---

Nikolay Nekrasov - Who is happy in Russia?
Work rating: Medium

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 
And Mariushka, "Kiss me!"
  Cries Ivan, "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 Roman 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.
CHAPTER IV

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, nobles,
  And Tsars are but earthly
And limited treasures;
  But he who is godly
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.
God 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 eyeballs;
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 God 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 Hell 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 eyeballs,
And I, in my fever,
  Half-waking, was dreaming
Of cutting of cocks' throats 210
  (We once were cock-farmers,
And one year it happened
  We fattened a thousand).
They came to my thoughts, now,
  The damnable creatures,
I tried to start praying,
  But no!-it was useless.
And, would you believe me?
  I saw the whole party
In that hellish 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 God'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 God 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, God 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 God,
And at waking and sleeping
  I pray, 'Leave me ever
My honoured complaint, Lord!
  For that makes me noble!'
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 glasses,
  The finest French truffles,
The dregs of the liquors.
  Come, treat me, you peasants!"
  "Excuse us, your Lordship,
Our wine is but simple,
  The drink of the peasants! 290
It wouldn't suit you!"
  A bent, yellow-haired man
Steals up to the peasants,
  A man from White Russia.
He yearns for the vodka.
  "Oh, give me a taste!"
He implores, "I am happy!"
  "But wait! You must tell us
In what you are happy."
  "In bread I am happy; 300
At home, in White Russia,
  The bread is of barley,
All gritty and weedy.
  At times, I can tell you,
I've howled out aloud,
  Like a woman in labour,
With pains in my stomach!
  But now, by God's mercy,
I work for Gubonine,
  And there they give rye-bread, 310
I'm happy in that."
  A dark-looking peasant,
With jaw turned and twisted,
  Which makes him look sideways,
Says next, "I am happy.
  A bear-hunter I am,
And six of my comrades
  Were killed by old Mishka;[26]
On me God has mercy."
"Look round to the left side." 320
  He tries to, but cannot,
For all his grimaces!
  "A bear knocked my jaw round,
A savage young female."
  "Go, look for another,
And give her the left cheek,
  She'll soon put it straight!"
They laugh, but, however,
  They give him some vodka.
Some ragged old beggars 330
  Come up to the peasants,
Drawn near by the smell
  Of the froth on the vodka;
They say they are happy.
  "Why, right on his threshold
The shopman will meet us!
  We go to a house-door,
From there they conduct us
  Right back to the gate!
When we begin singing 340
  The housewife runs quickly
And brings to the window
  A loaf and a knife.
And then we sing loudly,
  'Oh, give us the whole loaf,
It cannot be cut
  And it cannot be crumbled,
For you it is quicker,
  For us it is better!'"
The peasants observe 350
  That their vodka is wasted,
The pail's nearly empty.
  They say to the people,
"Enough of your chatter,
  You, shabby and ragged,
You, humpbacked and corny,
  Go, get you all home!"
"In your place, good strangers,"
  The peasant, Fedocy,
From "Swallow-Smoke" village, 360
  Said, sitting beside them,
"I'd ask ermil GIrin.
  If he will not suit you,
If he is not happy,
  Then no one can help you."
  "But who is this ermil,
A noble-a prince?"
  "No prince-not a noble,
But simply a peasant."
"Well, tell us about him." 370

