"I see you are _all_ fools," A voice remarks roughly: The voice of a trader Who squeezes the peasants 270 For laputs or berries Or any spare trifles. But chiefly he's noted For seizing occasions When taxes are gathered, And peasants' possessions Are bartered at auction. "You start a discussion And miss the chief point. Why, who's the worst sinner? 280 Consider a moment."
"You've not been a serf, man," Says Klímka in answer; "The burden was heavy, But not on your shoulders. Your pockets are full, So the robber alarms you; The robber with this case 290 Has nothing to do."
"The case of the robber Defending the robber," The other retorts.
"Now, pray!" bellows Klímka, And leaping upon him, He punches his jaw. The trader repays him With buffets as hearty, "Take leave of your carcase!" 300 He roars.
"Here's a tussle!" The peasants are clearing A space for the battle; They do not prevent it Nor do they applaud it. The blows fall like hail.
"I'll kill you, I'll kill you! Write home to your parents!"
"I'll kill you, I'll kill you! 310 Heh, send for the pope!"
The trader, bent double By Klímka, who, clutching His hair, drags his head down, Repeating, "He's bowing!" Cries, "Stop, that's enough!" When Klímka has freed him He sits on a log, And says, wiping his face With a broadly-checked muffler, 320 "No wonder he conquered: He ploughs not, he reaps not, Does nothing but doctor The pigs and the horses; Of course he gets strong!"
The peasants are laughing, And Klímka says, mocking, "Here, try a bit more!"
"Come on, then! I'm ready," The trader says stoutly, 330 And rolling his sleeves up, He spits on his palms.
"The hour has now sounded For me, though a sinner, To speak and unite you," Ióna pronounces. The whole of the evening That diffident pilgrim Has sat without speaking, And crossed himself, sighing. 340 The trader's delighted, And Klímka replies not. The rest, without speaking, Sit down on the ground.
We know that in Russia Are numbers of people Who wander at large Without kindred or home. They sow not, they reap not, They feed at the fountain That's common to all, That nourishes likewise The tiniest mouse And the mightiest army: The sweat of the peasant. 10 The peasants will tell you That whole populations Of villages sometimes Turn out in the autumn To wander like pilgrims. They beg, and esteem it A paying profession. The people consider That misery drives them 20 More often than cunning, And so to the pilgrims Contribute their mite. Of course, there are cases Of downright deception: One pilgrim's a thief, Or another may wheedle Some cloth from the wife Of a peasant, exchanging Some "sanctified wafers" 30 Or "tears of the Virgin" He's brought from Mount Athos, And then she'll discover He's been but as far As a cloister near Moscow. One saintly old greybeard Enraptured the people By wonderful singing, And offered to teach The young girls of the village 40 The songs of the church With their mothers' permission. And all through the winter He locked himself up With the girls in a stable. From thence, sometimes singing Was heard, but more often Came laughter and giggles. Well, what was the upshot? He taught them no singing, 50 But ruined them all.