THE HAPPY ONES

In crowds gay and noisy Our peasants are mixing, Proclaiming their mission: "Let any man here Who esteems himself happy Stand forth! If he prove it A pailful of vodka Is at his disposal; As much as he wishes So much he shall have!" 10

This fabulous promise Sets sober folk smiling; The tipsy and wise ones Are ready to spit In the beards of the pushing Impertinent strangers!

But many are willing To drink without payment, And so when our peasants Go back to the birch-tree 20 A crowd presses round them.

The first to come forward, A lean discharged deacon, With legs like two matches, Lets forth a great mouthful Of indistinct maxims: That happiness lies not In broad lands, in jewels, In gold, and in sables--

"In what, then?" 30

A peaceful And undisturbed conscience.

That all the dominions Of land-owners, n.o.bles, And Tsars are but earthly And limited treasures; But he who is G.o.dly Has part in Christ's kingdom Of boundless extent: "When warm in the sun, 40 With a cupful of vodka, I'm perfectly happy, I ask nothing more!"

"And who'll give you vodka?"

"Why, you! You have promised."

"Be off, you lean scamp!"

A one-eyed old woman Comes next, bent and pock-marked, And bowing before them She says she is happy; 50 That in her allotment A thousand fine turnips Have grown, this last autumn.

"Such turnips, I tell you!

Such monsters! and tasty!

In such a small plot, too, In length only one yard, And three yards in width!"

They laugh at the woman, But give her no vodka; 60 "Go, get you home, Mother!

You've vodka enough there To flavour the turnips!"

A soldier with medals, Quite drunk but still thirsty, Says firmly, "I'm happy!"

"Then tell us, old fellow, In what he is happy-- The soldier? Take care, though, To keep nothing back!" 70

"Well, firstly, I've been Through at least twenty battles, And yet I'm alive.

And, secondly, mark you (It's far more important), In times of peace, too, Though I'm always half-famished, Death never has conquered!

And, third, though they flogged me For every offence, 80 Great or small, I've survived it!"

"Here, drink, little soldier!

With you one can't argue; You're happy indeed!"

Then comes a young mason, A huge, weighty hammer Swung over his shoulder: "I live in content,"

He declares, "with my wife And beloved old mother; 90 We've nought to complain of."

"In what are you happy?"

"In this!"--like a feather He swings the great hammer.

"Beginning at sunrise And setting my back straight As midnight draws near, I can shatter a mountain!

Before now, it's happened That, working one day, 100 I've piled enough stones up To earn my five roubles!"

Pakhom tries to lift it-- The "happiness." After Prodigiously straining And cracking all over, He sets it down, gladly, And pours out some vodka.

"Well, weighty it is, man!

But will you be able 110 To bear in old age Such a 'happiness,' think you?"

"Don't boast of your strength!"

Gasped a wheezing old peasant, Half stifled with asthma.

(His nose pinched and shrivelled Like that of a dead man, His eyes bright and sunken, His hands like a rake-- Stiffened, scraggy, and bony, 120 His legs long and narrow Like spokes of a wheel, A human mosquito.)

"I was not a worse man Than he, the young mason, And boasted of _my_ strength.

G.o.d punished me for it!

The manager knew I was simple--the villain!

He flattered and praised me. 130 I was but a youngster, And pleased at his notice I laboured like four men.

One day I had mounted Some bricks to my shoulder, When, just then, the devil Must bring him in sight.

"'What's that!' he said laughing, 'Tis surely not Trifon With such a light burden? 140 Ho, does it not shame Such a strapping young fellow?'

'Then put some more bricks on, I'll carry them, master,'

Said I, sore offended.

For full half an hour I stood while he piled them, He piled them--the dog!

I felt my back breaking, But would not give way, 150 And that devilish burden I carried right up To the high second story!

He stood and looked on, He himself was astounded, And cried from beneath me: 'Well done, my brave fellow!

You don't know yourself, man, What you have been doing!

It's forty stone, Trifon, 160 You've carried up there!'

"I _did_ know; my heart Struck my breast like a hammer, The blood stood in circles Round both of my eyeb.a.l.l.s; My back felt disjointed, My legs weak and trembling ...

'Twas then that I withered.

Come, treat me, my friends!"

"But why should we treat you?

In what are you happy? 171 In what you have told us?"

"No, listen--that's coming, It's this: I have also, Like each of us peasants, Besought G.o.d to let me Return to the village To die. And when coming From Petersburg, after The illness I suffered 180 Through what I have told you, Exhausted and weakened, Half-dazed, half-unconscious, I got to the station.

And all in the carriage Were workmen, as I was, And ill of the fever; And all yearned for one thing: To reach their own homes Before death overcame them. 190 'Twas then I was lucky; The heat then was stifling, And so many sick heads Made h.e.l.l of the waggon.

Here one man was groaning, There, rolling all over The floor, like a lunatic, Shouting and raving Of wife or of mother.

And many such fellows 200 Were put out and left At the stations we came to.

I looked at them, thinking, Shall I be left too?

I was burning and shaking, The blood began starting All over my eyeb.a.l.l.s, And I, in my fever, Half-waking, was dreaming Of cutting of c.o.c.ks' throats 210 (We once were c.o.c.k-farmers, And one year it happened We fattened a thousand).

They came to my thoughts, now, The d.a.m.nable creatures, I tried to start praying, But no!--it was useless.

And, would you believe me?

I saw the whole party In that h.e.l.lish waggon 220 Come quivering round me, Their throats cut, and spurting With blood, and still crowing, And I, with the knife, shrieked: 'Enough of your noise!'

And yet, by G.o.d's mercy, Made no sound at all.

I sat there and struggled To keep myself silent.

At last the day ended, 230 And with it the journey, And G.o.d had had pity Upon His poor orphan; I crawled to the village.

And now, by His mercy, I'm better again."

"Is that what you boast of-- Your happiness, peasant?"

Exclaims an old lackey With legs weak and gouty. 240 "Treat me, little brothers, I'm happy, G.o.d sees it!

For I was the chief serf Of Prince Peremeteff, A rich prince, and mighty, My wife, the most favoured By him, of the women; My daughter, together With his, the young lady, Was taught foreign languages, 250 French and some others; And she was permitted To _sit_, and not stand, In her mistress's presence.

Good Lord! How it bites!"

(He stoops down to rub it, The gouty right knee-cap.) The peasants laugh loudly!

"What laugh you at, stupids?"

He cries, getting angry, 260 "I'm ill, I thank G.o.d, And at waking and sleeping I pray, 'Leave me ever My honoured complaint, Lord!

For that makes me n.o.ble!'

I've none of your low things, Your peasants' diseases, My illness is lofty, And only acquired By the most elevated, 270 The first in the Empire; I suffer, you villains, From gout, gout its name is!

It's only brought on By the drinking of claret, Of Burgundy, champagne, Hungarian syrup, By thirty years' drinking!

For forty years, peasants, I've stood up behind it-- 280 The chair of His Highness, The Prince Peremeteff, And swallowed the leavings In plates and in gla.s.ses, The finest French truffles, The dregs of the liquors.