"We paid him a rouble—
The clerk, and he gave us
A written petition
To send to the Governor."
"Hi, you with the waggon,
Look after your corn!"
"But where are you off to, 50
Olyénushka? Wait now—
I've still got some cakes.
You're like a black flea, girl,
You eat all you want to
And hop away quickly
Before 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!" 60
The exciseman dashes
Amongst them, his brass plate
Attached 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…." 70
"Now, where are you running?"
The pope bellows loudly
To busy Pavloósha,
The village policeman.
"An accident's happened
Down here, and a man's killed."
"God pardon our sins!"
"How thin you've got, Dashka!"
"The spinning-wheel fattens
By turning forever; 80
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 them 90
A meek little fellow
Most busily digging
A hole in the road.
"Now, what are you doing?"
"A grave I am digging
To 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. 100
'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 away
At a stick held between them.
This soon fails to please them:
"Let's try with our beards!"
And each man then clutches 110
The 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 them
Two women are squabbling;
One cries, "To go home now 120
Were 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 me
And left a rib broken;
The second made off
With my big ball of cotton;
The cotton don't matter,
But in it was hidden 130
My rouble in silver.
The youngest—he always
Is up with his knife out.
He'll kill me for sure!"
"Enough, enough, darling!
Now don't you be angry!"
Is heard not far distant
From over a hillock—
"Come on, I'm all right!"
A mischievous night, this; 140
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 thrilling
With nightingales' voices.
And later, the high-road
Gets more and more ugly,
And more and more often 150
The people are falling,
Are staggering, crawling,
Or lying like corpses.
As always it happens
On feast days in Russia—
No word can be uttered
Without a great oath.
And near to the tavern
Is quite a commotion;
Some wheels get entangled 160
And terrified horses
Rush off without drivers.
Here children are crying,
And sad wives and mothers
Are anxiously waiting;
And is the task easy
Of getting the peasant
Away from his drink?
Just near to the sign-post
A voice that's familiar 170
Is heard by the peasants;
They see there the Barin
(The same that helped Vavil,
And bought him the boots
To take home to his grandchild).
He chats with the men.
The peasants all open
Their hearts to the Barin;
If some song should please him
They'll sing it through five times; 180
"Just write the song down, sir!"
If some saying strike him;
"Take note of the words!"
And when he has written
Enough, he says quietly,
"The peasants are clever,
But one thing is bad:
They drink till they're helpless
And lie about tipsy,
It's painful to see." 190
They listen in silence.
The Barin commences
To write something down
In the little black note-book
When, all of a sudden,
A small, tipsy peasant,
Who up to that moment
Has lain on his stomach
And gazed at the speaker,
Springs up straight before him 200
And snatches his pencil
Right 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 heart
Of the peasant rejoices?
At times we drink hard, 210
But we work ten times harder;
Among us are drunkards,
But many more sober.