The peasants recrossing
The market-place, quitted
The turbulent village
At evening's approach.
CHAPTER III
THE DRUNKEN NIGHT
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!"