The red sun peeps slyly
At them from a cloud,
And the slow, dreamy music
Is heard from the river….
The ancient Pomyéshchick 270
Is moved, and the right eye
Is blinded with tears,
Till the golden-haired lady
Removes them and dries it;
She kisses the other eye
Heartily too.
"You see!" then remarks
The old man to his children,
The two stalwart sons
And the pretty young ladies; 280
"I wish that those villains,
Those Petersburg liars
Who say we are tyrants,
Could only be here now
To see and hear this!"
But then something happened
Which checked of a sudden
The speech of the Barin:
A peasant who couldn't
Control his amusement 290
Gave vent to his laughter.
The Barin starts wildly,
He clutches the table,
He fixes his face
In the sinner's direction;
The right eye is fierce,
Like a lynx he is watching
To dart on his prey,
And the left eye is whirling.
"Go, find him!" he hisses, 300
"Go, fetch him! the scoundrel!"
The Elder dives straight
In the midst of the people;
He asks himself wildly,
"Now, what's to be done?"
He makes for the edge
Of the crowd, where are sitting
The journeying strangers;
His voice is like honey:
"Come one of you forward; 310
You see, you are strangers,
He wouldn't touch you."
But they are not anxious
To face the Pomyéshchick,
Although they would gladly
Have helped the poor peasants.
He's mad, the old Barin,
So what's to prevent him
From beating them too?
"Well, you go, Román," 320
Say the two brothers Góobin,
"You love the Pomyéshchicks."
"I'd rather you went, though!"
And each is quite willing
To offer the other.
Then Klím looses patience;
"Now, Vlásuchka, help us!
Do something to save us!
I'm sick of the thing!"
"Yes! Nicely you lied there!" 330