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!"
Pakhóm 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.)