"Sweet peace to the peasant!God greet him in Heaven!"
The peasants say softly, 550And cross themselves thrice;And the mournful PomyéshchickUncovers his head,As he piously crossesHimself, and he answers:"'Tis not for the peasantThe knell is now tolling,It tolls the lost lifeOf the stricken Pomyéshchick.Farewell to the past, 560And farewell to thee, Russia,The Russia who cradledThe happy Pomyéshchick,Thy place has been stolenAnd filled by another!…Heh, Proshka!" (The brandyIs given, and quicklyHe empties the glass.)"Oh, it isn't consolingTo witness the change 570In thy face, oh, my Motherland!Truly one fanciesThe whole race of noblesHas suddenly vanished!Wherever one goes, now,One falls over peasantsWho lie about, tipsy,One meets not a creatureBut excise official,Or stupid 'Posrédnik,'[36] 580Or Poles who've been banished.One sees the troops passing,And then one can guessThat a village has somewhereRevolted, 'in thankfulAnd dutiful spirit….'In old days, these roadsWere made gay by the passingOf carriage, 'dormeuse,'And of six-in-hand coaches, 590And pretty, light troikas;And in them were sittingThe family troopOf the jolly Pomyéshchick:The stout, buxom mother,The fine, roguish sons,And the pretty young daughters;One heard with enjoymentThe chiming of large bells,The tinkling of small bells, 600Which hung from the harness.And now?… What distractionHas life? And what joyDoes it bring the Pomyéshchick?At each step, you meetSomething new to revolt you;And when in the airYou can smell a rank graveyard,You know you are passingA nobleman's manor! 610My Lord!… They have pillagedThe beautiful dwelling!They've pulled it all down,Brick by brick, and have fashionedThe bricks into hideouslyAccurate columns!The broad shady parkOf the outraged Pomyéshchick,The fruit of a hundred years'Careful attention, 620Is falling away'Neath the axe of a peasant!The peasant works gladly,And greedily reckonsThe number of logsWhich his labour will bring him.His dark soul is closedTo refinement of feeling,And what would it matterTo him, if you told him 630That this stately oakWhich his hatchet is fellingMy grandfather's handHad once planted and tended;That under this ash-treeMy dear little children,My Vera and Gánushka,Echoed my voiceAs they played by my side;That under this linden 640My young wife confessed meThat little Gavrióushka,Our best-beloved first-born,Lay under her heart,As she nestled against meAnd bashfully hidHer sweet face in my bosomAs red as a cherry….It is to his profitTo ravish the park, 650And his mission delights him.It makes one ashamed nowTo pass through a village;The peasant sits stillAnd he dreams not of bowing.One feels in one's breastNot the pride of a nobleBut wrath and resentment.The axe of the robberResounds in the forest, 660It maddens your heart,But you cannot prevent it,For who can you summonTo rescue your forest?The fields are half-laboured,The seeds are half-wasted,No trace left of order….O Mother, my country,We do not complainFor ourselves—of our sorrows, 670Our hearts bleed for thee:Like a widow thou standestIn helpless afflictionWith tresses dishevelledAnd grief-stricken face….They have blighted the forest,The noisy low tavernsHave risen and flourished.They've picked the most worthlessAnd loose of the people, 680And given them powerIn the posts of the Zemstvos;They've seized on the peasantAnd taught him his letters—Much good may it do him!Your brow they have branded,As felons are branded,As cattle are branded,With these words they've stamped it:'To take away with you 690Or drink on the premises.'Was it worth while, pray,To weary the peasantWith learning his lettersIn order to read them?The land that we keepIs our mother no longer,Our stepmother rather.And then to improve things,These pert good-for-nothings, 700These impudent writersMust needs shout in chorus:'But whose fault, then, is it,That you thus exhaustedAnd wasted your country?'But I say—you duffers!Whocouldforesee this?They babble, 'EnoughOf your lordly pretensions!It's time that you learnt something, 710Lazy Pomyéshchicks!Get up, now, and work!'
