Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?

"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.