"Twere well if God took him.
Petrov is no longer
Alive. That same evening
He started up, raving, 740
At midnight the pope came,
And just as the day dawned
He died. He was buried,
A cross set above him,
And God alone knows
What he died of. It's certain
That we never touched him,
Nay, not with a finger,
Much less with a stick.
Yet sometimes the thought comes:
Perhaps if that accident 751
Never had happened
Petrov would be living.
You see, friends, the peasant
Was proud more than others,
He carried his head high,
And never had bent it,
And now of a sudden—
Lie down for the Barin!
Fall flat for his pleasure! 760
The thing went off well,
But Petrov had not wished it.
I think he was frightened
To anger the commune
By not giving in,
And the commune is foolish,
It soon will destroy you….
The ladies were ready
To kiss the old peasant,
They brought fifty roubles 770
For him, and some dainties.
'Twas Klímka, the scamp,
The unscrupulous sinner,
Who worked his undoing….

"A servant is coming
To us from the Barin,
They've finished their lunch.
Perhaps they have sent him
To summon the Elder.
I'll go and look on 780
At the comedy there."

II

KLÍM, THE ELDER

With him go the strangers,
And some of the women
And men follow after,
For mid-day has sounded,
Their rest-time it is,
So they gather together
To stare at the gentry,
To whisper and wonder.
They stand in a row
At a dutiful distance 10
Away from the Prince….

At a long snowy table
Quite covered with bottles
And all kinds of dishes
Are sitting the gentry,
The old Prince presiding
In dignified state
At the head of the table;
All white, dressed in white,
With his face shrunk awry, 20
His dissimilar eyes;
In his button-hole fastened
A little white cross
(It's the cross of St. George,
Some one says in a whisper);
And standing behind him,
Ipát, the domestic,
The faithful old servant,
In white tie and shirt-front
Is brushing the flies off. 30
Beside the Pomyéshchick
On each hand are sitting
The beautiful ladies:
The one with black tresses,
Her lips red as beetroots,
Each eye like an apple;
The other, the fair-haired,
With yellow locks streaming.
(Oh, you yellow locks,
Like spun gold do you glisten 40
And glow, in the sunshine!)
Then perched on three high chairs
The three little Barins,
Each wearing his napkin
Tucked under his chin,
With the old nurse beside them,
And further the body
Of ancient retainers;
And facing the Prince
At the foot of the table, 50
The black-moustached footguards
Are sitting together.
Behind each chair standing
A young girl is serving,
And women are waving
The flies off with branches.
The woolly white poodles
Are under the table,
The three little Barins
Are teasing them slyly. 60

Before the Pomyéshchick,
Bare-headed and humble,
The Elder is standing.
"Now tell me, how soon
Will the mowing be finished?"
The Barin says, talking
And eating at once.

"It soon will be finished.
Three days of the week
Do we work for your Highness; 70
A man with a horse,
And a youth or a woman,
And half an old woman
From every allotment.
To-day for this week
Is the Barin's term finished."

"Tut-tut!" says the Barin,
Like one who has noticed
Some crafty intent
On the part of another. 80
"'The Barin's term,' say you?
Now, what do you mean, pray?"
The eye which is bright
He has fixed on the peasant.

The Elder is hanging
His head in confusion.
"Of course it must be
As your Highness may order.
In two or three days,
If the weather be gracious, 90
The hay of your Highness
Can surely be gathered.
That's so,—is it not?"