Klim, the Elder

With him go the strangers,And some of the womenAnd men follow after,For mid-day has sounded,Their rest-time it is,So they gather togetherTo stare at the gentry,To whisper and wonder.They stand in a rowAt a dutiful distanceAway from the Prince....

At a long snowy tableQuite covered with bottlesAnd all kinds of dishesAre sitting the gentry,The old Prince presidingIn dignified stateAt the head of the table;All white, dressed in white,With his face shrunk awry,His dissimilar eyes;In his button-hole fastenedA little white cross(It's the cross of St. George,Some one says in a whisper);And standing behind him,Ipat, the domestic,The faithful old servant,In white tie and shirt-frontIs brushing the flies off.Beside the PomyeshchickOn each hand are sittingThe beautiful ladies:The one with black tresses,Her lips red as beetroots,Each eye like an apple;The other, the fair-haired,With yellow locks streaming.(Oh, you yellow locks,Like spun gold do you glistenAnd glow, in the sunshine!)Then perched on three high chairsThe three little Barins,Each wearing his napkinTucked under his chin,With the old nurse beside them,And further the bodyOf ancient retainers;And facing the PrinceAt the foot of the table,The black-moustached footguardsAre sitting together.Behind each chair standingA young girl is serving,And women are wavingThe flies off with branches.The woolly white poodlesAre under the table,The three little BarinsAre teasing them slyly.

Before the Pomyeshchick,Bare-headed and humble,The Elder is standing."Now tell me, how soonWill the mowing be finished?"The Barin says, talkingAnd eating at once.

"It soon will be finished.Three days of the weekDo we work for your Highness;A man with a horse,And a youth or a woman,And half an old womanFrom every allotment.To-day for this weekIs the Barin's term finished."

"Tut-tut!" says the Barin,Like one who has noticedSome crafty intentOn the part of another."'The Barin's term,' say you?Now, what do you mean, pray?"The eye which is brightHe has fixed on the peasant.

The Elder is hangingHis head in confusion."Of course it must beAs your Highness may order.In two or three days,If the weather be gracious,The hay of your HighnessCan surely be gathered.That's so,--is it not?"

(He turns his broad face roundAnd looks at the peasants.)And then the sharp woman,Klim's gossip, Orevna,Makes answer for them:"Yes, Klim, Son-of-Jacob,The hay of the BarinIs surely more preciousThan ours. We must tend itAs long as the weather lasts;Ours may come later."

"A woman she is,But more clever than you,"The Pomyeshchick says smiling,And then of a suddenIs shaken with laughter:"Ha, ha! Oh, you blockhead!Ha? ha! fool! fool! fool!It's the 'Barin's term,' say you?Ha, ha! fool, ha, ha!The Barin's term, slave,Is the whole of your life-time;And you have forgottenThat I, by God's mercy,By Tsar's ancient charter,By birth and by merit,Am your supreme master!"

The strangers remark hereThat Vlasuchka gentlySlips down to the grass.

"What's that for?" they ask him."We may as well rest now;He's off. You can't stop him.For since it was rumouredThat we should be givenOur freedom, the BarinTakes care to remind usThat till the last hourOf the world will the peasantBe clenched in the gripOf the nobles." And reallyAn hour slips awayAnd the Prince is still speaking;His tongue will not alwaysObey him, he spluttersAnd hisses, falls overHis words, and his right eyeSo shares his disquietThat it trembles and twitches.The left eye expands,Grows as round as an owl's eye,Revolves like a wheel.The rights of his FathersThrough ages respected,His services, merits,His name and possessions,The Barin rehearses.

God's curse, the Tsar's anger,He hurls at the headsOf obstreperous peasants.And strictly gives orderTo sweep from the communeAll senseless ideas,Bids the peasants rememberThat they are his slavesAnd must honour their master.

"Our Fathers," cried Klim,And his voice sounded strangely,It rose to a squeakAs if all things within himLeapt up with a passionateJoy of a suddenAt thought of the mightyAnd noble Pomyeshchicks,"And whom should we serveSave the Master we cherish?And whom should we honour?In whom should we hope?We feed but on sorrows,We bathe but in tear-drops,How can we rebel?

"Our tumble-down hovels,Our weak little bodies,Ourselves, we are yours,We belong to our Master.The seeds which we sowIn the earth, and the harvest,The hair on our heads--All belongs to the Master.Our ancestors fallenTo dust in their coffins,Our feeble old parentsWho nod on the oven,Our little ones lyingAsleep in their cradlesAre yours--are our Master's,And we in our homesUse our wills but as freelyAs fish in a net."

The words of the ElderHave pleased the Pomyeshchick,The right eye is gazingBenignantly at him,The left has grown smallerAnd peaceful againLike the moon in the heavens.He pours out a gobletOf red foreign wine:"Drink," he says to the peasant.The rich wine is burningLike blood in the sunshine;Klim drinks without protest.Again he is speaking:

"Our Fathers," he says,"By your mercy we live nowAs though in the bosomOf Christ. Let the peasantBut try to existWithout grace from the Barin!"(He sips at the goblet.)"The whole world would perishIf not for the Barin'sDeep wisdom and learning.If not for the peasant'sMost humble submission.By birth, and God's holyDecree you are biddenTo govern the stupidAnd ignorant peasant;By God's holy willIs the peasant commandedTo honour and cherishAnd work for his lord!"

