This village did not end,
As many in Russia,
In windmill or tavern,
In corn-loft or barn,
But in a large building
Of wood, with iron gratings
In small narrow windows.
The broad, sandy high-road,
With borders of birch-trees,
Spread out straight behind it— 10
The grim Étape—prison.[19]
On week-days deserted
It 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; 20
Their shout fills the skies.

The cart-wheels are screeching,
And like slaughtered calves' heads
Are nodding and wagging
The pates limp and helpless
Of peasants asleep.

They're dropping on all sides,
As if from some ambush
An enemy firing
Is shooting them wholesale. 30
The quiet night is falling,
The moon is in Heaven,
And God is commencing
To write His great letter
Of gold on blue velvet;
Mysterious message,
Which neither the wise man
Nor foolish can read.

The high-road is humming
Just like a great bee-hive; 40
The people's loud clamour
Is swelling and falling
Like waves in the ocean.

"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.
Go, take through a village
A pailful of vodka;
Go into the huts—
In one, in another,
They'll swallow it gladly.
But go to a third
And you'll find they won't touch it!
One family drinks, 221
While another drinks nothing,
Drinks nothing—and suffers
As much as the drunkards:
They, wisely or foolishly,
Follow their conscience;
And see how misfortune,
The peasants' misfortune,
Will swallow that household
Hard-working and sober! 230
Pray, have you seen ever
The time of the harvest
In 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 peasant 240
At nightfall, perchance,
When the work has been finished?
He's piled up great mountains
Of corn in the meadows,
He'll sup off a pea!
Hey, you mighty monster!
You builder of mountains,
I'll knock you flat down
With the stroke of a feather!

"Sweet food is the peasant's! 250
But stomachs aren't mirrors,
And so we don't whimper
To see what we've eaten.

"We work single-handed,
But when we have finished
Three partners[20] are waiting
To share in the profits;
A fourth[21] one there is, too,
Who eats like a Tartar—
Leaves nothing behind. 260
The other day, only,
A mean little fellow
Like you, came from Moscow
And clung to our backs.
'Oh, please sing him folk-songs'
And 'tell him some proverbs,'
'Some riddles and rhymes.'
And then came another
To put us his questions:
How much do we work for? 270
How much and how little
We stuff in our bellies?
To count all the people
That live in the village
Upon his five fingers.
He did not ask how much
The fire feeds the wind with
Of peasants' hard work.
Our drunkenness, maybe,
Can never be measured, 280
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 grumble
At each of his burdens,
He'll set out to meet it,
And struggle to bear it; 290
The peasant does not flinch
At life-wasting labour,
And tremble for fear
That his health may be injured.
Then why should he number
Each cupful of vodka
For fear that an odd one
May topple him over?
You say that it's painful
To see him lie tipsy?— 300
Then go to the bog;
You'll see how the peasant
Is squeezing the corn out,
Is wading and crawling
Where no horse or rider,
No man, though unloaded,
Would venture to tread.
You'll see how the army
Of profligate peasants
Is toiling in danger, 310
Is springing from one clod
Of earth to another,
Is pushing through bog-slime
With backs nearly breaking!
The sun's beating down
On the peasants' bare heads,
They are sweating and covered
With mud to the eyebrows,
Their limbs torn and bleeding
By sharp, prickly bog-grass! 320

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

"The heart of each peasant 330
Is black as a storm-cloud,
Its thunder should peal
And its blood rain in torrents;
But all ends in drink—
For after one cupful
The soul of the peasant
Is kindly and smiling;
But don't let that hurt you!
Look round and be joyful!
Hey, fellows! Hey, maidens! 340
You know how to foot it!
Their bones may be aching,
Their limbs have grown weary,
But youth's joy and daring
Is not quite extinguished,
It lives in them yet!"