"Work! To whom, in God's name,Do you think you are speaking?I am not a peasantIn 'laputs,' good madman!I am—by God's mercy—A Noble of Russia.You take us for Germans!We nobles have tender 720And delicate feelings,Our pride is inborn,And in Russia our classesAre not taught to work.Why, the meanest officialWill not raise a fingerTo clear his own table,Or light his own stove!I can say, without boasting,That though I have lived 730Forty years in the country,And scarcely have left it,I could not distinguishBetween rye and barley.And they sing of 'work' to me!
"If we PomyéshchicksHave really mistakenOur duty and calling,If really our missionIs not, as in old days, 740To keep up the hunting,To revel in luxury,Live on forced labour,Why did they not tell usBefore? Could I learn it?For what do I see?I've worn the Tsar's livery,'Sullied the Heavens,'And 'squandered the treasuryGained by the people,' 750And fully imaginedTo do so for ever,And now … God in Heaven!"…The Barin is sobbing!…
The kind-hearted peasantsCan hardly help cryingThemselves, and they think:"Yes, the chain has been broken,The strong links have snapped,And the one end recoiling 760Has struck the Pomyéshchick,The other—the peasant."
The day of St. Peter—And very hot weather;The mowers are allAt their work in the meadows.The peasants are passingA tumble-down village,Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"Of Government "Know-Nothing.'They are approaching 10The banks of the Volga.They come to the river,The sea-gulls are wheelingAnd flashing above it;The sea-hens are walkingAbout on the sand-banks;And in the bare hayfields,Which look just as nakedAs any youth's cheekAfter yesterday's shaving, 20The Princes Volkonsky[37]Are haughtily standing,And round them their children,Who (unlike all others)Are born at an earlierDate than their sires.
"The fields are enormous,"Remarks old Pakhóm,"Why, the folk must be giants."The two brothers Goóbin 30Are smiling at something:For some time they've noticedA very tall peasantWho stands with a pitcherOn top of a haystack;He drinks, and a womanBelow, with a hay-fork,Is looking at himWith her head leaning back.The peasants walk on 40Till they come to the haystack;The man is still drinking;They pass it quite slowly,Go fifty steps farther,Then all turn togetherAnd look at the haystack.Not much has been altered:The peasant is standingWith body bent backAs before,—but the pitcher 50Has turned bottom upwards….
The strangers go farther.The camps are thrown outOn the banks of the river;And there the old peopleAnd children are gathered,And horses are waitingWith big empty waggons;And then, in the fieldsBehind those that are finished, 60The distance is filledBy the army of workers,The white shirts of women,The men's brightly coloured,And voices and laughter,With all intermingledThe hum of the scythes….
"God help you, good fellows!""Our thanks to you, brothers!"
The peasants stand noting 70The long line of mowers,The poise of the scythesAnd their sweep through the sunshine.The rhythmical swellOf melodious murmur.
The timid grass standsFor a moment, and trembles,Then falls with a sigh….
On the banks of the VolgaThe grass has grown high 80And the mowers work gladly.The peasants soon feelThat they cannot resist it."It's long since we've stretched ourselves,Come, let us help you!"And now seven womenHave yielded their places.The spirit of workIs devouring our peasants;Like teeth in a ravenous 90Mouth they are working—The muscular arms,And the long grass is fallingTo songs that are strangeTo this part of the country,To songs that are taughtBy the blizzards and snow-storms,The wild savage windsOf the peasants' own homelands:"Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry," 100"Patched," "Bare-Foot," and "Shabby,"And "Harvestless," too….And when the strong cravingFor work is appeasedThey sit down by a haystack.
"From whence have you come?"A grey-headed old peasant(The one whom the womenCall Vlásuchka) asks them,"And where are you going?" 110
"We are—" say the peasants,Then suddenly stop,There's some music approaching!
"Oh, that's the PomyéshchickReturning from boating!"Says Vlásuchka, runningTo busy the mowers:"Wake up! Look alive there!And mind—above all things,Don't heat the Pomyéshchick 120And don't make him angry!And if he abuse you,Bow low and say nothing,And if he should praise you,Start lustily cheering.You women, stop cackling!And get to your forks!"A big burly peasantWith beard long and bushyBestirs himself also 130To busy them all,Then puts on his "kaftan," [38]And runs away quicklyTo meet the Pomyéshchick.
