Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? Part 5

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 Pavloosha Varenko, 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 h.e.l.l 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-cla.s.s He is, come from Moscow.

Of Blucher he sells them A hundred small pictures, 390 As many of Fotyi[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 Blucher, 410 Not stupid "Milord,"

But Belinsky and Gogol!

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 n.o.bles; 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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.

CHAPTER III

THE DRUNKEN NIGHT

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 etape--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 G.o.d 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 pet.i.tion To send to the Governor."