And here the old servant,Ipat, who is standingBehind the PomyeshchickAnd waving his branches,Begins to sob loudly,The tears streaming downO'er his withered old face:"Let us pray that the BarinFor many long yearsMay be spared to his servants!"The simpleton blubbers,The loving old servant,And raising his hand,Weak and trembling, he crossesHimself without ceasing.The black-moustached footguardsLook sourly upon himWith secret displeasure.But how can they help it?So off come their hatsAnd they cross themselves also.And then the old PrinceAnd the wrinkled old dry-nurseBoth sign themselves thrice,And the Elder does likewise.He winks to the woman,His sharp little gossip,And straightway the women,Who nearer and nearerHave drawn to the table,Begin most devoutlyTo cross themselves too.And one begins sobbingIn just such a mannerAs had the old servant.("That's right, now, start whining,Old Widow Terentevna,Sill-y old noodle!"Says Vlasuchka, crossly.)

The red sun peeps slylyAt them from a cloud,And the slow, dreamy musicIs heard from the river....

The ancient PomyeshchickIs moved, and the right eyeIs blinded with tears,Till the golden-haired ladyRemoves them and dries it;She kisses the other eyeHeartily too.

"You see!" then remarksThe old man to his children,The two stalwart sonsAnd the pretty young ladies;"I wish that those villains,Those Petersburg liarsWho say we are tyrants,Could only be here nowTo see and hear this!"

But then something happenedWhich checked of a suddenThe speech of the Barin:A peasant who couldn'tControl his amusementGave vent to his laughter.

The Barin starts wildly,He clutches the table,He fixes his faceIn the sinner's direction;The right eye is fierce,Like a lynx he is watchingTo dart on his prey,And the left eye is whirling."Go, find him!" he hisses,"Go, fetch him! the scoundrel!"

The Elder dives straightIn the midst of the people;He asks himself wildly,"Now, what's to be done?"He makes for the edgeOf the crowd, where are sittingThe journeying strangers;His voice is like honey:"Come one of you forward;You see, you are strangers,He wouldn't touch you."

But they are not anxiousTo face the Pomyeshchick,Although they would gladlyHave helped the poor peasants.He's mad, the old Barin,So what's to prevent himFrom beating them too?

"Well, you go, Roman,"Say the two brothers Goobin,"You love the Pomyeshchicks."

"I'd rather you went, though!"And each is quite willingTo offer the other.Then Klim looses patience;"Now, Vlasuchka, help us!Do something to save us!I'm sick of the thing!""Yes! Nicely you lied there!"

"Oho!" says Klim sharply,"What lies did I tell?And shan't we be chokedIn the grip of the BarinsUntil our last dayWhen we lie in our coffins?When we get to Hell, too,Won't they be there waitingTo set us to work?"

"What kind of a jobWould they find for us there, Klim?"

"To stir up the fireWhile they boil in the pots!"The others laugh loudly.The sons of the BarinCome hurrying to them;"How foolish you are, Klim!Our father has sent us,He's terribly angryThat you are so long,And don't bring the offender."

"We can't bring him, Barin;A stranger he is,From St. Petersburg province,A very rich peasant;The devil has sent himTo us, for our sins!He can't understand us,And things here amuse him;He couldn't help laughing."

"Well, let him alone, then.Cast lots for a culprit,We'll pay him. Look here!"He offers five roubles.Oh, no. It won't tempt them.

"Well, run to the Barin,And say that the fellowHas hidden himself."

"But what when to-morrow comes?Have you forgottenPetrov, how we punishedThe innocent peasant?"

"Then what's to be done?"

"Give me the five roubles!You trust me, I'll save you!"Exclaims the sharp woman,The Elder's sly gossip.She runs from the peasantsLamenting and groaning,And flings herself straightAt the feet of the Barin:

"O red little sun!O my Father, don't kill me!I have but one child,Oh, have pity upon him!My poor boy is daft,Without wits the Lord made him,And sent him so intoThe world. He is crazy.Why, straight from the bathHe at once begins scratching;His drink he will tryTo pour into his laputsInstead of the jug.And of work he knows nothing;He laughs, and that's allHe can do--so God made him!Our poor little home,'Tis small comfort he brings it;Our hut is in ruins,Not seldom it happensWe've nothing to eat,And that sets him laughing--The poor crazy loon!You may give him a farthing,A crack on the skull,And at one and the otherHe'll laugh--so God made him!And what can one say?From a fool even sorrowComes pouring in laughter."

The knowing young woman!She lies at the feetOf the Barin, and trembles,She squeals like a sillyYoung girl when you pinch her,She kisses his feet.

"Well ... go. God be with you!"The Barin says kindly,"I need not be angryAt idiot laughter,I'll laugh at him too!"

"How good you are, Father,"The black-eyed young ladySays sweetly, and strokesThe white head of the Barin.The black-moustached footguardsAt this put their word in:

"A fool cannot followThe words of his masters,Especially thoseLike the words of our father,So noble and clever."

