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    "What sinners! What sinners!"        The peasants are saying,
    "I'm sorry for Jacob, 240        Yet pity the Barin,      Indeed he was punished!        Ah, me!" Then they listen      To two or three more tales        As strange and as fearful,      And hotly they argue        On who must be reckoned      The greatest of sinners:
      "The publican," one says,      And one, "The Pomyéshchick," 250        Another, "The peasant."      This last was a carter,        A man of good standing      And sound reputation,        No ignorant babbler.
    He'd seen many things        In his life, his own province      Had traversed entirely.        He should have been heard.      The peasants, however, 260        Were all so indignant      They would not allow him        To speak. As for Klímka,      His wrath is unbounded,        "You fool!" he is shouting.
"But let me explain."       "I see you are all fools,"
    A voice remarks roughly:
      The voice of a trader      Who squeezes the peasants 270        For laputs or berries      Or any spare trifles.
      But chiefly he's noted      For seizing occasions      When taxes are gathered,        And peasants' possessions      Are bartered at auction.
      "You start a discussion      And miss the chief point.        Why, who's the worst sinner? 280      Consider a moment."
"Well, who then? You tell us." "The robber, of course."
  "You've not been a serf, man,"      Says Klímka in answer;    "The burden was heavy,      But not on your shoulders.
  Your pockets are full,      So the robber alarms you;    The robber with this case 290      Has nothing to do."
  "The case of the robber      Defending the robber,"
  The other retorts.      "Now, pray!" bellows Klímka,    And leaping upon him,      He punches his jaw.
  The trader repays him      With buffets as hearty,    "Take leave of your carcase!" 300      He roars.
             "Here's a tussle!"      The peasants are clearing        A space for the battle;      They do not prevent it        Nor do they applaud it.      The blows fall like hail.
  "I'll kill you, I'll kill you!    Write home to your parents!"    "I'll kill you, I'll kill you! 310    Heh, send for the pope!"
  The trader, bent double      By Klímka, who, clutching    His hair, drags his head down,      Repeating, "He's bowing!"    Cries, "Stop, that's enough!"
    When Klímka has freed him    He sits on a log,      And says, wiping his face    With a broadly-checked muffler, 320
    "No wonder he conquered:   He ploughs not, he reaps not,     Does nothing but doctor   The pigs and the horses;     Of course he gets strong!"
  The peasants are laughing,     And Klímka says, mocking,   "Here, try a bit more!"
  "Come on, then! I'm ready,"     The trader says stoutly, 330   And rolling his sleeves up,     He spits on his palms.
  "The hour has now sounded     For me, though a sinner,   To speak and unite you,"     Ióna pronounces.
  The whole of the evening     That diffident pilgrim   Has sat without speaking,     And crossed himself, sighing. 340
  The trader's delighted,     And Klímka replies not.   The rest, without speaking,     Sit down on the ground.

CHAPTER II

PILGRIMS AND WANDERERS

We know that in Russia    Are numbers of people  Who wander at large    Without kindred or home.
They sow not, they reap not,    They feed at the fountain  That's common to all,    That nourishes likewise  The tiniest mouse    And the mightiest army:  The sweat of the peasant. 10
  The peasants will tell you  That whole populations    Of villages sometimes  Turn out in the autumn    To wander like pilgrims.
They beg, and esteem it    A paying profession.  The people consider    That misery drives them 20  More often than cunning,    And so to the pilgrims  Contribute their mite.
  Of course, there are cases  Of downright deception:    One pilgrim's a thief,  Or another may wheedle    Some cloth from the wife  Of a peasant, exchanging    Some "sanctified wafers" 30  Or "tears of the Virgin"    He's brought from Mount Athos,  And then she'll discover    He's been but as far  As a cloister near Moscow.
  One saintly old greybeard  Enraptured the people    By wonderful singing,  And offered to teach    The young girls of the village 40  The songs of the church    With their mothers' permission.
And all through the winter    He locked himself up  With the girls in a stable.