CHAPTER II

CHAPTER II

THE VILLAGE FAIR

  No wonder the peasants
Dislike a wet spring-tide:
  The peasant needs greatly
A spring warm and early.
  This year, though he howl
Like a wolf, I'm afraid
  That the sun will not gladden
The earth with his brightness.
  The clouds wander heavily,
Dropping the rain down 10
  Like cows with full udders.
The snow has departed,
  Yet no blade of grass,
Not a tiny green leaflet,
  Is seen in the meadows.
The earth has not ventured
  To don its new mantle
  Of brightest green velvet,
But lies sad and bare
  Like a corpse without grave-clothes
Beneath the dull heavens. 21
  One pities the peasant;
Still more, though, his cattle:
  For when they have eaten
The scanty reserves
  Which remain from the winter,
Their master will drive them
  To graze in the meadows,
And what will they find there
  But bare, inky blackness? 30
Nor settled the weather
  Until it was nearing
The feast of St. Nichol,
  And then the poor cattle
Enjoyed the green pastures.

  The day is a hot one,
The peasants are strolling
  Along 'neath the birch-trees.
They say to each other,
  "We passed through one village, 40
We passed through another,
  And both were quite empty;
To-day is a feast-day,
  But where are the people?"

  They reach a large village;
The street is deserted
  Except for small children,
And inside the houses
  Sit only the oldest
Of all the old women. 50
  The wickets are fastened
Securely with padlocks;
  The padlock's a loyal
And vigilant watch-dog;
  It barks not, it bites not,
But no one can pass it.

  They walk through the village
And see a clear mirror
  Beset with green framework—
A pond full of water; 60
  And over its surface
Are hovering swallows
  And all kinds of insects;
The gnats quick and meagre
  Skip over the water
As though on dry land;
  And in the laburnums
Which grow on the banksides
  The landrails are squeaking.

A raft made of tree-trunks 70
  Floats near, and upon it
The pope's heavy daughter
  Is wielding her beetle,
She looks like a hay-stack,
  Unsound and dishevelled,
Her skirts gathered round her.
  Upon the raft, near her,
A duck and some ducklings
  Are sleeping together.

  And hark! from the water 80
The neigh of a horse comes;
  The peasants are startled,
  They turn all together:
Two heads they see, moving
  Along through the water—
The one is a peasant's,
  A black head and curly,
In one ear an ear-ring
  Which gleams in the sunlight;
A horse's the other, 90
  To which there is fastened
A rope of some yards length,
  Held tight in the teeth
Of the peasant beside it.
  The man swims, the horse swims;
The horse neighs, the man neighs;
  They make a fine uproar!
The raft with the woman
  And ducklings upon it
Is tossing and heaving. 100

  The horse with the peasant
Astride has come panting
  From out of the water,
The man with white body
  And throat black with sunburn;
The water is streaming
  From horse and from rider.

"Say, why is your village
  So empty of people?
Are all dead and buried?" 110

  "They've gone to Kousminsky;
A fair's being held there
  Because it's a saint's day."

"How far is Kousminsky?"
  "Three versts, I should fancy."
"We'll go to Kousminsky,"
  The peasants decided,
And each to himself thought,
  "Perhaps we shall find there
The happy, the free one." 120

  The village Kousminsky
Is rich and commercial
  And terribly dirty.
It's built on a hill-side,
  And slopes down the valley,
Then climbs again upwards,—
  So how could one ask of it
Not to be dirty?[15]
  It boasts of two churches.
The one is "dissenting," 130
  The other "Established."
The house with inscription,
  "The School-House," is empty,
In ruins and deserted;
  And near stands the barber's,
A hut with one window,
  From which hangs the sign-board
Of "Barber and Bleeder."
  A dirty inn also
There is, with its sign-board 140
  Adorned by a picture:
A great nosy tea-pot
  With plump little tea-cups
Held out by a waiter,
  Suggesting a fat goose
Surrounded by goslings.
  A row of small shops, too,
There is in the village.

  The peasants go straight
To the market-place, find there 150
  A large crowd of people
And goods in profusion.
  How strange!—notwithstanding
There's no church procession
  The men have no hats on,
Are standing bare-headed,
  As though in the presence
Of some holy Image:
  Look, how they're being swallowed—
The hoods of the peasants.[16] 160

The beer-shop and tavern
  Are both overflowing;
All round are erected
  Large tents by the roadside
For selling of vodka.
  And though in each tent
There are five agile waiters,
  All young and most active,
They find it quite hopeless
  To try to get change right. 170
Just look how the peasants
  Are stretching their hands out,
With hoods, shirts, and waistcoats!

Oh, you, thirst of Russia,
  Unquenchable, endless
You are! But the peasant,
  When once he is sated,
Will soon get a new hood
  At close of the fair….

