.. Go, leave me!
You pitiful puppies!'
The heirs were alarmed;
How to tide matters over 120
Until he should die?
For they are not small items,
The forests and lands
That belong to our father;
His money-bags are not
So light as to make it
A question of nothing
Whose shoulders shall bear them;
We know that our father
Has three 'private' daughters 130
In Petersburg living,
To Generals married,
So how do we know
That they may not inherit
His wealth?... The Pomyeshchick
Once more is prostrated,
His death is a question
Of time, and to make it
Run smoothly till then
An agreement was come to, 140
A plan to deceive him:
So one of the ladies
(The fair one, I fancy,
She used at that time
To attend the old master
And rub his left side
With a brush), well, she told him
That orders had come
From the Government lately
That peasants set free 150
Should return to their bondage.
And he quite believed it.
(You see, since his illness
The Prince had become
Like a child.) When he heard it
He cried with delight;
And the household was summoned
To prayer round the icons;[40]
And Thanksgiving Service
Was held by his orders 160
In every small village,
And bells were set ringing.
And little by little
His strength returned partly.
And then as before
It was hunting and music,
The servants were caned
And the peasants were punished.
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