Chapter II: The Village Fair

No wonder the peasantsDislike a wet spring-tide:The peasant needs greatlyA spring warm and early.This year, though he howlLike a wolf, I'm afraidThat the sun will not gladdenThe earth with his brightness.The clouds wander heavily,Dropping the rain downLike 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 venturedTo don its new mantleOf brightest green velvet,But lies sad and bareLike a corpse without grave-clothesBeneath the dull heavens.One pities the peasant;Still more, though, his cattle:For when they have eatenThe scanty reservesWhich remain from the winter,Their master will drive themTo graze in the meadows,And what will they find thereBut bare, inky blackness?Nor settled the weatherUntil it was nearingThe feast of St. Nichol,And then the poor cattleEnjoyed the green pastures.

The day is a hot one,The peasants are strollingAlong 'neath the birch-trees.They say to each other,"We passed through one village,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 desertedExcept for small children,And inside the housesSit only the oldestOf all the old women.The wickets are fastenedSecurely with padlocks;The padlock's a loyalAnd vigilant watch-dog;It barks not, it bites not,But no one can pass it.

They walk through the villageAnd see a clear mirrorBeset with green framework--A pond full of water;And over its surfaceAre hovering swallowsAnd all kinds of insects;The gnats quick and meagreSkip over the waterAs though on dry land;And in the laburnumsWhich grow on the banksidesThe landrails are squeaking.

A raft made of tree-trunksFloats near, and upon itThe pope's heavy daughterIs 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 ducklingsAre sleeping together.

And hark! from the waterThe neigh of a horse comes;The peasants are startled,They turn all together:Two heads they see, movingAlong through the water--The one is a peasant's,A black head and curly,In one ear an ear-ringWhich gleams in the sunlight;A horse's the other,To which there is fastenedA rope of some yards length,Held tight in the teethOf 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 womanAnd ducklings upon itIs tossing and heaving.

The horse with the peasantAstride has come pantingFrom out of the water,The man with white bodyAnd throat black with sunburn;The water is streamingFrom horse and from rider.

"Say, why is your villageSo empty of people?Are all dead and buried?"

"They've gone to Kousminsky;A fair's being held thereBecause 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 thereThe happy, the free one."

The village KousminskyIs rich and commercialAnd terribly dirty.It's built on a hill-side,And slopes down the valley,Then climbs again upwards,--So how could one ask of itNot to be dirty?It boasts of two churches.The one is "dissenting,"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-boardOf "Barber and Bleeder."A dirty inn alsoThere is, with its sign-boardAdorned by a picture:A great nosy tea-potWith plump little tea-cupsHeld out by a waiter,Suggesting a fat gooseSurrounded by goslings.A row of small shops, too,There is in the village.

The peasants go straightTo the market-place, find thereA large crowd of peopleAnd goods in profusion.How strange!--notwithstandingThere's no church processionThe men have no hats on,Are standing bare-headed,As though in the presenceOf some holy Image:Look, how they're being swallowed--The hoods of the peasants.

The beer-shop and tavernAre both overflowing;All round are erectedLarge tents by the roadsideFor selling of vodka.And though in each tentThere are five agile waiters,All young and most active,They find it quite hopelessTo try to get change right.Just look how the peasantsAre stretching their hands out,With hoods, shirts, and waistcoats!

Oh, you, thirst of Russia,Unquenchable, endlessYou are! But the peasant,When once he is sated,Will soon get a new hoodAt close of the fair....

The spring sun is playingOn heads hot and drunken,On boisterous revels,On bright mixing colours;The men wear wide breechesOf corduroy velvet,With gaudy striped waistcoatsAnd shirts of all colours;The women wear scarlet;The girls' plaited tressesAre decked with bright ribbons;They glide about proudly,Like swans on the water.Some beauties are evenAttired in the fashionOf Petersburg ladies;Their dresses spread stifflyOn wide hoops around them;But tread on their skirts--They will turn and attack you,Will gobble like turkeys!

Blame rather the fashionWhich fastens upon youGreat fishermen's baskets!

A woman dissenterLooks darkly upon them,And whispers with malice:"A famine, a famineMost surely will blight us.The young growths are sodden,The floods unabated;Since women have takenTo red cotton dressesThe forests have withered,And wheat--but no wonder!"

"But why, little Mother,Are red cotton dressesTo blame for the trouble?I don't understand you.""The cotton is French,And it's reddened in dog's blood!D'you understand now?"

The peasants still lingerSome time in the market,Then go further upward,To where on the hill-sideAre piled ploughs and harrows,With rakes, spades, and hatchets,And all kinds of iron-ware,And pliable woodTo make rims for the cart-wheels.And, oh, what a hubbubOf bargaining, swearing,Of jesting and laughter!And who could help laughing?

