Nikolai Nekrasov - Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?

The black-moustached footguards
Look sourly upon him
With secret displeasure.
But how can they help it?

So off come their hats
And they cross themselves also.
And then the old Prince
And the wrinkled old dry-nurse
Both sign themselves thrice, 250
And the Elder does likewise.

He winks to the woman,
His sharp little gossip,
And straightway the women,
Who nearer and nearer
Have drawn to the table,
Begin most devoutly
To cross themselves too.

And one begins sobbing
In just such a manner 260
As had the old servant.

("That's right, now, start whining,
Old Widow Terentevna,
Sill-y old noodle!"
Says Vlásuchka, crossly.)

The red sun peeps slyly
At them from a cloud,
And the slow, dreamy music
Is heard from the river….

The ancient Pomyéshchick 270
Is moved, and the right eye
Is blinded with tears,
Till the golden-haired lady
Removes them and dries it;
She kisses the other eye
Heartily too.

"You see!" then remarks
The old man to his children,
The two stalwart sons
And the pretty young ladies; 280

"I wish that those villains,
Those Petersburg liars
Who say we are tyrants,
Could only be here now
To see and hear this!"

But then something happened
Which checked of a sudden
The speech of the Barin:
A peasant who couldn't
Control his amusement 290
Gave vent to his laughter.

The Barin starts wildly,
He clutches the table,
He fixes his face
In the sinner's direction;

The right eye is fierce,
Like a lynx he is watching
To dart on his prey,
And the left eye is whirling.

"Go, find him!" he hisses, 300
"Go, fetch him! the scoundrel!"

The Elder dives straight
In the midst of the people;
He asks himself wildly,
"Now, what's to be done?"

He makes for the edge
Of the crowd, where are sitting
The journeying strangers;
His voice is like honey:

"Come one of you forward; 310
You see, you are strangers,
He wouldn't touch you ."

But they are not anxious
To face the Pomyéshchick,
Although they would gladly
Have helped the poor peasants.

He's mad, the old Barin,
So what's to prevent him
From beating them too?

"Well, you go, Román," 320
Say the two brothers Góobin,
" You love the Pomyéshchicks."
"I'd rather you went, though!"

And each is quite willing
To offer the other.

Then Klím looses patience;
"Now, Vlásuchka, help us!
Do something to save us!
I'm sick of the thing!"

"Yes! Nicely you lied there!" 330
"Oho!" says Klím sharply,
"What lies did I tell?
And shan't we be choked
In the grip of the Barins
Until our last day
When we lie in our coffins?

When we get to Hell, too,
Won't they be there waiting
To set us to work?"

"What kind of a job 340
Would they find for us there, Klím?"

"To stir up the fire
While they boil in the pots!"

The others laugh loudly.
The sons of the Barin
Come hurrying to them;

"How foolish you are, Klím!
Our father has sent us,
He's terribly angry
That you are so long, 350
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 him
To us, for our sins!

He can't understand us,
And things here amuse him;
He couldn't help laughing." 360

"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 fellow
Has hidden himself."

"But what when to-morrow comes?
Have you forgotten 370
Petrov, how we punished
The 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 peasants
Lamenting and groaning,

And flings herself straight 380
At 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 into
The world. He is crazy.

Why, straight from the bath 390
He at once begins scratching;
His drink he will try
To pour into his laputs
Instead of the jug.

And of work he knows nothing;
He laughs, and that's all
He can do—so God made him!

Our poor little home,
'Tis small comfort he brings it;
Our hut is in ruins, 400
Not seldom it happens
We'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 other
He'll laugh—so God made him!
And what can one say?

From a fool even sorrow 410
Comes pouring in laughter."

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

"Well … go. God be with you!"
The Barin says kindly,
"I need not be angry 420
At idiot laughter,
I'll laugh at him too!"

"How good you are, Father,"
The black-eyed young lady
Says sweetly, and strokes
The white head of the Barin.

The black-moustached footguards
At this put their word in:

"A fool cannot follow
The words of his masters, 430
Especially those
Like the words of our father,
So noble and clever."

And Klím—shameless rascal!—
Is wiping his eyes

On the end of his coat-tails,
Is sniffing and whining;

"Our Fathers! Our Fathers!
The sons of our Father!
They know how to punish, 440
But better they know
How to pardon and pity!"

The old man is cheerful
Again, and is asking
For light frothing wine,
And the corks begin popping
And shoot in the air
To fall down on the women,
Who fly from them, shrieking.

The Barin is laughing, 450
The ladies then laugh,
And at them laugh their husbands,
And next the old servant,
Ipát, begins laughing,
The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,
And then the whole party
Laugh loudly together;
The feast will be merry!