The Dutiful Serf—Jacob the Faithful

Once an official, of rather low family,Bought a small village from bribes he had stored,Lived in it thirty-three years without leaving it,Feasted and hunted and drank like a lord.Greedy and miserly, not many friends he made,Sometimes he'd drive to his sister's to tea.Cruel was his nature, and not to his serfs alone:On his own daughter no pity had he,Horsewhipped her husband, and drove them both pennilessOut of his house; not a soul dare resist.Jacob, his dutiful servant,Ever of orders observant,Often he'd strike in the mouth with his fist.

Hearts of men born into slaverySometimes with dogs' hearts accord:Crueller the punishments dealt to themMore they will worship their lord.

Jacob, it seems, had a heart of that quality,Only two sources of joy he possessed:Tending and serving his Barin devotedly,Rocking his own little nephew to rest.So they lived on till old age was approaching them,Weak grew the legs of the Barin at last,Vainly, to cure them, he tried every remedy;Feast and debauch were delights of the past.

Plump are his hands and white,Keen are his eyes and bright,Rosy his cheek remains,But on his legs--are chains!

Helpless the Barin now lies in his dressing-gown,Bitterly, bitterly cursing his fate.Jacob, his "brother and friend,"--so the Barin says,--Nurses him, humours him early and late.Winter and summer they pass thus in company,Mostly at card-games together they play,Sometimes they drive for a change to the sister's house,Eight miles or so, on a very fine day.Jacob himself bears his lord to the carriage then,Drives him with care at a moderate pace,Carries him into the old lady's drawing-room....So they live peacefully on for a space.

Grisha, the nephew of Jacob, a youth becomes,Falls at the feet of his lord: "I would wed.""Who will the bride be?" "Her name is Arisha, sir."Thunders the Barin, "You'd better be dead!"Looking at her he had often bethought himself,"Oh, for my legs! Would the Lord but relent!"So, though the uncle entreated his clemency,Grisha to serve in the army he sent.Cut to the heart was the slave by this tyranny,Jacob the Faithful went mad for a spell:Drank like a fish, and his lord was disconsolate,No one could please him: "You fools, go to Hell!"Hate in each bosom since long has been festering:Now for revenge! Now the Barin must pay,Roughly they deal with his whims and infirmities,Two quite unbearable weeks pass away.Then the most faithful of servants appeared again,Straight at the feet of his master he fell,Pity has softened his heart to the legless one,Who can look after the Barin so well?"Barin, recall not your pitiless cruelty,While I am living my cross I'll embrace."Peacefully now lies the lord in his dressing-gown,Jacob, once more, is restored to his place.Brother again the Pomyeshchick has christened him."Why do you wince, little Jacob?" says he."Barin, there's something that stings ... in my memory...."Now they thread mushrooms, play cards, and drink tea,Then they make brandy from cherries and raspberries,Next for a drive to the sister's they start,See how the Barin lies smoking contentedly,Green leaves and sunshine have gladdened his heart.Jacob is gloomy, converses unwillingly,Trembling his fingers, the reins are hung slack,"Spirits unholy!" he murmurs unceasingly,"Leave me! Begone!" (But again they attack.)Just on the right lies a deep, wooded precipice,Known in those parts as "The Devil's Abyss,"Jacob turns into the wood by the side of it.Queries his lord, "What's the meaning of this?"Jacob replies not. The path here is difficult,Branches and ruts make their steps very slow;Rustling of trees is heard. Spring waters noisilyCast themselves into the hollow below.Then there's a halt,--not a step can the horses move:Straight in their path stand the pines like a wall;Jacob gets down, and, the horses unharnessing,Takes of the Barin no notice at all.

