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 buildingOf wood, with iron gratingsIn small narrow windows.The broad, sandy high-road,With borders of birch-trees,Spread out straight behind it--The grim etape--prison.On week-days desertedIt 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;Their shout fills the skies.

The cart-wheels are screeching,And like slaughtered calves' headsAre nodding and waggingThe pates limp and helplessOf peasants asleep.

They're dropping on all sides,As if from some ambushAn enemy firingIs shooting them wholesale.The quiet night is falling,The moon is in Heaven,And God is commencingTo write His great letterOf gold on blue velvet;Mysterious message,Which neither the wise manNor foolish can read.

The high-road is hummingJust like a great bee-hive;The people's loud clamourIs swelling and fallingLike waves in the ocean.

"We paid him a rouble--The clerk, and he gave usA written petitionTo send to the Governor."

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

"But where are you off to,Olyenushka? Wait now--I've still got some cakes.You're like a black flea, girl,You eat all you want toAnd hop away quicklyBefore 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!"The exciseman dashesAmongst them, his brass plateAttached 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...."

"Now, where are you running?"The pope bellows loudlyTo busy Pavloosha,The village policeman.

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

"God pardon our sins!"

"How thin you've got, Dashka!"

"The spinning-wheel fattensBy turning forever;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 themA meek little fellowMost busily diggingA hole in the road.

"Now, what are you doing?""A grave I am diggingTo 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.'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 awayAt a stick held between them.This soon fails to please them:"Let's try with our beards!"And each man then clutchesThe 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 themTwo women are squabbling;One cries, "To go home nowWere 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 meAnd left a rib broken;The second made offWith my big ball of cotton;The cotton don't matter,But in it was hiddenMy rouble in silver.The youngest--he alwaysIs up with his knife out.He'll kill me for sure!"

"Enough, enough, darling!Now don't you be angry!"Is heard not far distantFrom over a hillock--"Come on, I'm all right!"

A mischievous night, this;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 thrillingWith nightingales' voices.And later, the high-roadGets more and more ugly,And more and more oftenThe people are falling,Are staggering, crawling,Or lying like corpses.As always it happensOn feast days in Russia--No word can be utteredWithout a great oath.And near to the tavernIs quite a commotion;Some wheels get entangledAnd terrified horsesRush off without drivers.Here children are crying,And sad wives and mothersAre anxiously waiting;And is the task easyOf getting the peasantAway from his drink?

Just near to the sign-postA voice that's familiarIs heard by the peasants;They see there the Barin(The same that helped Vavil,And bought him the bootsTo take home to his grandchild).He chats with the men.The peasants all openTheir hearts to the Barin;If some song should please himThey'll sing it through five times;"Just write the song down, sir!"If some saying strike him;"Take note of the words!"And when he has writtenEnough, he says quietly,"The peasants are clever,But one thing is bad:They drink till they're helplessAnd lie about tipsy,It's painful to see."

They listen in silence.The Barin commencesTo write something downIn the little black note-bookWhen, all of a sudden,A small, tipsy peasant,Who up to that momentHas lain on his stomachAnd gazed at the speaker,Springs up straight before himAnd snatches his pencilRight 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 heartOf the peasant rejoices?At times we drink hard,But we work ten times harder;Among us are drunkards,But many more sober.Go, take through a villageA pailful of vodka;Go into the huts--In one, in another,They'll swallow it gladly.But go to a thirdAnd you'll find they won't touch it!One family drinks,While another drinks nothing,Drinks nothing--and suffersAs much as the drunkards:They, wisely or foolishly,Follow their conscience;And see how misfortune,The peasants' misfortune,Will swallow that householdHard-working and sober!Pray, have you seen everThe time of the harvestIn 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 peasantAt nightfall, perchance,When the work has been finished?He's piled up great mountainsOf corn in the meadows,He'll sup off a pea!Hey, you mighty monster!You builder of mountains,I'll knock you flat downWith the stroke of a feather!

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

"We work single-handed,But when we have finishedThree partners are waitingTo share in the profits;A fourth one there is, too,Who eats like a Tartar--Leaves nothing behind.The other day, only,A mean little fellowLike you, came from MoscowAnd clung to our backs.'Oh, please sing him folk-songs'And 'tell him some proverbs,''Some riddles and rhymes.'And then came anotherTo put us his questions:How much do we work for?How much and how littleWe stuff in our bellies?To count all the peopleThat live in the villageUpon his five fingers.He did not ask how muchThe fire feeds the wind withOf peasants' hard work.Our drunkenness, maybe,Can never be measured,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 grumbleAt each of his burdens,He'll set out to meet it,And struggle to bear it;The peasant does not flinchAt life-wasting labour,And tremble for fearThat his health may be injured.Then why should he numberEach cupful of vodkaFor fear that an odd oneMay topple him over?You say that it's painfulTo see him lie tipsy?--Then go to the bog;You'll see how the peasantIs squeezing the corn out,Is wading and crawlingWhere no horse or rider,No man, though unloaded,Would venture to tread.You'll see how the armyOf profligate peasantsIs toiling in danger,Is springing from one clodOf earth to another,Is pushing through bog-slimeWith backs nearly breaking!The sun's beating downOn the peasants' bare heads,They are sweating and coveredWith mud to the eyebrows,Their limbs torn and bleedingBy sharp, prickly bog-grass!

