"Come, give us some music," 460
Says Vlass to the soldier,
"For here there are plenty
Of holiday people,
'Twill be to your profit.
You see to it, Klímka!"
(Though Vlass doesn't like him,
Whenever there's something
That calls for arranging
He leaves it to Klímka:
"You see to it, Klímka!" 470
And Klimka is pleased.)
And soon the old soldier
Is helped from the hay-cart:
He's weak on his legs,—tall,
And strikingly thin.
His uniform seems
To be hung from a pole;
There are medals upon it.
It cannot be said
That his face is attractive, 480
Especially when
It's distorted by tic:
His mouth opens wide
And his eyes burn like charcoal,—
A regular demon!
The music is started,
The people run back
From the banks of the Volga.
He sings to the music.
* * * * *
A spasm has seized him: 490
He leans on his niece,
And his left leg upraising
He twirls it around
In the air like a weight.
His right follows suit then,
And murmuring, "Curse it!"
He suddenly masters
And stands on them both.
"You see to it, Klímka!"
Of course he'll arrange it 500
In Petersburg fashion:
He stands them together,
The niece and the uncle;
Takes two wooden dishes
And gives them one each,
Then springs on a tree-trunk
To make an oration.
(The soldier can't help
Adding apt little words
To the speech of the peasant, 510
And striking his spoons.)
* * * * *
The soldier is stamping
His feet. One can hear
His dry bones knock together.
When Klímka has finished
The peasants come crowding,
Surrounding the soldier,
And some a kopéck give,
And others give half:
In no time a rouble 520
Is piled on the dishes.