"Well, tell us about it." "I'll first have a smoke." And while he is smoking Our peasants are asking, "And who is this fellow? 90 What sort of a goose?" "An unfortunate footman Inscribed in our Volost, A martyr, a house-serf Of Count Sinegusin's. His name is Vikenti. He sprang from the foot-board Direct to the ploughshare; We still call him 'Footman.' He's healthy enough, 100 But his legs are not strong, And they're given to trembling. His lady would drive In a carriage and four To go hunting for mushrooms. He'll tell you some stories: His memory's splendid; You'd think he had eaten The eggs of a magpie." [55] Now, setting his hat straight, 110 Vikenti commences To tell them the story. _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, 120 Horsewhipped her husband, and drove them both penniless Out 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 slavery Sometimes with dogs' hearts accord: Crueller the punishments dealt to them More they will worship their lord. 129 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, 140 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, 150 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.