A limp little peasantIs bending and testingThe wood for the wheel-rims.One piece does not please him;He takes up anotherAnd bends it with effort;It suddenly straightens,And whack!--strikes his forehead.The man begins roaring,Abusing the bully,The duffer, the block-head.Another comes drivingA cart full of wood-ware,As tipsy as can be;He turns it all over!The axle is broken,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 meThe least little service.The whole of your lifeYou spend bowing before me,And yet you insult me!"

Our peasants determineTo see the shop windows,The handkerchiefs, ribbons,And stuffs of bright colour;And near to the boot-shopIs fresh cause for laughter;For here an old peasantMost eagerly bargainsFor small boots of goat-skinTo give to his grandchild.He asks the price five times;Again and againHe 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 fellowStill gazes, and fondlesThe 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,Buy me a present.'Her soft little ringletsWere 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 VavilBegin to boast grandly,To promise a presentTo old and to young.But now his last farthingIs swallowed in vodka,And how can he dareShow 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.It's her that I pity--My poor little grandchild."

And then he commencesThe story againOf the poor little grandchild.He's very dejected.A crowd listens round him,Not laughing, but troubledAt sight of his sorrow.

If they could have helped himWith bread or by labourThey soon would have done so,But money is money,And who has got tenpenceTo spare? Then came forwardPavloosha Varenko,The "gentleman" nicknamed.(His origin, past life,Or calling they knew not,But called him the 'Barin'.)He listened with pleasureTo talk and to jesting;His blouse, coat, and top-bootsWere those of a peasant;He sang Russian folk-songs,Liked others to sing them,And often was met withAt taverns and inns.He now rescued Vavil,And bought him the bootsTo 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 givenTo each one a rouble.

The peasants next visitThe picture and book stall;The pedlars are buyingTheir stock of small pictures,And books for their basketsTo 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."

"Your notions are funny,"The merchant says, smiling;"It isn't a questionOf looks...."

"Well, of what, then?You want to deceive us,To palm off your rubbish,You swindling impostor!D'you think that the peasantsKnow one from another?A shabby one--he wantsAn expert to sell him,But trust me to part withThe fat and the fierce.""You don't want officials?"

"To Hell with officials!"

However they took oneBecause he was cheap:A minister, strikingIn view of his stomachAs round as a barrel,And seventeen medals.

The merchant is servingWith greatest politeness,Displaying and praising,With patience unyielding,--A thief of the first-classHe is, come from Moscow.Of Bluecher he sells themA hundred small pictures,As many of FotyiThe archimandrite,And of Sipko the brigand;A book of the sayingsOf droll BalakireffThe "English Milord," too.The books were put intoThe packs of the pedlars;The pictures will travelAll over great Russia,Until they find restOn the wall of some peasant--The devil knows why!

Oh, may it come quicklyThe time when the peasantWill make some distinctionBetween book and book,Between picture and picture;Will bring from the market,Not picture of Bluecher,Not stupid "Milord,"But Belinsky and Gogol!Oh, say, Russian people,These names--have you heard them?They're great. They were borneBy your champions, who loved you,Who strove in your cause,'Tis their little portraitsShould hang in your houses!

"I'd walk into HeavenBut can't find the doorway!"Is suddenly shoutedBy some merry blade."What door do you want, man?""The puppet-show, brothers!""I'll show you the way!"

The puppet-show temptedThe journeying peasants;They go to inspect it.A farce is being acted,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 deftlyRight into the eyeOf the hated policeman.The tent is quite crowded,The audience crackingTheir nuts, and exchangingRemarks 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 throwingA right witty wordInto Peterkin's speeches,Which you'd never hit on,Although you should swallowYour pen and your pad!...

Some folk there are alwaysWho 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?"

"As serfs we used onlyTo play for the masters,But now we are free,And the man who will treat usAlone is our Master!""Well spoken, my brothers;Enough time you've wastedAmusing the nobles;Now play for the peasants!Here, waiter, bring vodka,Sweet wine, tea, and syrup,And see you make haste!"

The sweet sparkling riverComes rolling to meet them;They'll treat the musiciansMore handsomely, far,Than their masters of old.

It is not the rushingOf furious whirlwinds,Not Mother Earth shaking--'Tis shouting and singingAnd swearing and fightingAnd falling and kissing--The people's carouse!It seems to the peasantsThat all in the villageWas reeling around them!That even the churchWith the very tall, steepleHad swayed once or twice!

When things are in this state,A man who is soberFeels nearly as awkwardAs one who is naked....

The peasants recrossingThe market-place, quittedThe turbulent villageAt evening's approach.