So they live peacefully on for a space.

Grisha, the nephew of Jacob, a youth becomes,
Falls at the feet of his lord: "I would wed."
"Who will the bride be?" "Her name is Arisha, sir."
Thunders the Barin, "You'd better be dead!"
Looking at her he had often bethought himself,
"Oh, for my legs! Would the Lord but relent!" 159
So, though the uncle entreated his clemency,
Grisha to serve in the army he sent.
Cut to the heart was the slave by this tyranny,
Jacob the Faithful went mad for a spell:
Drank like a fish, and his lord was disconsolate,
No one could please him: "You fools, go to Hell!"
Hate in each bosom since long has been festering:
Now for revenge! Now the Barin must pay,
Roughly they deal with his whims and infirmities,
Two quite unbearable weeks pass away.
Then the most faithful of servants appeared again, 170
Straight at the feet of his master he fell,
Pity has softened his heart to the legless one,
Who can look after the Barin so well?
"Barin, recall not your pitiless cruelty,
While I am living my cross I'll embrace."
Peacefully now lies the lord in his dressing-gown,
Jacob, once more, is restored to his place.
Brother again the Pomyeshchick has christened him.
"Why do you wince, little Jacob?" says he.
"Barin, there's something that stings ... in my memory...." 180
Now they thread mushrooms, play cards, and drink tea,