Chapter IV: The Happy Ones

In crowds gay and noisyOur peasants are mixing,Proclaiming their mission:"Let any man hereWho esteems himself happyStand forth! If he prove itA pailful of vodkaIs at his disposal;As much as he wishesSo much he shall have!"

This fabulous promiseSets sober folk smiling;The tipsy and wise onesAre ready to spitIn the beards of the pushingImpertinent strangers!But many are willingTo drink without payment,And so when our peasantsGo back to the birch-treeA crowd presses round them.The first to come forward,A lean discharged deacon,With legs like two matches,Lets forth a great mouthfulOf indistinct maxims:That happiness lies notIn broad lands, in jewels,In gold, and in sables--"In what, then?"

A peacefulAnd undisturbed conscience.That all the dominionsOf land-owners, nobles,And Tsars are but earthlyAnd limited treasures;But he who is godlyHas part in Christ's kingdomOf boundless extent:"When warm in the sun,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 womanComes next, bent and pock-marked,And bowing before themShe says she is happy;That in her allotmentA thousand fine turnipsHave 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;"Go, get you home, Mother!You've vodka enough thereTo 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!"

"Well, firstly, I've beenThrough 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 meFor every offence,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 hammerSwung over his shoulder:"I live in content,"He declares, "with my wifeAnd beloved old mother;We've nought to complain of.""In what are you happy?""In this!"--like a featherHe swings the great hammer."Beginning at sunriseAnd setting my back straightAs midnight draws near,I can shatter a mountain!Before now, it's happenedThat, working one day,I've piled enough stones upTo earn my five roubles!"

Pakhom tries to lift it--The "happiness." AfterProdigiously strainingAnd cracking all over,He sets it down, gladly,And pours out some vodka.

"Well, weighty it is, man!But will you be ableTo bear in old ageSuch a 'happiness,' think you?"

"Don't boast of your strength!"Gasped a wheezing old peasant,Half stifled with asthma.(His nose pinched and shrivelledLike that of a dead man,His eyes bright and sunken,His hands like a rake--Stiffened, scraggy, and bony,His legs long and narrowLike spokes of a wheel,A human mosquito.)

"I was not a worse manThan he, the young mason,And boasted of my strength.God punished me for it!The manager knewI was simple--the villain!He flattered and praised me.I was but a youngster,And pleased at his noticeI laboured like four men.One day I had mountedSome bricks to my shoulder,When, just then, the devilMust bring him in sight.

"'What's that!' he said laughing,'Tis surely not TrifonWith such a light burden?Ho, does it not shameSuch a strapping young fellow?''Then put some more bricks on,I'll carry them, master,'Said I, sore offended.For full half an hourI stood while he piled them,He piled them--the dog!I felt my back breaking,But would not give way,And that devilish burdenI carried right upTo 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,You've carried up there!'

"I did know; my heartStruck my breast like a hammer,The blood stood in circlesRound 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?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 meReturn to the villageTo die. And when comingFrom Petersburg, afterThe illness I sufferedThrough what I have told you,Exhausted and weakened,Half-dazed, half-unconscious,I got to the station.And all in the carriageWere workmen, as I was,And ill of the fever;And all yearned for one thing:To reach their own homesBefore death overcame them.'Twas then I was lucky;The heat then was stifling,And so many sick headsMade Hell of the waggon.Here one man was groaning,There, rolling all overThe floor, like a lunatic,Shouting and ravingOf wife or of mother.And many such fellowsWere put out and leftAt the stations we came to.I looked at them, thinking,Shall I be left too?I was burning and shaking,The blood began startingAll over my eyeballs,And I, in my fever,Half-waking, was dreamingOf cutting of cocks' throats(We once were cock-farmers,And one year it happenedWe 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 partyIn that hellish waggonCome quivering round me,Their throats cut, and spurtingWith 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 struggledTo keep myself silent.At last the day ended,And with it the journey,And God had had pityUpon 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 lackeyWith legs weak and gouty."Treat me, little brothers,I'm happy, God sees it!For I was the chief serfOf Prince Peremeteff,A rich prince, and mighty,My wife, the most favouredBy him, of the women;My daughter, togetherWith his, the young lady,Was taught foreign languages,French and some others;And she was permittedTo 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,"I'm ill, I thank God,And at waking and sleepingI pray, 'Leave me everMy honoured complaint, Lord!For that makes me noble!'I've none of your low things,Your peasants' diseases,My illness is lofty,And only acquiredBy the most elevated,The first in the Empire;I suffer, you villains,From gout, gout its name is!It's only brought onBy the drinking of claret,Of Burgundy, champagne,Hungarian syrup,By thirty years' drinking!For forty years, peasants,I've stood up behind it--The chair of His Highness,The Prince Peremeteff,And swallowed the leavingsIn 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!It wouldn't suit you!"A bent, yellow-haired manSteals 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 usIn what you are happy."