And Klim--shameless rascal!--Is wiping his eyesOn the end of his coat-tails,Is sniffing and whining;"Our Fathers! Our Fathers!The sons of our Father!They know how to punish,But better they knowHow to pardon and pity!"

The old man is cheerfulAgain, and is askingFor light frothing wine,And the corks begin poppingAnd shoot in the airTo fall down on the women,Who fly from them, shrieking.The Barin is laughing,The ladies then laugh,And at them laugh their husbands,And next the old servant,Ipat, begins laughing,The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,And then the whole partyLaugh loudly together;The feast will be merry!His daughters-in-lawAt the old Prince's orderAre pouring out vodkaTo give to the peasants,Hand cakes to the youths,To the girls some sweet syrup;The women drink alsoA small glass of vodka.The old Prince is drinkingAnd toasting the peasants;And slyly he pinchesThe beautiful ladies."That's right! That will do himMore good than his physic,"Says Vlasuchka, watching."He drinks by the glassful,Since long he's lost measureIn revel, or wrath...."

The music comes floatingTo them from the Volga,The girls now alreadyAre dancing and singing,The old Prince is watching them,Snapping his fingers.He wants to be nearerThe girls, and he rises.His legs will not bear him,His two sons support him;And standing between themHe chuckles and whistles,And stamps with his feetTo the time of the music;The left eye beginsOn its own account working,It turns like a wheel.

"But why aren't you dancing?"He says to his sons,And the two pretty ladies."Dance! Dance!" They can't help themselves,There they are dancing!He laughs at them gaily,He wishes to show themHow things went in his time;He's shaking and swayingLike one on the deckOf a ship in rough weather.

"Sing, Luiba!" he orders.The golden-haired ladyDoes not want to sing,But the old man will have it.The lady is singingA song low and tender,It sounds like the breezeOn a soft summer eveningIn velvety grassesAstray, like spring raindropsThat kiss the young leaves,And it soothes the Pomyeshchick.The feeble old man:He is falling asleep now....And gently they carry himDown to the water,And into the boat,And he lies there, still sleeping.Above him stands, holdingA big green umbrella,The faithful old servant,His other hand guardingThe sleeping PomyeshchickFrom gnats and mosquitoes.The oarsmen are silent,The faint-sounding musicCan hardly be heardAs the boat moving gentlyGlides on through the water....

The peasants stand watching:The bright yellow hairOf the beautiful ladyStreams out in the breezeLike a long golden banner....

"I managed him finely,The noble Pomyeshchick,"Said Klim to the peasants."Be God with you, Barin!Go bragging and scolding,Don't think for a momentThat we are now freeAnd your servants no longer,But die as you lived,The almighty Pomyeshchick,To sound of our music,To songs of your slaves;But only die quickly,And leave the poor peasantsIn peace. And now, brothers,Come, praise me and thank me!I've gladdened the commune.I shook in my shoes thereBefore the Pomyeshchick,For fear I should tripOr my tongue should betray me;And worse--I could hardlySpeak plain for my laughter!That eye! How it spins!And you look at it, thinking:'But whither, my friend,Do you hurry so quickly?On some hasty errandOf yours, or another's?Perhaps with a passFrom the Tsar--Little Father,You carry a messageFrom him.' I was standingAnd bursting with laughter!Well, I am a drunkenAnd frivolous peasant,The rats in my corn-loftAre starving from hunger,My hut is quite bare,Yet I call God to witnessThat I would not takeSuch an office upon meFor ten hundred roublesUnless I were certainThat he was the last,That I bore with his blusterTo serve my own ends,Of my own will and pleasure."

Old Vlasuchka sadlyAnd thoughtfully answers,"How long, though, how long, though,Have we--not we onlyBut all Russian peasants--Endured the Pomyeshchicks?And not for our pleasure,For money or fun,Not for two or three months,But for life. What has changed, though?Of what are we bragging?For still we are peasants."

The peasants, half-tipsy,Congratulate Klimka."Hurrah! Let us toss him!"And now they are placingOld Widow TerentevnaNext to her bridegroom,The little child Jockoff,Saluting them gaily.They're eating and drinkingWhat's left on the table.Then romping and jestingThey stay till the evening,And only at nightfallReturn to the village.And here they are metBy 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--whileHe was sleeping--had fallen!

The peasants are sobered,They look at each other,And silently cross themselves.Then they breathe deeply;And never beforeDid the poor squalid villageCalled "Ignorant-Duffers,"Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"Draw such an intenseAnd unanimous breath....Their pleasure, however,Was not very lasting,Because with the deathOf the ancient Pomyeshchick,The sweet-sounding wordsOf his heirs and their bountiesCeased also. Not evenA pick-me-up afterThe yesterday's feastDid they offer the peasants.And as to the hayfields--Till now is the law-suitProceeding between them,The heirs and the peasants.Old Vlasuchka wasBy the peasants appointedTo plead in their name,And he lives now in Moscow.He went to St. Petersburg too,But I don't thinkThat much can be doneFor the cause of the peasants.