Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?

The peasants were sitting 
  On tree-trunks cut newly 
For building a hut.

  With them, too, our seven 
(Who always were ready 
  To see what was passing) 
Were sitting and chatting 30 
  With Vlass, the old Elder.

As soon as they fancied 
  A drink would be welcome, 
The Elder called out 
  To his son, "Run for Trifon!" 
With Trifon the deacon, 
  A jovial fellow, 
A chum of the Elder's, 
  His sons come as well.

Two pupils they are 40 
  Of the clerical college 
Named Sava and Grisha.

  The former, the eldest, 
Is nineteen years old.

He looks like a churchman 
  Already, while Grisha 
Has fine, curly hair, 
  With a slight tinge of red, 
And a thin, sallow face.

Both capital fellows 50 
  They are, kind and simple, 
They work with the ploughshare, 
  The scythe, and the sickle, 
Drink vodka on feast-days, 
  And mix with the peasants 
Entirely as equals….

The village lies close 
  To the banks of the Volga; 
A small town there is 
  On the opposite side. 60

(To speak more correctly, 
  There's now not a trace 
Of the town, save some ashes: 
  A fire has demolished it 
Two days ago.)

Some people are waiting 
  To cross by the ferry, 
While some feed their horses 
  (All friends of the peasants).

Some beggars have crawled 70 
  To the spot; there are pilgrims, 
Both women and men; 
  The women loquacious, 
The men very silent.

The old Prince Yutiátin 
  Is dead, but the peasants 
Are not yet aware 
  That instead of the hayfields 
His heirs have bequeathed them 
A long litigation. 80

  So, drinking their vodka, 
They first of all argue 
  Of how they'll dispose 
Of the beautiful hayfields.

You were not all cozened,[54] 
  You people of Russia, 
And robbed of your land.

In some blessed spots 
  You were favoured by fortune!

By some lucky chance— 90 
  The Pomyéshchick's long absence, 
Some slip of posrédnik's, 
By wiles of the commune, 
  You managed to capture 
A slice of the forest.

How proud are the peasants 
  In such happy corners! 
The Elder may tap 
  At the window for taxes, 
The peasant will bluster,— 100 
  One answer has he:

"Just sell off the forest, 
  And don't bother me!"

So now, too, the peasants 
  Of "Earthworms" decided 
To part with the fields 
  To the Elder for taxes.

They calculate closely: 
  "They'll pay both the taxes 
And dues—with some over, 110 
  Heh, Vlásuchka, won't they?"

"Once taxes are paid 
  I'll uncover to no man.

I'll work if it please me, 
  I'll lie with my wife, 
Or I'll go to the tavern."

"Bravo!" cry the peasants, 
  In answer to Klímka, 
"Now, Vlásuchka, do you 
  Agree to our plan?" 120

"The speeches of Klímka 
  Are short, and as plain 
As the public-house signboard,"

  Says Vlásuchka, joking. 
"And that is his manner: 
  To start with a woman 
And end in the tavern."

"Well, where should one end, then? 
Perhaps in the prison? 
  Now—as to the taxes, 130 
Don't croak, but decide."

But Vlásuchka really 
  Was far from a croaker.

The kindest soul living 
  Was he, and he sorrowed 
For all in the village, 
  Not only for one.

His conscience had pricked him 
While serving his haughty 
  And rigorous Barin, 140 
Obeying his orders, 
  So cruel and oppressive.

While young he had always 
  Believed in 'improvements,' 
But soon he observed 
  That they ended in nothing, 
Or worse—in misfortune.

  So now he mistrusted 
The new, rich in promise.

  The wheels that have passed 150 
O'er the roadways of Moscow 
Are fewer by far 
  Than the injuries done 
To the soul of the peasant.

  There's nothing to laugh at 
In that, so the Elder 
  Perforce had grown gloomy.

But now, the gay pranks 
Of the peasants of "Earthworms" 
  Affected him too. 160

His thoughts became brighter: 
No taxes … no barschin … 
  No stick held above you, 
Dear God, am I dreaming?

  Old Vlásuchka smiles…. 
A miracle surely!

  Like that, when the sun 
From the splendour of Heaven 
May cast a chance ray 
  In the depths of the forest: 170 
The dew shines like diamonds, 
  The mosses are gilded.

"Drink, drink, little peasants! 
  Disport yourselves bravely!"

'Twas gay beyond measure. 
  In each breast awakens 
A wondrous new feeling, 
  As though from the depths 
Of a bottomless gulf 
  On the crest of a wave, 180 
They've been borne to the surface 
To find there awaits them 
  A feast without end.

Another pail's started, 
  And, oh, what a clamour 
Of voices arises, 
  And singing begins.

And just as a dead man's 
  Relations and friends 
Talk of nothing but him 190 
  Till the funeral's over, 
Until they have finished 
  The funeral banquet 
And started to yawn,— 
  So over the vodka, 
Beneath the old willow, 
  One topic prevails: 
The "break in the chain" 
  Of their lords, the Pomyéshchicks.

54

A reference to the arranging of terms between the Pomyéshchicks and peasants with regard to land at the time of the emancipation of the serfs.