"Does this picture please you?You say that you suffer;At least suffer wisely.Don't use for a peasantA gentleman's judgement;We are not white-handedAnd tender-skinned creatures,But men rough and lustyIn work and in play.

"The heart of each peasantIs black as a storm-cloud,Its thunder should pealAnd its blood rain in torrents;But all ends in drink--For after one cupfulThe soul of the peasantIs kindly and smiling;But don't let that hurt you!Look round and be joyful!Hey, fellows! Hey, maidens!You know how to foot it!Their bones may be aching,Their limbs have grown weary,But youth's joy and daringIs not quite extinguished,It lives in them yet!"

The peasant is standingOn top of a hillock,And stamping his feet,And after being silentA moment, and gazingWith glee at the massesOf 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:'In Barefoot the villageLives old Jacob Naked,He'll work till he's taken,He drinks till he's crazed.'"The peasants are laughing,And telling the BarinThe old fellow's story:How shabby old JacobHad lived once in Peter,And got into prisonBecause he bethought himTo get him to lawWith a very rich merchant;How after the prisonHe'd come back amongst themAll stripped, like a linden,And taken to ploughing.For thirty years sinceOn his narrow allotmentHe'd worked in all weathers,The harrow his shelterFrom sunshine and storm.He lived with the sokha,And when God would take himHe'd drop from beneath itJust like a black clod.

An accident happenedOne year to old Jacob:He bought some small picturesTo hang in the cottageFor 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),Was lost in the flames.He ought to have saved it,But, to his misfortune,He thought of the picturesAnd seized them instead.His wife in the meantimeWas saving the icons.And so, when the cottageFell in, all the roublesWere melted togetherIn one lump of silver.Old Jacob was offeredEleven such roublesFor that silver lump.

"O old brother Jacob,You paid for them dearly,The little chap's pictures!I warrant you've hung themAgain in the new hut."

"I've hung them--and more,"He replied, and was silent.

The Barin was looking,Examining Jacob,The toiler, the earth-worm,His chest thin and meagre,His stomach as shrunkAs though something had crushed it,His eyes and mouth circledBy numberless wrinkles,Like drought-shrivelled earth.And he altogetherResembled the earth,Thought the Barin, while notingHis throat, like a dry lumpOf 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, remarkingThat old Jacob's speechHad not angered the Barin,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 drinkBlack gloom would engulf us.If work does not kill usOr trouble destroy us,We shan't die from drink!""That's so. Is it not, sir?"

"Yes, God will protect us!"

"Come, drink with us, Barin!"

They go to buy vodkaAnd drink it together.To Jacob the BarinHas offered two cups."Ah, Barin," says Jacob,"I see you're not angry.A wise little head, yours,And how could a wise headJudge falsely of peasants?Why, only the pigGlues his nose to the garbageAnd never sees Heaven!"

Then suddenly singingIs heard in a chorusHarmonious and bold.A row of young fellows,Half drunk, but not falling,Come staggering onwards,All lustily singing;They sing of the Volga,The daring of youthsAnd the beauty of maidens ...A hush falls all overThe road, and it listens;And only the singingIs heard, broadly rollingIn waves, sweet and tuneful,Like wind-ruffled corn.The hearts of the peasantsAre touched with wild anguish,And one little womanGrows pensive and mournful,And then begins weepingAnd sobs forth her grief:"My life is like day-timeWith no sun to warm it!My life is like nightWith no glimmer of moon!And I--the young woman--Am like the swift steedOn the curb, like the swallowWith wings crushed and broken;My jealous old husbandIs drunken and snoring,But even while snoringHe keeps one eye open,And watches me always,Me--poor little wife!"

And so she lamented,The sad little woman;Then all of a suddenSprings down from the waggon!"Where now?" cries her husband,The jealous old man.And just as one liftsBy the tail a plump radish,He clutches her pig-tail,And pulls her towards him.

O night wild and drunken,Not bright--and yet star-lit,Not hot--but fanned softlyBy tender spring breezes,You've not left our peasantsUntouched by your sweetness;They're thinking and longingFor their little women.And they are quite right too;Still sweeter 'twould beWith 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 upTo shorten the journey.

A birch-tree is growingAlone by the roadside,God knows why so lonely!And under it spreadingThe magic white napkin,The peasants sit round it:

"Hey! Napkin enchanted!Give food to the peasants!"Two hands have come floatingFrom no one sees where,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 thereOn guard near the vodka,They mix with the people,To try to discoverThe one who is happy.

They're all in a hurryTo turn towards home.