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There, Pan[58] Glukhóvsky was watching him    On his brave Arab astride,  Rich was the Pan, of high family, 350    Known in the whole countryside.
Many cruel deeds were ascribed to him,    Filled were his subjects with hate,  So the old hermit to caution him    Told him his own sorry fate.
"Ho!" laughed Glukhóvsky, derisively,    "Hope of salvation's not mine;  These are the things that I estimate—    Women, gold, honour, and wine.
"My life, old man, is the only one; 360    Many the serfs that I keep;  What though I waste, hang, and torture them—    You should but see how I sleep!"
Lo! to the hermit, by miracle,    Wrath a great strength did impart,  Straight on Glukhóvsky he flung himself,    Buried the knife in his heart.
Scarce had the Pan, in his agony,    Sunk to the blood-sodden ground,  Crashed the great tree, and lay subjugate,    Trembled the earth at the sound. 371
Lo! and the sins of the anchorite    Passed from his soul like a breath.  "Let us pray God to incline to us,    Slaves in the shadow of Death…."

CHAPTER III

OLD AND NEW

Ióna has finished.   He crosses himself, And the people are silent.   And then of a sudden The trader cries loudly   In great irritation,
"What's wrong with the ferry?   A plague on the sluggards! Ho, ferry ahoy!"
"You won't get the ferry 10   Till sunrise, for even In daytime they're frightened   To cross: the boat's rotten!   About Kudeár, now—"
"Ho, ferry ahoy!" He strides to his waggon.   A cow is there tethered; He churlishly kicks her.
  His hens begin clucking; He shouts at them, "Silence!" 20   The calf, which is shifting About in the cart.
  Gets a crack on the forehead. He strikes the roan mare   With the whip, and departing He makes for the Volga.
  The moon is now shining, It casts on the roadway   A comical shadow, Which trots by his side. 30
"Oho!" says the Elder,   "He thought himself able To fight, but discussion   Is not in his line….
My brothers, how grievous   The sins of the nobles!"
"And yet not as great   As the sin of the peasant,"
The carter cannot here   Refrain from remarking. 40
"A plaguey old croaker!"   Says Klím, spitting crossly; "Whatever arises   The raven must fly To his own little brood!   What is it, then, tell us, The sin of the peasant?"
The Sin of Gleb the Peasant
A'miral Widower sailed on the sea,   Steering his vessels a-sailing went he. 49 Once with the Turk a great battle he fought,   His was the victory, gallantly bought.
So to the hero as valour's reward   Eight thousand souls[59] did the Empress award. A'miral Widower lived on his land   Rich and content, till his end was at hand.
As he lay dying this A'miral bold   Handed his Elder a casket of gold. "See that thou cherish this casket," he said,   "Keep it and open it when I am dead.
There lies my will, and by it you will see   Eight thousand souls are from serfdom set free." 61 Dead, on the table, the A'miral lies,   A kinsman remote to the funeral hies.
Buried! Forgotten! His relative soon   Calls Gleb, the Elder, with him to commune. And, in a trice, by his cunning and skill,   Learns of the casket, and terms of the will.
Offers him riches and bliss unalloyed,   Gives him his freedom,—the will is destroyed!
Thus, by Gleb's longing for criminal gains,   Eight thousand souls were left rotting in chains, 71 Aye, and their sons and their grandsons as well,   Think, what a crowd were thrown back into Hell!
God forgives all. Yes, but Judas's crime   Ne'er will be pardoned till end of all time. Peasant, most infamous sinner of all,   Endlessly grieve to atone for thy fall!
  Wrathful, relentless,     The carter thus finished   The tale of the peasant 80     In thunder-like tones.   The others sigh deeply     And rise. They're exclaiming,
  "So, that's what it is, then,     The sin of the peasant.   He's right. 'Tis indeed     A most terrible sin!"
  "The story speaks truly;     Our grief shall be endless,   Ah, me!" says the Elder. 90
    (His faith in improvements   Has vanished again.)
    And Klímka, who always   Is swayed in an instant     By joy or by sorrow,   Despondingly echoes,     "A terrible sin!"
  The green by the Volga,     Now flooded with moonlight,   Has changed of a sudden: 100
  The peasants no longer     Seem men independent   With self-assured movements,     They're "Earthworms" again—   Those "Earthworms" whose victuals   Are never sufficient,     Who always are threatened   With drought, blight, or famine,     Who yield to the trader   The fruits of extortion 110     Their tears, shed in tar.
  The miserly haggler     Not only ill-pays them,   But bullies as welclass="underline"
  "For what do I pay you?     The tar costs you nothing.   The sun brings it oozing     From out of your bodies   As though from a pine."
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58

Polish title for nobleman or gentleman.