"In bread I am happy;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 Gubonine,And there they give rye-bread,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 comradesWere killed by old Mishka;On me God has mercy."

"Look round to the left side."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 beggarsCome up to the peasants,Drawn near by the smellOf the froth on the vodka;They say they are happy.

"Why, right on his thresholdThe shopman will meet us!We go to a house-door,From there they conduct usRight back to the gate!When we begin singingThe housewife runs quicklyAnd brings to the windowA loaf and a knife.And then we sing loudly,'Oh, give us the whole loaf,It cannot be cutAnd it cannot be crumbled,For you it is quicker,For us it is better!'"

The peasants observeThat 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, Fedocy,From "Swallow-Smoke" village,Said, sitting beside them,"I'd ask Ermil Girin.If he will not suit you,If he is not happy,Then no one can help you."

"But who is this Ermil,A noble--a prince?"

"No prince--not a noble,But simply a peasant."

"Well, tell us about him."

"I'll tell you; he rentedThe mill of an orphan,Until the Court settledTo sell it at auction.Then Ermil, with others,Went into the sale-room.The small buyers quicklyDropped out of the bidding;Till Ermil alone,With a merchant, Alternikoff,Kept up the fight.The merchant outbid him,Each time by a farthing,Till Ermil grew angryAnd added five roubles;The merchant a farthingAnd Ermil a rouble.The merchant gave in then,When suddenly somethingUnlooked for occurred:The sellers demandedA third of the moneyPaid down on the spot;'Twas one thousand roubles,And Ermil had not broughtSo much money with him;'Twas either his error,Or else they deceived him.The merchant said gaily,'The mill comes to me, then?''Not so,' replied Ermil;He went to the sellers;'Good sirs, will you waitThirty 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 verstsTo the mill; in an hour nowThe sales will be finished.'

"'You'll wait half an hour, sirs?''An hour, if you wish.'Then Ermil departed,The sellers exchangingSly looks with the merchant,And grinning--the foxes!But Ermil went outAnd made haste to the market-placeCrowded with people('Twas market-day, then),And he mounted a waggon,And there he stood crossingHimself, and low bowingIn all four directions.He cried to the people,'Be silent a moment,I've something to ask you!'The place became stillAnd he told them the story:

"'Since long has the merchantBeen wooing the mill,But I'm not such a dullard.Five times have I been hereTo ask if there would beA second day's bidding,They answered, 'There will.'You know that the peasantWon't carry his moneyAll over the by-waysWithout a good reason,So I have none with me;And look--now they tell meThere's no second biddingAnd ask for the money!The cunning ones tricked meAnd laughed--the base heathens!And said to me sneering:'But, what can you doIn an hour? Where find money?'

"'They're crafty and strong,But the people are stronger!The merchant is rich--But the people are richer!Hey! What is his worthTo their treasury, think you?Like fish in the oceanThe wealth of the people;You'll draw it and draw it--But not see its end!Now, brother, God hears me,Come, give me this money!Next Friday I'll pay youThe very last farthing.It's not that I careFor the mill--it's the insult!Whoever knows Ermil,Whoever believes him,Will give what he can.'

"A miracle happened;The coat of each peasantFlew up on the leftAs though blown by a wind!The peasants are bringingTheir money to Ermil,Each gives what he can.Though Ermil's well letteredHe writes nothing down;It's well he can count itSo great is his hurry.They gather his hat fullOf all kinds of money,From farthings to bank-notes,The notes of the peasantAll crumpled and torn.He has the whole sum now,But still the good peopleAre bringing him more.

"'Here, take this, too, Ermil,You'll pay it back later!'