And now to the bank-sideThree boats are approaching.In one sit the servantsAnd band of musicians,Most busily playing;The second one groans 140'Neath a mountainous wet-nurse,Who dandles a baby,A withered old dry-nurse,A motionless bodyOf ancient retainers.And then in the thirdThere are sitting the gentry:Two beautiful ladies(One slender and fair-haired,One heavy and black-browed) 150And two moustached BarinsAnd three little Barins,And last—the Pomyéshchick,A very old manWearing long white moustaches(He seems to be all white);His cap, broad and high-crowned,Is white, with a peak,In the front, of red satin.His body is lean 160As a hare's in the winter,His nose like a hawk's beak,His eyes—well, they differ:The one sharp and shining,The other—the left eye—Is sightless and blank,Like a dull leaden farthing.Some woolly white poodlesWith tufts on their anklesAre in the boat too. 170
The old man alightingHas mounted the bank,Where for long he reposesUpon a red carpetSpread out by the servants.And then he arisesTo visit the mowers,To pass through the fieldsOn a tour of inspection.He leans on the arm— 180Now of one of the Barins,And now upon thoseOf the beautiful ladies.And so with his suite—With the three little Barins,The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,The ancient retainers,The woolly white poodles,—Along through the hayfieldsProceeds the Pomyéshchick. 190
The peasants on all sidesBow down to the ground;And the big, burly peasant(The Elder he isAs the peasants have noticed)Is cringing and bendingBefore the Pomyéshchick,Just like the Big DevilBefore the high altar:"Just so! Yes, Your Highness, 200It's done, at your bidding!"I think he will soon fallBefore the PomyéshchickAnd roll in the dust….
So moves the procession,Until it stops shortIn the front of a haystackOf wonderful size,Only this day erected.The old man is poking 210His forefinger in it,He thinks it is damp,And he blazes with fury:"Is this how you rotThe best goods of your master?I'll rot you with barschin,[39]I'll make you repent it!Undo it—at once!"
The Elder is writhingIn great agitation: 220"I was not quite carefulEnough, and itisdamp.It's my fault, Your Highness!"He summons the peasants,Who run with their pitchforksTo punish the monster.And soon they have spread itIn small heaps around,At the feet of the master;His wrath is appeased. 230
(In the meantime the strangersExamine the hay—It'slike tinder—so dry!)
A lackey comes flyingAlong, with a napkin;He's lame—the poor man!"Please, the luncheon is served."And then the procession,The three little Barins,The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse, 240The ancient retainers,The woolly white poodles,Moves onward to lunch.
The peasants stand watching;From one of the boatsComes an outburst of musicTo greet the Pomyéshchick.
The table is shiningAll dazzlingly whiteOn the bank of the river. 250The strangers, astonished,Draw near to old Vlásuchka;"Pray, little Uncle,"They say, "what's the meaningOf all these strange doings?And who is that curiousOld man?"
"Our Pomyéshchick,The great Prince Yutiátin."
"But why is he fussing 260About in that manner?For things are all changed now,And he seems to thinkThey are still as of old.The hay is quite dry,Yet he told you to dry it!"
"But funnier stillThat the hay and the hayfieldsAre not his at all."
"Then whose are they?" 270"The Commune's."
"Then why is he pokingHis nose into mattersWhich do not concern him?For are you not free?"
"Why, yes, by God's mercyThe order is changed nowFor us as for others;But ours is a special case."
"Tell us about it." 280The old man lay downAt the foot of the haystackAnd answered them—nothing.
The peasants producingThe magic white napkinSit down and say softly,"O napkin enchanted,Give food to the peasants!"The napkin unfolds,And two hands, which come floatingFrom no one sees where, 291Place a bucket of vodka,A large pile of breadOn the magic white napkin,And dwindle away….
The peasants, still wishingTo question old Vlásuchka,Wisely present himA cupful of vodka:"Now come, little Uncle, 300Be gracious to strangers,And tell us your story."
"There's nothing to tell you.You haven't told me yetWhoyouare and whenceYou have journeyed to these parts,And whither you go."
"We will not be surlyLike you. We will tell you.We've come a great distance, 310And seek to discoverA thing of importance.A trouble torments us,It draws us awayFrom our work, from our homes,From the love of our food…."The peasants then tell himAbout their chance meeting,Their argument, quarrel,Their vow, and decision; 320Of how they had soughtIn the Government "Tight-Squeeze"And Government "Shot-Strewn"The man who, in Russia,Is happy and free….
