The peasants say softly, 550 And cross themselves thrice; And the mournful Pomyeshchick Uncovers his head, As he piously crosses Himself, and he answers: "'Tis not for the peasant The knell is now tolling, It tolls the lost life Of the stricken Pomyeshchick. Farewell to the past, 560 And farewell to thee, Russia, The Russia who cradled The happy Pomyeshchick, Thy place has been stolen And filled by another!... Heh, Proshka!" (The brandy Is given, and quickly He empties the glass.) "Oh, it isn't consoling To witness the change 570 In thy face, oh, my Motherland! Truly one fancies The whole race of nobles Has suddenly vanished! Wherever one goes, now, One falls over peasants Who lie about, tipsy, One meets not a creature But excise official, Or stupid 'Posrednik,'[36] 580 Or Poles who've been banished. One sees the troops passing, And then one can guess That a village has somewhere Revolted, 'in thankful And dutiful spirit....' In old days, these roads Were made gay by the passing Of carriage, 'dormeuse,' And of six-in-hand coaches, 590 And pretty, light troikas; And in them were sitting The family troop Of the jolly Pomyeshchick: The stout, buxom mother, The fine, roguish sons, And the pretty young daughters; One heard with enjoyment The chiming of large bells, The tinkling of small bells, 600 Which hung from the harness. And now?... What distraction Has life? And what joy Does it bring the Pomyeshchick? At each step, you meet Something new to revolt you; And when in the air You can smell a rank graveyard, You know you are passing A nobleman's manor! 610 My Lord!... They have pillaged The beautiful dwelling! They've pulled it all down, Brick by brick, and have fashioned The bricks into hideously Accurate columns! The broad shady park Of the outraged Pomyeshchick, The fruit of a hundred years' Careful attention, 620 Is falling away 'Neath the axe of a peasant! The peasant works gladly, And greedily reckons The number of logs Which his labour will bring him. His dark soul is closed To refinement of feeling, And what would it matter To him, if you told him 630 That this stately oak Which his hatchet is felling My grandfather's hand Had once planted and tended; That under this ash-tree My dear little children, My Vera and Ganushka, Echoed my voice As they played by my side; That under this linden 640 My young wife confessed me That little Gavrioushka, Our best-beloved first-born, Lay under her heart, As she nestled against me And bashfully hid Her sweet face in my bosom As red as a cherry.... It is to his profit To ravish the park, 650 And his mission delights him. It makes one ashamed now