"He bows to the peopleIn all four directions,Gets down from the waggon,And pressing the hatFull of money against him,Runs back to the sale-roomAs fast as he can.

"The sellers are speechlessAnd stare in amazement,The merchant turns greenAs the money is countedAnd laid on the table.

"The sellers come round himAll craftily praisingHis excellent bargain.But Ermil sees through them;He gives not a farthing,He speaks not a word.

"The whole town assemblesAt market next Friday,When Ermil is payingHis debt to the people.How can he rememberTo whom he must pay it?No murmur arises,No sound of discussion,As each man tells quietlyThe sum to be paid him.

"And Ermil himself said,That when it was finishedA rouble was lyingWith no one to claim it;And though till the eveningHe went, with purse open,Demanding the owner,It still was unclaimed.The sun was just settingWhen Ermil, the last oneTo go from the market,Assembled the beggarsAnd gave them the rouble." ...

"'Tis strange!" say the peasants,"By what kind of magicCan one single peasantGain such a dominionAll over the country?"

"No magic he usesSave truthfulness, brothers!But say, have you everHeard tell of Prince Yurloff'sEstate, Adovshina?"

"We have. What about it?""The manager thereWas a Colonel, with stars,Of the Corps of Gendarmes.He had six or sevenAssistants beneath him,And Ermil was chosenAs principal clerk.He was but a boy, then,Of nineteen or twenty;And though 'tis no fine post,The clerk's--to the peasantsThe clerk is a great man;To him they will goFor advice and with questions.Though Ermil had power to,He asked nothing from them;And if they should offerHe never accepted.(He bears a poor conscience,The peasant who covetsThe mite of his brother!)Well, five years went by,And they trusted in Ermil,When all of a suddenThe master dismissed himFor sake of another.And sadly they felt it.The new clerk was grasping;He moved not a fingerUnless it was paid for;A letter--three farthings!A question--five farthings!Well, he was a pope's sonAnd 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.He came and dismissed them--The manager-colonel,The clerk and assistants,And summoned the peasantsTo choose them an Elder.They weren't long about it!And eight thousand voicesCried out, 'Ermil Girin!'As though they were one.Then Ermil was sent forTo speak with the Barin,And after some minutesThe Barin came outOn the balcony, standingIn face of the people;He cried, 'Well, my brothers,Your choice is electedWith my princely sanction!But answer me this:Don't you think he's too youthful?'

"'No, no, little Father!He's young, but he's wise!'

"So Ermil was Elder,For seven years ruledIn the Prince's dominion.Not once in that timeDid a coin of the peasantsCome under his nail,Did the innocent suffer,The guilty escape him,He followed his conscience."

"But stop!" exclaimed hoarselyA shrivelled grey pope,Interrupting the speaker,"The harrow went smoothlyEnough, till it happenedTo strike on a stone,Then it swerved of a sudden.In telling a storyDon't leave an odd word outAnd alter the rhythm!Now, if you knew ErmilYou knew his young brother,Knew Mityenka, did you?"

The speaker considered,Then said, "I'd forgotten,I'll tell you about it:It happened that onceEven Ermil the peasantDid wrong: his young brother,Unjustly exemptedFrom serving his time,On the day of recruiting;And we were all silent,And how could we argueWhen even the BarinHimself would not orderThe Elder's own brotherTo unwilling service?And only one woman,Old Vlasevna, sheddingWild tears for her son,Went bewailing and screaming:'It wasn't our turn!'Well, of course she'd be certainTo scream for a time,Then leave off and be silent.But what happened then?The recruiting was finished,But Ermil had changed;He was mournful and gloomy;He ate not, he drank not,Till one day his fatherWent into the stableAnd found him there holdingA rope in his hands.Then at last he unbosomedHis heart to his father:'Since Vlasevna's sonHas been sent to the service,I'm weary of living,I wish but to die!'His brothers came also,And they with the fatherBesought 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!'And they, fearing worse things,Obeyed him and bound him.The commune assembled,Exclaiming and shouting;They'd never been summonedTo witness or judgeSuch peculiar proceedings.

