"'''Explain,'' we replied,
And were troubled no more.
It seemed he was going
To live in the village;
He soon settled down.
On the banks of the river, 340
For hour after hour
He sat peacefully fishing,
And striking his nose
Or his cheek or his forehead.
We laughed: ''You don't like
The Korójin mosquitoes?''
He'd boat near the bankside
And shout with enjoyment,
Like one in the bath-house
Who's got to the roof.[49] 350
"'With youths and young maidens
He strolled in the forest
(They were not for nothing
Those strolls in the forest!)—
''Well, if you can't pay
You should work, little peasants.''
"'''What work should we do?''
"'''You should dig some deep ditches
To drain off the bog-lands.''
We dug some deep ditches. 360
"'''And now trim the forest.''
"'''Well, well, trim the forest….''
We hacked and we hewed
As the German directed,
And when we look round
There's a road through the forest!
"'The German went driving
To town with three horses;
Look! now he is coming
With boxes and bedding, 370
And God knows wherefrom
Has this bare-footed German
Raised wife and small children!
And now he's established
A village ispravnik,[50]
They live like two brothers.
His courtyard at all times
Is teeming with strangers,
And woe to the peasants—
The fallen Korójins! 380
He sucked us all dry
To the very last farthing;
And flog!—like the soul
Of Shaláshnikov flogged he!
Shaláshnikov stopped
When he got what he wanted;
He clung to our backs
Till he'd glutted his stomach,
And then he dropped down
Like a leech from a dog's ear. 390
But he had the grip
Of a corpse—had this German;
Until he had left you
Stripped bare like a beggar
You couldn't escape.'
"'But how could you bear it?'
"'Ah, how could we bear it?
Because we were giants—
Because by their patience
The people of Russia
Are great, little Grandchild. 400
You think, then, Matróna,
That we Russian peasants
No warriors are?
Why, truly the peasant
Does not live in armour,
Does not die in warfare,
But nevertheless
He's a warrior, child.
His hands are bound tight, 410
And his feet hung with fetters;
His back—mighty forests
Have broken across it;
His breast—I will tell you,
The Prophet Elijah
In chariot fiery
Is thundering within it;
And these things the peasant
Can suffer in patience.
He bends—but he breaks not; 420
He reels—but he falls not;
Then is he not truly
A warrior, say?'
"'You joke, little Grandad;
Such warriors, surely,
A tiny mouse nibbling
Could crumble to atoms,'
I said to Savyéli.