  "I'll tell you; he rented
The mill of an orphan,
  Until the Court settled
To sell it at auction.
  Then ermil, with others,
Went into the sale-room.
  The small buyers quickly
Dropped out of the bidding;
  Till ermil alone,
With a merchant, Alternikoff, 380
  Kept up the fight.
The merchant outbid him,
  Each time by a farthing,
Till ermil grew angry
  And added five roubles;
The merchant a farthing
  And ermil a rouble.
The merchant gave in then,
  When suddenly something
Unlooked for occurred: 390
  The sellers demanded
A third of the money
  Paid down on the spot;
'Twas one thousand roubles,
  And ermil had not brought
So much money with him;
  'Twas either his error,
Or else they deceived him.
  The merchant said gaily,
'The mill comes to me, then?' 400
  'Not so,' replied ermil;
He went to the sellers;
  'Good sirs, will you wait
Thirty minutes?' he asked.
  "'But how will that help you?'
'I'll bring you the money.'
  "'But where will you find it?
You're out of your senses!
  It's thirty-five versts
To the mill; in an hour now 410
  The sales will be finished.'
  "'You'll wait half an hour, sirs?'
'An hour, if you wish.'
  Then ermil departed,
The sellers exchanging
Sly looks with the merchant,
  And grinning-the foxes!
But ermil went out
  And made haste to the market-place
Crowded with people 420
  ('Twas market-day, then),
And he mounted a waggon,
  And there he stood crossing
Himself, and low bowing
  In all four directions.
He cried to the people,
  'Be silent a moment,
I've something to ask you!'
  The place became still
And he told them the story: 430
"'Since long has the merchant
  Been wooing the mill,
But I'm not such a dullard.
  Five times have I been here
To ask if there would be
  A second day's bidding,
They answered, 'There will.'
  You know that the peasant
Won't carry his money
  All over the by-ways 440
  Without a good reason,
So I have none with me;
And look-now they tell me
There's no second bidding
  And ask for the money!
The cunning ones tricked me
  And laughed-the base heathens!
And said to me sneering:
  'But, what can you do
In an hour? Where find money?' 450
  "'They're crafty and strong,
But the people are stronger!
  The merchant is rich-
But the people are richer!
  Hey! What is his worth
To their treasury, think you?
  Like fish in the ocean
The wealth of the people;
  You'll draw it and draw it-
But not see its end! 460
  Now, brother, God hears me,
Come, give me this money!
  Next Friday I'll pay you
The very last farthing.
  It's not that I care
For the mill-it's the insult!
  Whoever knows ermil,
Whoever believes him,
  Will give what he can.'
  "A miracle happened; 470
The coat of each peasant
  Flew up on the left
As though blown by a wind!
  The peasants are bringing
Their money to ermil,
  Each gives what he can.
Though ermil's well lettered
  He writes nothing down;
It's well he can count it
  So great is his hurry. 480
They gather his hat full
  Of all kinds of money,
From farthings to bank-notes,
  The notes of the peasant
All crumpled and torn.
  He has the whole sum now,
But still the good people
  Are bringing him more.
  "'Here, take this, too, ermil,
You'll pay it back later!' 490
  "He bows to the people
In all four directions,
  Gets down from the waggon,
And pressing the hat
  Full of money against him,
Runs back to the sale-room
  As fast as he can.
  "The sellers are speechless
And stare in amazement,
  The merchant turns green 500
As the money is counted
  And laid on the table.
  "The sellers come round him
All craftily praising
  His excellent bargain.
But ermil sees through them;
  He gives not a farthing,
He speaks not a word.
  "The whole town assembles
At market next Friday, 510
  When ermil is paying
His debt to the people.
  How can he remember
To whom he must pay it?
  No murmur arises,
No sound of discussion,
  As each man tells quietly
The sum to be paid him.
  "And ermil himself said,
That when it was finished 520
  A rouble was lying
With no one to claim it;
  And though till the evening
He went, with purse open,
  Demanding the owner,
It still was unclaimed.
  The sun was just setting
When ermil, the last one
  To go from the market,
Assembled the beggars 530
  And gave them the rouble." ..
  "'Tis strange!" say the peasants,
"By what kind of magic
  Can one single peasant
Gain such a dominion
  All over the country?"
  "No magic he uses
Save truthfulness, brothers!
  But say, have you ever
Heard tell of Prince Yurloff's 540
  Estate, Adovshina?"
  "We have. What about it?"
    "The manager there
Was a Colonel, with stars,
  Of the Corps of Gendarmes.
He had six or seven
  Assistants beneath him,
And ermil was chosen
  As principal clerk.
He was but a boy, then, 550
  Of nineteen or twenty;
And though 'tis no fine post,
  The clerk's-to the peasants
The clerk is a great man;
  To him they will go
For advice and with questions.
  Though ermil had power to,
He asked nothing from them;
  And if they should offer
He never accepted. 560
  (He bears a poor conscience,
The peasant who covets
  The mite of his brother!)
Well, five years went by,
  And they trusted in ermil,
When all of a sudden
  The master dismissed him
For sake of another.
  And sadly they felt it.
The new clerk was grasping; 570
  He moved not a finger
Unless it was paid for;
  A letter-three farthings!
A question-five farthings!
  Well, he was a pope's son
And God placed him rightly!
  But still, by God's mercy,
He did not stay long:
  "The old Prince soon died,
And the young Prince was master. 580
  He came and dismissed them-
The manager-colonel,
  The clerk and assistants,
And summoned the peasants
  To choose them an Elder.
They weren't long about it!
  And eight thousand voices
Cried out, 'ermil GIrin!'
  As though they were one.
Then ermil was sent for 590
  To speak with the Barin,
And after some minutes
  The Barin came out
On the balcony, standing
  In face of the people;
He cried, 'Well, my brothers,
  Your choice is elected
With my princely sanction!
  But answer me this:
Don't you think he's too youthful?' 600
  "'No, no, little Father!
He's young, but he's wise!'
  "So ermil was Elder,
For seven years ruled
  In the Prince's dominion.
Not once in that time
  Did a coin of the peasants
Come under his nail,
  Did the innocent suffer,
The guilty escape him, 610
  He followed his conscience."
"But stop!" exclaimed hoarsely
A shrivelled grey pope,
  Interrupting the speaker,
"The harrow went smoothly
  Enough, till it happened
To strike on a stone,
  Then it swerved of a sudden.
In telling a story
  Don't leave an odd word out 620
  And alter the rhythm!
Now, if you knew ermil
  You knew his young brother,
Knew MItyenka, did you?"
  The speaker considered,
Then said, "I'd forgotten,
I'll tell you about it:
  It happened that once
Even ermil the peasant
  Did wrong: his young brother, 630
Unjustly exempted
  From serving his time,
On the day of recruiting;
  And we were all silent,
And how could we argue
  When even the Barin
Himself would not order
  The Elder's own brother
To unwilling service?
  And only one woman, 640
Old Vlasevna, shedding
  Wild tears for her son,
Went bewailing and screaming:
  'It wasn't our turn!'
Well, of course she'd be certain
  To scream for a time,
  Then leave off and be silent.
But what happened then?
  The recruiting was finished,
But ermil had changed; 650
  He was mournful and gloomy;
He ate not, he drank not,
  Till one day his father
Went into the stable
  And found him there holding
A rope in his hands.
  Then at last he unbosomed
His heart to his father:
  'Since Vlasevna's son
Has been sent to the service, 660
  I'm weary of living,
I wish but to die!'
  His brothers came also,
And they with the father
  Besought him to hear them,
To listen to reason.
  But he only answered:
'A villain I am,
  And a criminal; bind me,
And bring me to justice!' 670
  And they, fearing worse things,
Obeyed him and bound him.
  The commune assembled,
Exclaiming and shouting;
  They'd never been summoned
To witness or judge
  Such peculiar proceedings.
  "And ermil's relations
Did not beg for mercy
  And lenient treatment, 680
But rather for firmness:
  'Bring Vlasevna's son back
Or ermil will hang himself,
  Nothing will save him!'
And then appeared ermil
  Himself, pale and bare-foot,
With ropes bound and handcuffed,
  And bowing his head
He spoke low to the people:
  'The time was when I was 690
Your judge; and I judged you,
  In all things obeying
My conscience. But I now
  Am guiltier far
Than were you. Be my judges!'
  He bowed to our feet,
The demented one, sighing,
  Then stood up and crossed himself,
Trembling all over;
It pained us to witness 700
  How he, of a sudden,
Fell down on his knees there
  At Vlasevna's feet.
Well, all was put right soon,
  The nobles have fingers
In every small corner,
  The lad was brought back
And young MItyenka started;
  They say that his service
Did not weigh too heavy, 710
  The prince saw to that.
And we, as a penance,
  Imposed upon ermil
A fine, and to Vlasevna
  One part was given,
To MItya another,
  The rest to the village
For vodka. However,
  Not quickly did ermil
Get over his sorrow: 720
  He went like a lost one
For full a year after,
  And-though the whole district
Implored him to keep it-
  He left his position.
He rented the mill, then,
  And more than of old
Was beloved by the people.
  He took for his grinding
No more than was honest, 730
  His customers never
Kept waiting a moment,
  And all men alike:
The rich landlord, the workman.
  The master and servant,
The poorest of peasants
  Were served as their turn came;
Strict order he kept.
  Myself, I have not been
Since long in that district, 740
  But often the people
Have told me about him.
  And never could praise him
Enough. So in your place
  I'd go and ask ermil."
"Your time would be wasted,"
  The grey-headed pope,
Who'd before interrupted,
  Remarked to the peasants,
"I knew ermil GIrin, 750
  I chanced in that district
Some five years ago.
  I have often been shifted,
Our bishop loved vastly
  To keep us all moving,
So I was his neighbour.
  Yes, he was a peasant
Unique, I bear witness,
  And all things he owned
That can make a man happy: 760
  Peace, riches, and honour,
And that kind of honour
  Most valued and precious,
Which cannot be purchased
  By might or by money,
But only by righteousness,
  Wisdom and kindness.
But still, I repeat it,
  Your time will be wasted
In going to ermil: 770
  In prison he lies."
"How's that?"