The spring sun is playing 180
  On heads hot and drunken,
On boisterous revels,
  On bright mixing colours;
The men wear wide breeches
  Of corduroy velvet,
  With gaudy striped waistcoats
And shirts of all colours;
  The women wear scarlet;
The girls' plaited tresses
  Are decked with bright ribbons; 190
They glide about proudly,
  Like swans on the water.
Some beauties are even
  Attired in the fashion
Of Petersburg ladies;
  Their dresses spread stiffly
On wide hoops around them;
  But tread on their skirts—
They will turn and attack you,
  Will gobble like turkeys! 200

Blame rather the fashion
  Which fastens upon you
Great fishermen's baskets!

  A woman dissenter
Looks darkly upon them,
  And whispers with malice:
"A famine, a famine
  Most surely will blight us.
The young growths are sodden,
  The floods unabated; 210
Since women have taken
  To red cotton dresses
The forests have withered,
  And wheat—but no wonder!"

  "But why, little Mother,
Are red cotton dresses
  To blame for the trouble?
I don't understand you."
  "The cotton is French,
And it's reddened in dog's blood! 220
  D'you understand now?"

The peasants still linger
  Some time in the market,
Then go further upward,
  To where on the hill-side
Are piled ploughs and harrows,
  With rakes, spades, and hatchets,
And all kinds of iron-ware,
  And pliable wood
To make rims for the cart-wheels. 230
  And, oh, what a hubbub
Of bargaining, swearing,
  Of jesting and laughter!
And who could help laughing?

  A limp little peasant
Is bending and testing
  The wood for the wheel-rims.
One piece does not please him;
  He takes up another
And bends it with effort; 240
  It suddenly straightens,
And whack!—strikes his forehead.
  The man begins roaring,
Abusing the bully,
  The duffer, the block-head.
Another comes driving
  A cart full of wood-ware,
As tipsy as can be;
  He turns it all over!
The axle is broken, 250
  And, trying to mend it,
He smashes the hatchet.

  He gazes upon it,
Abusing, reproaching:
  "A villain, a villain,
You are—not a hatchet.
  You see, you can't do me
The least little service.
  The whole of your life
You spend bowing before me, 260
  And yet you insult me!"

  Our peasants determine
To see the shop windows,
  The handkerchiefs, ribbons,
And stuffs of bright colour;
  And near to the boot-shop
Is fresh cause for laughter;
  For here an old peasant
Most eagerly bargains
  For small boots of goat-skin 270
To give to his grandchild.
  He asks the price five times;
  Again and again
He has turned them all over;
  He finds they are faultless.

  "Well, Uncle, pay up now,
Or else be off quickly,"
  The seller says sharply.
But wait! The old fellow
  Still gazes, and fondles 280
The tiny boots softly,
  And then speaks in this wise:

  "My daughter won't scold me,
Her husband I'll spit at,
  My wife—let her grumble—
I'll spit at my wife too.
  It's her that I pity—
My poor little grandchild.
  She clung to my neck,
And she said, 'Little Grandfather, 290
  Buy me a present.'
Her soft little ringlets
  Were tickling my cheek,
And she kissed the old Grand-dad.
  You wait, little bare-foot,
Wee spinning-top, wait then,
  Some boots I will buy you,
Some boots made of goat-skin."
  And then must old Vavil
Begin to boast grandly, 300
  To promise a present
To old and to young.
  But now his last farthing
Is swallowed in vodka,
  And how can he dare
Show his eyes in the village?
  "My daughter won't scold me,
Her husband I'll spit at,
  My wife—let her grumble—
I'll spit at my wife too. 310
  It's her that I pity—
My poor little grandchild."

  And then he commences
The story again
Of the poor little grandchild.
  He's very dejected.
A crowd listens round him,
  Not laughing, but troubled
At sight of his sorrow.

If they could have helped him 320
With bread or by labour
  They soon would have done so,
But money is money,
  And who has got tenpence
To spare? Then came forward
  Pavlóosha Varénko,
The "gentleman" nicknamed.
  (His origin, past life,
Or calling they knew not,
  But called him the 'Barin'.) 330
He listened with pleasure
  To talk and to jesting;
His blouse, coat, and top-boots
  Were those of a peasant;
He sang Russian folk-songs,
  Liked others to sing them,
And often was met with
  At taverns and inns.
He now rescued Vavil,
  And bought him the boots 340
To take home to his grandchild.

The old man fled blindly,
  But clasping them tightly,
Forgetting to thank him,
  Bewildered with joy.
The crowd was as pleased, too,
  As if had been given
To each one a rouble.

The peasants next visit
  The picture and book stall; 350
The pedlars are buying
  Their stock of small pictures,
And books for their baskets
  To sell on the road.

  "'Tis generals, you want!"
The merchant is saying.

  "Well, give us some generals;
But look—on your conscience—
  Now let them be real ones,
Be fat and ferocious." 360

"Your notions are funny,"
  The merchant says, smiling;
"It isn't a question
  Of looks…."

  "Well, of what, then?
You want to deceive us,
  To palm off your rubbish,
You swindling impostor!
  D'you think that the peasants
Know one from another? 370
  A shabby one—he wants
An expert to sell him,
  But trust me to part with
The fat and the fierce."

"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.