Old Vlásuchka listens,Observing them keenly."I see," he remarks,When the story is finished,"I see you are very 330Peculiar people.We're said to be strange here,But you are still stranger."
"Well, drink some more vodkaAnd tell us your tale."
And when by the vodkaHis tongue becomes loosened,Old Vlásuchka tells themThe following story.
"The great prince, Yutiátin,The ancient Pomyéshchick,Is very eccentric.His wealth is untold,And his titles exalted,His family ranksWith the first in the Empire.The whole of his lifeHe has spent in amusement,Has known no control 10Save his own will and pleasure.When we were set freeHe refused to believe it:'They lie! the low scoundrels!'There came the posrédnikAnd Chief of Police,But he would not admit them,He ordered them outAnd went on as before,And only became 20Full of hate and suspicion:'Bow low, or I'll flog youTo death, without mercy!'The Governor himself cameTo try to explain things,And long they disputedAnd argued together;The furious voiceOf the prince was heard ragingAll over the house, 30And he got so excitedThat on the same eveningA stroke fell upon him:His left side went dead,Black as earth, so they tell us,And all over nothing!It wasn't his pocketThat pinched, but his prideThat was touched and enraged him.He lost but a mite 40And would never have missed it."
"Ah, that's what it means, friends,To be a Pomyéshchick,The habit gets intoThe blood," says Mitródor,"And not the Pomyéshchick'sAlone, for the habitIs strong in the peasantAs well," old Pakhóm said."I once on suspicion 50Was put into prison,And met there a peasantCalled Sédor, a strange man,Arrested for horse-stealing,If I remember;And he from the prisonWould send to the BarinHis taxes. (The prisoner'sIncome is scanty,He gets what he begs 60Or a trifle for working.)The others all laughed at him;'Why should you send themAnd you off for lifeTo hard labour?' they asked him.But he only said,'All the same … it is better.'"
"Well, now, little Uncle,Go on with the story."
"A mite is a small thing, 70Except when it happensTo be in the eye!The Pomyéshchick lay senseless,And many were sureThat he'd never recover.His children were sent for,Those black-moustached footguards(You saw them just nowWith their wives, the fine ladies),The eldest of them 80Was to settle all mattersConcerning his father.He called the posrédnikTo draw up the papersAnd sign the agreement,When suddenly—thereStands the old man before them!He springs on them straightLike a wounded old tiger,He bellows like thunder. 90It was but a short timeAgo, and it happenedThat I was then Elder,And chanced to have enteredThe house on some errand,And I heard myselfHow he cursed the Pomyéshchicks;The words that he spokeI have never forgotten:'The Jews are reproached 100For betraying their Master;But what areyoudoing?The rights of the noblesBy centuries sanctionedYou fling to the beggars!'He said to his sons,'Oh, you dastardly cowards!My children no longer!It is for small reptiles—The pope's crawling breed— 110To take bribes from vile traitors,To purchase base peasants,And they may be pardoned!But you!—you have sprungFrom the house of Yutiátin,The Princes Yu-tiá-tinYou are! Go!… Go, leave me!You pitiful puppies!'The heirs were alarmed;How to tide matters over 120Until he should die?For they are not small items,The forests and landsThat belong to our father;His money-bags are notSo light as to make itA question of nothingWhose shoulders shall bear them;We know that our fatherHas three 'private' daughters 130In Petersburg living,To Generals married,So how do we knowThat they may not inheritHis wealth?… The PomyéshchickOnce more is prostrated,His death is a questionOf time, and to make itRun smoothly till thenAn agreement was come to, 140A plan to deceive him:So one of the ladies(The fair one, I fancy,She used at that timeTo attend the old masterAnd rub his left sideWith a brush), well, she told himThat orders had comeFrom the Government latelyThat peasants set free 150Should return to their bondage.And he quite believed it.