  "God so willed it.
You've heard how the peasants
Of 'Log' the Pomyeshchick
  Of Province 'Affrighted,'
Of District 'Scarce-Breathing,'
  Of village 'Dumbfounded,'
Revolted 'for causes
Entirely unknown,' 780
  As they say in the papers.
(I once used to read them.)
  And so, too, in this case,
The local Ispravnik,[27]
  The Tsar's high officials,
And even the peasants,
  'Dumbfounded' themselves.
Never fathomed the reason
  Of all the disturbance.
But things became bad, 790
  And the soldiers were sent for,
The Tsar packed a messenger
  Off in a hurry
To speak to the people.
  His epaulettes rose
To his ears as he coaxed them
And cursed them together.
  But curses they're used to,
And coaxing was lost,
  For they don't understand it: 800
  'Brave orthodox peasants!'
'The Tsar-Little Father!'
  'Our dear Mother Russia!'
He bellowed and shouted
  Until he was hoarse,
While the peasants stood round him
  And listened in wonder.
  "But when he was tired
Of these peaceable measures
  Of calming the riots, 810
At length he decided
  On giving the order
Of 'Fire' to the soldiers;
  When all of a sudden
A bright thought occurred
  To the clerk of the Volost:[28]
'The people trust GIrin,
  The people will hear him!'
"'Then let him be brought!'" [29]

