"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 well:
"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."