the Pomyéshchick

Of Province 'Affrighted,'

Of District 'Scarce-Breathing,'

Of village 'Dumbfounded,'

Revolted 'for causes

Entirely unknown,' 780

As they say in the papers.

(I once used to read them.)

And so, too, in this case,

The local Ispravnik,[27]

The Tsar's high officials,

And even the peasants,

'Dumbfounded' themselves.

Never fathomed the reason

Of all the disturbance.

But things became bad, 790

And the soldiers were sent for,

The Tsar packed a messenger

Off in a hurry

To speak to the people.

His epaulettes rose

To his ears as he coaxed them

And cursed them together.

But curses they're used to,

And coaxing was lost,

For they don't understand it: 800

'Brave orthodox peasants!'

'The Tsar—Little Father!'

'Our dear Mother Russia!'

He bellowed and shouted

Until he was hoarse,

While the peasants stood round him

And listened in wonder.

"But when he was tired

Of these peaceable measures

Of calming the riots, 810

At length he decided

On giving the order

Of 'Fire' to the soldiers;

When all of a sudden

A bright thought occurred

To the clerk of the Volost:[28]

'The people trust Gírin,

The people will hear him!'

"'Then let him be brought!'" [29]

A cry has arisen 820

"Have mercy! Have mercy!"

A check to the story;

They hurry off quickly

To see what has happened;

And there on a bank

Of a ditch near the roadside,

Some peasants are birching

A drunken old lackey,

Just taken in thieving.

A court had been summoned, 830

The judges deciding

To birch the offender,

That each of the jury

(About three and twenty)

Should give him a stroke

Turn in turn of the rod….

The lackey was up

And made off, in a twinkling,

He took to his heels

Without stopping to argue, 840

On two scraggy legs.

"How he trips it—the dandy!"

The peasants cry, laughing;

They've soon recognized him;

The boaster who prated

So much of his illness

From drinking strange liquors.

"Ho! where has it gone to,

Your noble complaint?

Look how nimble he's getting!" 850

"Well, well, Little Father,

Now finish the story!"

"It's time to go home now,

My children,—God willing,

We'll meet again some day

And finish it then…."

The people disperse

As the dawn is approaching.

Our peasants begin

To bethink them of sleeping, 860

When all of a sudden

A "troika" [30] comes flying

From no one sees where,

With its silver bells ringing.

Within it is sitting

A plump little Barin,

His little mouth smoking

A little cigar.

The peasants draw up

In a line on the roadway, 870

Thus barring the passage

In front of the horses;

And, standing bareheaded,

Bow low to the Barin.