(You see, since his illnessThe Prince had becomeLike a child.) When he heard itHe cried with delight;And the household was summonedTo prayer round the icons;[40]And Thanksgiving ServiceWas held by his orders 160In every small village,And bells were set ringing.And little by littleHis strength returned partly.And then as beforeIt was hunting and music,The servants were canedAnd the peasants were punished.The heirs had, of course,Set things right with the servants, 170A good understandingThey came to, and one man(You saw him go runningJust now with the napkin)Did not need persuading—-He so loved his Barin.His name is Ipát,And when we were made freeHe refused to believe it;'The great Prince Yutiátin 180Be left without peasants!What pranks are you playing?'At last, when the 'OrderOf Freedom' was shown him,Ipát said, 'Well, well,Get you gone to your pleasures,But I am the slaveOf the Princes Yutiátin!'He cannot get overThe old Prince's kindness 190To him, and he's told usSome curious storiesOf things that had happenedTo him in his childhood,His youth and old age.(You see, I had oftenTo go to the PrinceOn some matter or otherConcerning the peasants,And waited and waited 200For hours in the kitchens,And so I have heard themA hundred times over.)'When I was a young manOur gracious young PrinceSpent his holidays sometimesAt home, and would dip me(His meanest slave, mind you)Right under the iceIn the depths of the Winter. 210He did it in suchA remarkable way, too!He first made two holesIn the ice of the river,In one he would lowerMe down in a net—Pull me up through the other!'And when I beganTo grow old, it would happenThat sometimes I drove 220With the Prince in the Winter;The snow would block upHalf the road, and we usedTo drive five-in-a-file.Then the fancy would strike him(How whimsical, mark you!)To set me astrideOn the horse which was leading,Me—last of his slaves!Well, he dearly loved music, 230And so he would throw meA fiddle: 'Here! play now,Ipát.' Then the driverWould shout to the horses,And urge them to gallop.The snow would half-blind me,My hands with the musicWere occupied both;So what with the jolting,The snow, and the fiddle, 240Ipát, like a sillyOld noodle, would tumble.Of course, if he landedRight under the horsesThe sledge must go overHis ribs,—who could help it?But that was a trifle;The cold was the worst thing,It bites you, and youCan do nothing against it! 250The snow lay all roundOn the vast empty desert,I lay looking upAt the stars and confessingMy sins. But—my friends,This is true as the Gospel—I heard before longHow the sledge-bells came ringing,Drew nearer and nearer:The Prince had remembered, 260And come back to fetch me!'
"(The tears began fallingAnd rolled down his faceAt this part of the story.Whenever he told itHe always would cryUpon coming to this!)'He covered me upWith some rugs, and he warmed me,He lifted me up, 270And he placed me beside him,Me—last of his slaves—Beside his Princely Person!And so we came home.'"
They're amused at the story.
Old Vlásuchka, whenHe has emptied his fourth cup,Continues: "The heirs cameAnd called us together—The peasants and servants; 280They said, 'We're distressedOn account of our father.These changes will kill him,He cannot sustain them.So humour his weakness:Keep silent, and act stillAs if all this troubleHad never existed;Give way to him, bow to himJust as in old days. 290For each stroke of barschin,For all needless labour,For every rough wordWe will richly reward you.He cannot live long now,The doctors have told usThat two or three monthsIs the most we may hope for.Act kindly towards us,And do as we ask you, 300And we as the priceOf your silence will give youThe hayfields which lieOn the banks of the Volga.Think well of our offer,And let the posrédnikBe sent for to witnessAnd settle the matter.'
"Then gathered the communeTo argue and clamour; 310The thought of the hayfields(In which we are sitting),With promises boundlessAnd plenty of vodka,Decided the question:The commune would waitFor the death of the Barin.
"Then came the posrédnik,And laughing, he said:'It's a capital notion! 320The hayfields are fine, too,You lose nothing by it;You just play the foolAnd the Lord will forgive you.You know, it's forbiddenTo no one in RussiaTo bow and be silent.'
"But I was against it:I said to the peasants,'For you it is easy, 330But how about me?Whatever may happenThe Elder must comeTo accounts with the Barin,And how can I answerHis babyish questions?And how can I doHis nonsensical bidding?'
"'Just take off your hatAnd bow low, and say nothing, 340And then you walk outAnd the thing's at an end.The old man is ill,He is weak and forgetful,And nothing will stayIn his head for an instant.'