* * * * *

  A cry has arisen 820
"Have mercy! Have mercy!"
  A check to the story;
They hurry off quickly
  To see what has happened;
And there on a bank
  Of a ditch near the roadside,
Some peasants are birching
  A drunken old lackey,
Just taken in thieving.
  A court had been summoned, 830
The judges deciding
  To birch the offender,
That each of the jury
  (About three and twenty)
Should give him a stroke
  Turn in turn of the rod...
  The lackey was up
And made off, in a twinkling,
  He took to his heels
Without stopping to argue, 840
  On two scraggy legs.
  "How he trips it-the dandy!"
The peasants cry, laughing;
  They've soon recognized him;
The boaster who prated
  So much of his illness
From drinking strange liquors.
  "Ho! where has it gone to,
Your noble complaint?
  Look how nimble he's getting!" 850
  "Well, well, Little Father,
Now finish the story!"
  "It's time to go home now,
My children,-God willing,
  We'll meet again some day
And finish it then..."
  The people disperse
As the dawn is approaching.
  Our peasants begin
To bethink them of sleeping, 860
  When all of a sudden
A "troika" [30] comes flying
  From no one sees where,
With its silver bells ringing.
  Within it is sitting
A plump little Barin,
  His little mouth smoking
A little cigar.
  The peasants draw up
In a line on the roadway, 870
  Thus barring the passage
In front of the horses;
  And, standing bareheaded,
Bow low to the Barin.
CHAPTER V

THE POMYeSHCHICK

  The "troika" is drawing
The local Pomyeshchick-
  GavrIl Afanasich
    Obolt-Oboldooeff.
A portly Pomyeshchick,
  With long grey moustaches,
Some sixty years old.
  His bearing is stately,
His cheeks very rosy,
  He wears a short top-coat, 10
Tight-fitting and braided,
  Hungarian fashion;
And very wide trousers.
  GavrIl Afanasich
Was probably startled
  At seeing the peasants
  Unflinchingly barring
The way to his horses;
  He promptly produces
A loaded revolver 20
  As bulky and round
As himself; and directs it
  Upon the intruders:
  "You brigands! You cut-throats!
Don't move, or I shoot!"
  "How can we be brigands?"
The peasants say, laughing,
  "No knives and no pitchforks,
No hatchets have we!"
  "Who are you? And what 30
Do you want?" said the Barin.
  "A trouble torments us,
It draws us away
  From our wives, from our children,
Away from our work,
  Kills our appetites too,
Do give us your promise
  To answer us truly,
Consulting your conscience
  And searching your knowledge, 40
Not sneering, nor feigning
  The question we put you,
  And then we will tell you
The cause of our trouble."
  "I promise. I give you
The oath of a noble."
  "No, don't give us that-
Not the oath of a noble!
  We're better content
With the word of a Christian. 50
  The nobleman's oaths-
They are given with curses,
  With kicks and with blows!
We are better without them!"
  "Eh-heh, that's a new creed!
Well, let it be so, then.
  And what is your trouble?"
  "But put up the pistol!
That's right! Now we'll tell you:
  We are not assassins, 60
But peaceable peasants,
  From Government 'Hard-pressed,'
From District 'Most Wretched,'
  From 'Destitute' Parish,
From neighbouring hamlets,-
  'Patched,' 'Bare-Foot,' and 'Shabby,'
'Bleak,' 'Burnt-out,' and 'Hungry.'
  From 'Harvestless,' too.
We met in the roadway,
  And one asked another, 70
Who is he-the man
  Free and happy in Russia?
Luka said, 'The pope,'
  And Roman, 'The Pomyeshchick,'
Demyan, 'The official.'
  'The round-bellied merchant,'
Said both brothers Goobin,
  Mitrodor and Ivan;
Pakhom said, 'His Highness,
  The Tsar's Chief Adviser,' 80
And Prov said, 'The Tsar.'
  "Like bulls are the peasants;
Once folly is in them
The script ran 0.014 seconds.