"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. 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 etape--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.