"A woman she is, But more clever than you," The Pomyeshchick says smiling, And then of a sudden Is shaken with laughter: "Ha, ha! Oh, you blockhead! 110 Ha? ha! fool! fool! fool! It's the 'Barin's term,' say you? Ha, ha! fool, ha, ha! The Barin's term, slave, Is the whole of your life-time; And you have forgotten That I, by God's mercy, By Tsar's ancient charter, By birth and by merit, Am your supreme master!" 120 The strangers remark here That Vlasuchka gently Slips down to the grass. "What's that for?" they ask him. "We may as well rest now; He's off. You can't stop him. For since it was rumoured That we should be given Our freedom, the Barin Takes care to remind us 130 That till the last hour Of the world will the peasant Be clenched in the grip Of the nobles." And really An hour slips away And the Prince is still speaking; His tongue will not always Obey him, he splutters And hisses, falls over His words, and his right eye 140 So shares his disquiet That it trembles and twitches. The left eye expands, Grows as round as an owl's eye, Revolves like a wheel. The rights of his Fathers Through ages respected, His services, merits, His name and possessions, The Barin rehearses. 150 God's curse, the Tsar's anger, He hurls at the heads Of obstreperous peasants. And strictly gives order To sweep from the commune All senseless ideas, Bids the peasants remember That they are his slaves And must honour their master. "Our Fathers," cried Klim, 160 And his voice sounded strangely, It rose to a squeak As if all things within him Leapt up with a passionate Joy of a sudden At thought of the mighty And noble Pomyeshchicks, "And whom should we serve Save the Master we cherish? And whom should we honour? 170 In whom should we hope? We feed but on sorrows, We bathe but in tear-drops, How can we rebel? "Our tumble-down hovels, Our weak little bodies, Ourselves, we are yours, We belong to our Master. The seeds which we sow In the earth, and the harvest, 180 The hair on our heads-- All belongs to the Master. Our ancestors fallen To dust in their coffins, Our feeble old parents Who nod on the oven, Our little ones lying Asleep in their cradles Are yours--are our Master's, And we in our homes 190 Use our wills but as freely As fish in a net." The words of the Elder Have pleased the Pomyeshchick, The right eye is gazing Benignantly at him, The left has grown smaller And peaceful again Like the moon in the heavens. He pours out a goblet 200 Of red foreign wine: "Drink," he says to the peasant. The rich wine is burning Like blood in the sunshine; Klim drinks without protest. Again he is speaking: