And then he commences The story again Of the poor little grandchild. He's very dejected. A crowd listens round him, Not laughing, but troubled At sight of his sorrow.
If they could have helped him 320 With bread or by labour They soon would have done so, But money is money, And who has got tenpence To spare? Then came forward Pavlóosha Varénko, The "gentleman" nicknamed. (His origin, past life, Or calling they knew not, But called him the 'Barin'.) 330 He listened with pleasure To talk and to jesting; His blouse, coat, and top-boots Were those of a peasant; He sang Russian folk-songs, Liked others to sing them, And often was met with At taverns and inns. He now rescued Vavil, And bought him the boots 340 To take home to his grandchild.
The old man fled blindly, But clasping them tightly, Forgetting to thank him, Bewildered with joy. The crowd was as pleased, too, As if had been given To each one a rouble.
The peasants next visit The picture and book stall; 350 The pedlars are buying Their stock of small pictures, And books for their baskets To sell on the road.
"'Tis generals, _you_ want!" The merchant is saying.
"Well, give us some generals; But look--on your conscience-- Now let them be real ones, Be fat and ferocious." 360
"Your notions are funny," The merchant says, smiling; "It isn't a question Of looks...."
"Well, of what, then? You want to deceive us, To palm off your rubbish, You swindling impostor! D'you think that the peasants Know one from another? 370 A shabby one--he wants An expert to sell him, But trust me to part with The fat and the fierce."
However they took one Because he was cheap: A minister, striking In view of his stomach 380 As round as a barrel, And seventeen medals.
The merchant is serving With greatest politeness, Displaying and praising, With patience unyielding,-- A thief of the first-class He is, come from Moscow. Of Blücher he sells them A hundred small pictures, 390 As many of Fótyi[17] The archimandrite, And of Sipko[17] the brigand; A book of the sayings Of droll Balakireff[17] The "English Milord," too. The books were put into The packs of the pedlars; The pictures will travel All over great Russia, 400 Until they find rest On the wall of some peasant-- The devil knows why!