So now, too, the peasants Of "Earthworms" decided To part with the fields To the Elder for taxes. They calculate closely: "They'll pay both the taxes And dues--with some over, 110 Heh, Vlasuchka, won't they?" "Once taxes are paid I'll uncover to no man. I'll work if it please me, I'll lie with my wife, Or I'll go to the tavern." "Bravo!" cry the peasants, In answer to Klimka, "Now, Vlasuchka, do you Agree to our plan?" 120 "The speeches of Klimka Are short, and as plain As the public-house signboard," Says Vlasuchka, joking. "And that is his manner: To start with a woman And end in the tavern." "Well, where should one end, then? Perhaps in the prison? Now--as to the taxes, 130 Don't croak, but decide." But Vlasuchka really Was far from a croaker. The kindest soul living Was he, and he sorrowed For all in the village, Not only for one. His conscience had pricked him While serving his haughty And rigorous Barin, 140 Obeying his orders, So cruel and oppressive. While young he had always Believed in 'improvements,' But soon he observed That they ended in nothing, Or worse--in misfortune. So now he mistrusted The new, rich in promise. The wheels that have passed 150 O'er the roadways of Moscow Are fewer by far Than the injuries done To the soul of the peasant. There's nothing to laugh at In that, so the Elder Perforce had grown gloomy. But now, the gay pranks Of the peasants of "Earthworms" Affected him too. 160 His thoughts became brighter: No taxes ... no barschin ... No stick held above you, Dear God, am I dreaming? Old Vlasuchka smiles.... A miracle surely! Like that, when the sun From the splendour of Heaven May cast a chance ray In the depths of the forest: 170 The dew shines like diamonds, The mosses are gilded. "Drink, drink, little peasants! Disport yourselves bravely!" 'Twas gay beyond measure. In each breast awakens A wondrous new feeling, As though from the depths Of a bottomless gulf On the crest of a wave, 180 They've been borne to the surface To find there awaits them A feast without end. Another pail's started, And, oh, what a clamour Of voices arises, And singing begins. And just as a dead man's Relations and friends Talk of nothing but him 190 Till the funeral's over, Until they have finished The funeral banquet And started to yawn,-- So over the vodka, Beneath the old willow, One topic prevails: The "break in the chain" Of their lords, the Pomyeshchicks. The deacon they ask, 200 And his sons, to oblige them By singing a song Called the "Merry Song" to them.