The peasant is standing
On top of a hillock,
And stamping his feet,
And after being silent 350
A moment, and gazing
With glee at the masses
Of 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: 360
'In Barefoot the village
Lives old Jacob Naked,
He'll work till he's taken,
He drinks till he's crazed.'"
The peasants are laughing,
And telling the Barin
The old fellow's story:
How shabby old Jacob
Had lived once in Peter,[22]
And got into prison 370
Because he bethought him
To get him to law
With a very rich merchant;
How after the prison
He'd come back amongst them
All stripped, like a linden,
And taken to ploughing.
For thirty years since
On his narrow allotment
He'd worked in all weathers, 380
The harrow his shelter
From sunshine and storm.
He lived with the sokha,[23]
And when God would take him
He'd drop from beneath it
Just like a black clod.

An accident happened
One year to old Jacob:
He bought some small pictures
To hang in the cottage 390
For 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),[24]
Was lost in the flames.
He ought to have saved it, 400
But, to his misfortune,
He thought of the pictures
And seized them instead.
His wife in the meantime
Was saving the icons.[25]
And so, when the cottage
Fell in, all the roubles
Were melted together
In one lump of silver.
Old Jacob was offered 410
Eleven such roubles
For that silver lump.

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

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

The Barin was looking, 420
Examining Jacob,
The toiler, the earth-worm,
His chest thin and meagre,
His stomach as shrunk
As though something had crushed it,
His eyes and mouth circled
By numberless wrinkles,
Like drought-shrivelled earth.
And he altogether
Resembled the earth, 430
Thought the Barin, while noting
His throat, like a dry lump
Of 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, remarking
That old Jacob's speech
Had not angered the Barin, 440
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 drink
Black gloom would engulf us.
If work does not kill us
Or trouble destroy us,
We shan't die from drink!"

"That's so. Is it not, sir?" 450

"Yes, God will protect us!"

"Come, drink with us, Barin!"

They go to buy vodka
And drink it together.
To Jacob the Barin
Has offered two cups.
"Ah, Barin," says Jacob,
"I see you're not angry.
A wise little head, yours,
And how could a wise head 460
Judge falsely of peasants?
Why, only the pig
Glues his nose to the garbage
And never sees Heaven!"

Then suddenly singing
Is heard in a chorus
Harmonious and bold.
A row of young fellows,
Half drunk, but not falling,
Come staggering onwards, 470
All lustily singing;
They sing of the Volga,
The daring of youths
And the beauty of maidens …
A hush falls all over
The road, and it listens;
And only the singing
Is heard, broadly rolling
In waves, sweet and tuneful,
Like wind-ruffled corn. 480
The hearts of the peasants
Are touched with wild anguish,
And one little woman
Grows pensive and mournful,
And then begins weeping
And sobs forth her grief:
"My life is like day-time
With no sun to warm it!
My life is like night
With no glimmer of moon! 490
And I—the young woman—
Am like the swift steed
On the curb, like the swallow
With wings crushed and broken;
My jealous old husband
Is drunken and snoring,
But even while snoring
He keeps one eye open,
And watches me always,
Me—poor little wife!" 500

And so she lamented,
The sad little woman;
Then all of a sudden
Springs down from the waggon!
"Where now?" cries her husband,
The jealous old man.
And just as one lifts
By the tail a plump radish,
He clutches her pig-tail,
And pulls her towards him. 510

O night wild and drunken,
Not bright—and yet star-lit,
Not hot—but fanned softly
By tender spring breezes,
You've not left our peasants
Untouched by your sweetness;
They're thinking and longing
For their little women.
And they are quite right too;
Still sweeter 'twould be 520
With a nice little wife!
Cries Ívan, "I love you,"
And Mariushka, "I you!"
Cries Ívan, "Press closer!"
And Mariushka, "Kiss me!"
Cries Ívan, "The night's cold,"
And Mariushka, "Warm me!"

They think of this song now,
And all make their minds up
To shorten the journey. 530

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

"Hey! Napkin enchanted!
Give food to the peasants!"
Two hands have come floating
From no one sees where, 540
Place a bucket of vodka,
A large pile of bread,
On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away.

The peasants feel strengthened,
And leaving RomÁn there
On guard near the vodka,
They mix with the people,
To try to discover
The one who is happy. 550

They're all in a hurry
To turn towards home.