At a long snowy table Quite covered with bottles And all kinds of dishes Are sitting the gentry, The old Prince presiding In dignified state At the head of the table; All white, dressed in white, With his face shrunk awry, 20 His dissimilar eyes; In his button-hole fastened A little white cross (It's the cross of St. George, Some one says in a whisper); And standing behind him, Ipát, the domestic, The faithful old servant, In white tie and shirt-front Is brushing the flies off. 30 Beside the Pomyéshchick On each hand are sitting The beautiful ladies: The one with black tresses, Her lips red as beetroots, Each eye like an apple; The other, the fair-haired, With yellow locks streaming. (Oh, you yellow locks, Like spun gold do you glisten 40 And glow, in the sunshine!) Then perched on three high chairs The three little Barins, Each wearing his napkin Tucked under his chin, With the old nurse beside them, And further the body Of ancient retainers; And facing the Prince At the foot of the table, 50 The black-moustached footguards Are sitting together. Behind each chair standing A young girl is serving, And women are waving The flies off with branches. The woolly white poodles Are under the table, The three little Barins Are teasing them slyly. 60
Before the Pomyéshchick, Bare-headed and humble, The Elder is standing. "Now tell me, how soon Will the mowing be finished?" The Barin says, talking And eating at once.
"It soon will be finished. Three days of the week Do we work for your Highness; 70 A man with a horse, And a youth or a woman, And half an old woman From every allotment. To-day for this week Is the Barin's term finished."
"Tut-tut!" says the Barin, Like one who has noticed Some crafty intent On the part of another. 80 "'The Barin's term,' say you? Now, what do you mean, pray?" The eye which is bright He has fixed on the peasant.
The Elder is hanging His head in confusion. "Of course it must be As your Highness may order. In two or three days, If the weather be gracious, 90 The hay of your Highness Can surely be gathered. That's so,--is it not?"
(He turns his broad face round And looks at the peasants.) And then the sharp woman, Klím's gossip, Orévna, Makes answer for them: "Yes, Klím, Son-of-Jacob, The hay of the Barin 100 Is surely more precious Than ours. We must tend it As long as the weather lasts; Ours may come later."