Vainly the Barin's exclaiming and questioning,Jacob is pale, and he shakes like a leaf,Evilly smiles at entreaties and promises:"Am I a murderer, then, or a thief?No, Barin, you shall not die. There's another way!"Now he has climbed to the top of a pine,Fastened the reins to the summit, and crossed himself,Turning his face to the sun's bright decline.Thrusting his head in the noose ... he has hanged himself!Horrible! Horrible! See, how he swaysBackwards and forwards.... The Barin, unfortunate,Shouts for assistance, and struggles and prays.Twisting his head he is jerking convulsively,Straining his voice to the utmost he cries,All is in vain, there is no one to rescue him,Only the mischievous echo replies.

Gloomy the hollow now lies in its winding-sheet,Black is the night. Hear the owls on the wing,Striking the earth as they pass, while the horses standChewing the leaves, and their bells faintly ring.Two eyes are burning like lamps at the train's approach,Steadily, brightly they gleam in the night,Strange birds are flitting with movements mysterious,Somewhere at hand they are heard to alight.Straight over Jacob a raven exultinglyHovers and caws. Now a hundred fly round!Feebly the Barin is waving his crutch at them,Merciful Heaven, what horrors abound!

So the poor Barin all night in the carriage lies,Shouting, from wolves to protect his old bones.Early next morning a hunter discovers him,Carries him home, full of penitent groans:"Oh, I'm a sinner most infamous! Punish me!"Barin, I think, till you rest in your grave,One figure surely will haunt you incessantly,Jacob the Faithful, your dutiful slave.

"What sinners! What sinners!"The peasants are saying,"I'm sorry for Jacob,Yet pity the Barin,Indeed he was punished!Ah, me!" Then they listenTo two or three more talesAs strange and as fearful,And hotly they argueOn who must be reckonedThe greatest of sinners:"The publican," one says,And one, "The Pomyeshchick,"Another, "The peasant."This last was a carter,A man of good standingAnd sound reputation,No ignorant babbler.He'd seen many thingsIn his life, his own provinceHad traversed entirely.He should have been heard.The peasants, however,Were all so indignantThey would not allow himTo speak. As for Klimka,His wrath is unbounded,"You fool!" he is shouting."But let me explain."

"I see you are all fools,"A voice remarks roughly:The voice of a traderWho squeezes the peasantsFor laputs or berriesOr any spare trifles.But chiefly he's notedFor seizing occasionsWhen taxes are gathered,And peasants' possessionsAre bartered at auction."You start a discussionAnd miss the chief point.Why, who's the worst sinner?Consider a moment."

"Well, who then? You tell us."

"The robber, of course."

"You've not been a serf, man,"Says Klimka in answer;"The burden was heavy,But not on your shoulders.Your pockets are full,So the robber alarms you;The robber with this caseHas nothing to do."

"The case of the robberDefending the robber,"The other retorts.

"Now, pray!" bellows Klimka,And leaping upon him,He punches his jaw.The trader repays himWith buffets as hearty,"Take leave of your carcase!"He roars.

"Here's a tussle!"The peasants are clearingA space for the battle;They do not prevent itNor do they applaud it.The blows fall like hail.

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you!Write home to your parents!"

"I'll kill you, I'll kill you!Heh, send for the pope!"

The trader, bent doubleBy Klimka, who, clutchingHis hair, drags his head down,Repeating, "He's bowing!"Cries, "Stop, that's enough!"When Klimka has freed himHe sits on a log,And says, wiping his faceWith a broadly-checked muffler,"No wonder he conquered:He ploughs not, he reaps not,Does nothing but doctorThe pigs and the horses;Of course he gets strong!"

The peasants are laughing,And Klimka says, mocking,"Here, try a bit more!"

"Come on, then! I'm ready,"The trader says stoutly,And rolling his sleeves up,He spits on his palms.

"The hour has now soundedFor me, though a sinner,To speak and unite you,"Iona pronounces.The whole of the eveningThat diffident pilgrimHas sat without speaking,And crossed himself, sighing.The trader's delighted,And Klimka replies not.The rest, without speaking,Sit down on the ground.