"And Ermil's relationsDid not beg for mercyAnd lenient treatment,But rather for firmness:'Bring Vlasevna's son backOr Ermil will hang himself,Nothing will save him!'And then appeared ErmilHimself, pale and bare-foot,With ropes bound and handcuffed,And bowing his headHe spoke low to the people:'The time was when I wasYour judge; and I judged you,In all things obeyingMy conscience. But I nowAm guiltier farThan 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 witnessHow he, of a sudden,Fell down on his knees thereAt Vlasevna's feet.Well, all was put right soon,The nobles have fingersIn every small corner,The lad was brought backAnd young Mityenka started;They say that his serviceDid not weigh too heavy,The prince saw to that.And we, as a penance,Imposed upon ErmilA fine, and to VlasevnaOne part was given,To Mitya another,The rest to the villageFor vodka. However,Not quickly did ErmilGet over his sorrow:He went like a lost oneFor full a year after,And--though the whole districtImplored him to keep it--He left his position.He rented the mill, then,And more than of oldWas beloved by the people.He took for his grindingNo more than was honest,His customers neverKept waiting a moment,And all men alike:The rich landlord, the workman.The master and servant,The poorest of peasantsWere served as their turn came;Strict order he kept.Myself, I have not beenSince long in that district,But often the peopleHave told me about him.And never could praise himEnough. So in your placeI'd go and ask Ermil."

"Your time would be wasted,"The grey-headed pope,Who'd before interrupted,Remarked to the peasants,"I knew Ermil Girin,I chanced in that districtSome five years ago.I have often been shifted,Our bishop loved vastlyTo keep us all moving,So I was his neighbour.Yes, he was a peasantUnique, I bear witness,And all things he ownedThat can make a man happy:Peace, riches, and honour,And that kind of honourMost valued and precious,Which cannot be purchasedBy might or by money,But only by righteousness,Wisdom and kindness.But still, I repeat it,Your time will be wastedIn going to Ermil:In prison he lies.""How's that?"

"God so willed it.You've heard how the peasantsOf 'Log' the PomyeshchickOf Province 'Affrighted,'Of District 'Scarce-Breathing,'Of village 'Dumbfounded,'Revolted 'for causesEntirely unknown,'As they say in the papers.(I once used to read them.)And so, too, in this case,The local Ispravnik,The Tsar's high officials,And even the peasants,'Dumbfounded' themselves.Never fathomed the reasonOf all the disturbance.But things became bad,And the soldiers were sent for,The Tsar packed a messengerOff in a hurryTo speak to the people.His epaulettes roseTo his ears as he coaxed themAnd cursed them together.But curses they're used to,And coaxing was lost,For they don't understand it:'Brave orthodox peasants!''The Tsar--Little Father!''Our dear Mother Russia!'He bellowed and shoutedUntil he was hoarse,While the peasants stood round himAnd listened in wonder.

"But when he was tiredOf these peaceable measuresOf calming the riots,At length he decidedOn giving the orderOf 'Fire' to the soldiers;When all of a suddenA bright thought occurredTo the clerk of the Volost:'The people trust Girin,The people will hear him!'

"'Then let him be brought!'"

A cry has arisen"Have mercy! Have mercy!"A check to the story;They hurry off quicklyTo see what has happened;And there on a bankOf a ditch near the roadside,Some peasants are birchingA drunken old lackey,Just taken in thieving.A court had been summoned,The judges decidingTo birch the offender,That each of the jury(About three and twenty)Should give him a strokeTurn in turn of the rod....

The lackey was upAnd made off, in a twinkling,He took to his heelsWithout stopping to argue,On two scraggy legs.

"How he trips it--the dandy!"The peasants cry, laughing;They've soon recognized him;The boaster who pratedSo much of his illnessFrom drinking strange liquors.

"Ho! where has it gone to,Your noble complaint?Look how nimble he's getting!"

"Well, well, Little Father,Now finish the story!"

"It's time to go home now,My children,--God willing,We'll meet again some dayAnd finish it then...."

The people disperseAs the dawn is approaching.Our peasants beginTo bethink them of sleeping,When all of a suddenA "troika" comes flyingFrom no one sees where,With its silver bells ringing.Within it is sittingA plump little Barin,His little mouth smokingA little cigar.The peasants draw upIn a line on the roadway,Thus barring the passageIn front of the horses;And, standing bareheaded,Bow low to the Barin.