He has not a notion
That they are not his fields,
But ours. When we gather
We laugh, for each peasant
Has something to tell 480
Of the crazy Pomyéshchick;
His ears burn, I warrant,
When we come together!
And Klím, Son-of-Jacob,
Will run, with the manner
Of bearing the commune
Some news of importance
(The pig has got proud
Since he's taken to scratching
His sides on the steps 490
Of the nobleman's manor).
He runs and he shouts:
'A command to the commune!
I told the Pomyèshchick
That Widow Teréntevna's
Cottage had fallen.
And that she is begging
Her bread. He commands you
To marry the widow
To Gabriel Jóckoff; 500
To rebuild the cottage,
And let them reside there
And multiply freely.'
"The bride will be seventy,
Seven the bridegroom!
Well, who could help laughing?
Another command:
'The dull-witted cows,
Driven out before sunrise,
Awoke the Pomyéshchick 510
By foolishly mooing
While passing his courtyard.
The cow-herd is ordered
To see that the cows
Do not moo in that manner!'"
The peasants laugh loudly.
"But why do you laugh so?
We all have our fancies.
Yakútsk was once governed,
I heard, by a General; 520
He had a liking
For sticking live cows
Upon spikes round the city,
And every free spot
Was adorned in that manner,
As Petersburg is,
So they say, with its statues,
Before it had entered
The heads of the people
That he was a madman. 530
"Another strict order
Was sent to the commune:
'The dog which belongs
To Sofrónoff the watchman
Does not behave nicely,
It barked at the Barin.
Be therefore Sofrónoff
Dismissed. Let Evrémka
Be watchman to guard
The estate of the Barin.' 540
(Another loud laugh,
For Evremka, the 'simple,'
Is known as the deaf-mute
And fool of the village).
But Klímka's delighted:
At last he's found something
That suits him exactly.
He bustles about
And in everything meddles,
And even drinks less. 550
There's a sharp little woman
Whose name is Orévna,
And she is Klím's gossip,
And finely she helps him
To fool the old Barin.
And as to the women,
They're living in clover:
They run to the manor
With linen and mushrooms
And strawberries, knowing 560
The ladies will buy them
And pay what they ask them
And feed them besides.
We laughed and made game
Till we fell into danger
And nearly were lost:
There was one man among us,
Petrov, an ungracious
And bitter-tongued peasant;
He never forgave us 570
Because we'd consented
To humour the Barin.
'The Tsar,' he would say,
'Has had mercy upon you,
And now, you, yourselves
Lift the load to your backs.
To Hell with the hayfields!
We want no more masters!'
We only could stop him
By giving him vodka 580
(His weakness was vodka).
The devil must needs
Fling him straight at the Barin.
One morning Petrov
Had set out to the forest
To pilfer some logs
(For the night would not serve him,
It seems, for his thieving,
He must go and do it
In broadest white daylight), 590
And there comes the carriage,
On springs, with the Barin!
"'From whence, little peasant,
That beautiful tree-trunk?
From whence has it come?'
He knew, the old fellow,
From whence it had come.
Petrov stood there silent,
And what could he answer?
He'd taken the tree 600
From the Barin's own forest.
"The Barin already
Is bursting with anger;
He nags and reproaches,
He can't stop recalling
The rights of the nobles.
The rank of his Fathers,
He winds them all into
Petrov, like a corkscrew.
"The peasants are patient, 610
But even their patience
Must come to an end.
Petrov was out early,
Had eaten no breakfast,
Felt dizzy already,
And now with the words
Of the Barin all buzzing
Like flies in his ears—
Why, he couldn't keep steady,
He laughed in his face! 620
"'Have done, you old scarecrow!'
He said to the Barin.
'You crazy old clown!'
His jaw once unmuzzled
He let enough words out
To stuff the Pomyéshchick
With Fathers and Grandfathers
Into the bargain.
The oaths of the lords
Are like stings of mosquitoes, 630
But those of the peasant
Like blows of the pick-axe.
The Barin's dumbfounded!
He'd safely encounter
A rain of small shot,
But he cannot face stones.
The ladies are with him,
They, too, are bewildered,
They run to the peasant
And try to restrain him. 640
"He bellows, 'I'll kill you!
For what are you swollen
With pride, you old dotard,
You scum of the pig-sty?
Have done with your jabber!
You've lost your strong grip
On the soul of the peasant,
The last one you are.