The peasants, half-tipsy, Congratulate Klimka. 600 "Hurrah! Let us toss him!"

And now they are placing Old Widow Terentevna Next to her bridegroom, The little child Jockoff, Saluting them gaily.

They're eating and drinking What's left on the table.

Then romping and jesting They stay till the evening, 610 And only at nightfall Return to the village.

And here they are met By some sobering tidings: The old Prince is dead.

From the boat he was taken, They thought him asleep, But they found he was lifeless.

The second stroke--while He was sleeping--had fallen! 620

The peasants are sobered, They look at each other, And silently cross themselves.

Then they breathe deeply; And never before Did the poor squalid village Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"

Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"

Draw such an intense And unanimous breath.... 630 Their pleasure, however, Was not very lasting, Because with the death Of the ancient Pomyeshchick, The sweet-sounding words Of his heirs and their bounties Ceased also. Not even A pick-me-up after The yesterday's feast Did they offer the peasants. 640 And as to the hayfields-- Till now is the law-suit Proceeding between them, The heirs and the peasants.

Old Vlasuchka was By the peasants appointed To plead in their name, And he lives now in Moscow.

He went to St. Petersburg too, But I don't think 650 That much can be done For the cause of the peasants.

PART III.

THE PEASANT WOMAN

PROLOGUE

"Not only to men Must we go with our question, We'll ask of the women,"

The peasants decided.

They asked in the village "Split-up," but the people Replied to them shortly, "Not here will you find one.

But go to the village 'Stripped-Naked'--a woman 10 Lives there who is happy.

She's hardly a woman, She's more like a cow, For a woman so healthy, So smooth and so clever, Could hardly be found.

You must seek in the village Matrona Korchagin-- The people there call her 'The Governor's Lady.'" 20 The peasants considered And went....

Now already The corn-stalks are rising Like tall graceful columns, With gilded heads nodding, And whispering softly In gentle low voices.

Oh, beautiful summer!

No time is so gorgeous, 30 So regal, so rich.

You full yellow cornfields, To look at you now One would never imagine How sorely G.o.d's people Had toiled to array you Before you arose, In the sight of the peasant, And stood before him, Like a glorious army 40 n front of a Tsar!

'Tis not by warm dew-drops That you have been moistened, The sweat of the peasant Has fallen upon you.

The peasants are gladdened At sight of the oats And the rye and the barley, But not by the wheat, For it feeds but the chosen: 50 "We love you not, wheat!

But the rye and the barley We love--they are kind, They feed all men alike."

The flax, too, is growing So sweetly and bravely: "Ai! you little mite!

You are caught and entangled!"

A poor little lark In the flax has been captured; 60 It struggles for freedom.

Pakhom picks it up, He kisses it tenderly: "Fly, little birdie!" ...

The lark flies away To the blue heights of Heaven; The kind-hearted peasants Gaze lovingly upwards To see it rejoice In the freedom above.... 70 The peas have come on, too; Like locusts, the peasants Attack them and eat them.

They're like a plump maiden-- The peas--for whoever Goes by must needs pinch them.

Now peas are being carried In old hands, in young hands, They're spreading abroad Over seventy high-roads. 80 The vegetables--how They're flourishing also!

Each toddler is clasping A radish or carrot, And many are cracking The seeds of the sunflower.

The beetroots are dotted Like little red slippers All over the earth.

Our peasants are walking, 90 Now faster--now slower.

At last they have reached it-- The village 'Stripped-Naked,'

It's not much to look at: Each hut is propped up Like a beggar on crutches; The thatch from the roofs Has made food for the cattle; The huts are like feeble Old skeletons standing, 100 Like desolate rooks' nests When young birds forsake them.

When wild Autumn winds Have dismantled the birch-trees.

The people are all In the fields; they are working.

Behind the poor village A manor is standing; It's built on the slope Of a hill, and the peasants 110 Are making towards it To look at it close.

The house is gigantic, The courtyard is huge, There's a pond in it too; A watch-tower arises From over the house, With a gallery round it, A flagstaff upon it.

They meet with a lackey 120 Near one of the gates: He seems to be wearing A strange kind of mantle; "Well, what are you up to?"

He says to the friends, "The Pomyeshchick's abroad now, The manager's dying."

He shows them his back, And they all begin laughing: A tiger is clutching 130 The edge of his shoulders!

"Heh! here's a fine joke!"

They are hotly discussing What kind of a mantle The lackey is wearing, Till clever Pakhom Has got hold of the riddle.

"The cunning old rascal, He's stolen a carpet, And cut in the middle 140 A hole for his head!"

Like weak, straddling beetles Shut up to be frozen In cold empty huts By the pitiless peasants.

The servants are crawling All over the courtyard.

Their master long since Has forgotten about them, And left them to live 150 As they can. They are hungry, All old and decrepit, And dressed in all manners, They look like a crowd In a gipsy encampment.

And some are now dragging A net through the pond: "G.o.d come to your help!

Have you caught something, brothers?"

"One carp--nothing more; 160 There used once to be many, But now we have come To the end of the feast!"

"Do try to get five!"

Says a pale, pregnant woman, Who's fervently blowing A fire near the pond.

"And what are those pretty Carved poles you are burning?

They're balcony railings, 170 I think, are they not?"

"Yes, balcony railings."

"See here. They're like tinder; Don't blow on them, Mother!

I bet they'll burn faster Than you find the victuals To cook in the pot!"

"I'm waiting and waiting, And Mityenka sickens Because of the musty 180 Old bread that I give him.

But what can I do?

This life--it is bitter!"

She fondles the head Of a half-naked baby Who sits by her side In a little bra.s.s basin, A b.u.t.ton-nosed mite.

"The boy will take cold there, The basin will chill him," 190 Says Prov; and he wishes To lift the child up, But it screams at him, angry.

"No, no! Don't you touch him,"

The mother says quickly, "Why, can you not see That's his carriage he's driving?

Drive on, little carriage!

Gee-up, little horses!

You see how he drives!" 200