"Perhaps they were right;To deceive an old madmanIs not very hard.But for my part, I don't want 350To play at buffoon.For how many yearsHave I stood on the thresholdAnd bowed to the Barin?Enough for my pleasure!I said, 'If the communeIs pleased to be ruledBy a crazy PomyéshchickTo ease his last momentsI don't disagree, 360I have nothing against it;But then, set me freeFrom my duties as Elder.'
"The whole matter nearlyFell through at that moment,But then Klímka Lávin said,'Letmebe Elder,I'll please you on both sides,The master and you.The Lord will soon take him, 370And then the fine hayfieldsWill come to the commune.I swear I'll establishSuch order amongst youYou'll die of the fun!'
"The commune took longTo consider this offer:A desperate fellowIs Klímka the peasant,A drunkard, a rover, 380And not very honest,No lover of work,And acquainted with gipsies;A vagabond, knowingA lot about horses.A scoffer at thoseWho work hard, he will tell you:'At work you will neverGet rich, my fine fellow;You'll never get rich,— 390But you're sure to get crippled!'But he, all the same,Is well up in his letters;Has been to St. Petersburg.Yes, and to Moscow,And once to Siberia, too,With the merchants.A pity it wasThat he ever returned!He's clever enough, 400But he can't keep a farthing;He's sharp—but he's alwaysIn some kind of trouble.He's picked some fine words upFrom out of his travels:'Our Fatherland dear,'And 'The soul of great Russia,'And 'Moscow, the mighty,Illustrious city!''And I,' he will shout, 410'Am a plain Russian peasant!'And striking his foreheadHe'll swallow the vodka.A bottle at onceHe'll consume, like a mouthful.He'll fall at your feetFor a bottle of vodka.But if he has moneyHe'll share with you, freely;The first man he meets 420May partake of his drink.He's clever at shoutingAnd cheating and fooling,At showing the best sideOf goods which are rotten,At boasting and lying;And when he is caughtHe'll slip out through a cranny,And throw you a jest,Or his favourite saying: 430'A crack in the jawWill your honesty bring you!'
"Well, after much thinkingThe commune decidedThat I must remainThe responsible Elder;But Klímka might actIn my stead to the BarinAs though he were Elder.Why, then, let him do it! 440The right kind of ElderHe is for his Barin,They make a fine pair!Like putty his conscience;Like Meenin's[41] his beard,So that looking upon himYou'd think a sedater,More dutiful peasantCould never be found.The heirs made his kaftan, 450And he put it on,And from Klímka the 'scapegrace'He suddenly changedInto Klím, Son-of-Jacob,[42]Most worthy of Elders.So that's how it is;—And to our great misfortuneThe Barin is orderedA carriage-drive daily.Each day through the village 460He drives in a carriageThat's built upon springs.Then up you jump, quickly,And whip off your hat,And, God knows for what reason,He'll jump down your throat,He'll upbraid and abuse you;But you must keep silent.He watches a peasantAt work in the fields, 470And he swears we are lazyAnd lie-abed sluggards(Though never worked peasantWith half such a willIn the time of the Barin).He has not a notionThat they are nothisfields,But ours. When we gatherWe laugh, for each peasantHas something to tell 480Of the crazy Pomyéshchick;His ears burn, I warrant,When we come together!And Klím, Son-of-Jacob,Will run, with the mannerOf bearing the communeSome news of importance(The pig has got proudSince he's taken to scratchingHis sides on the steps 490Of the nobleman's manor).He runs and he shouts:'A command to the commune!I told the PomyèshchickThat Widow Teréntevna'sCottage had fallen.And that she is beggingHer bread. He commands youTo marry the widowTo Gabriel Jóckoff; 500To rebuild the cottage,And let them reside thereAnd multiply freely.'
"The bride will be seventy,Seven the bridegroom!Well, who could help laughing?Another command:'The dull-witted cows,Driven out before sunrise,Awoke the Pomyéshchick 510By foolishly mooingWhile passing his courtyard.The cow-herd is orderedTo see that the cowsDo not moo in that manner!'"
The peasants laugh loudly.
"But why do you laugh so?We all have our fancies.Yakútsk was once governed,I heard, by a General; 520He had a likingFor sticking live cowsUpon spikes round the city,And every free spotWas adorned in that manner,As Petersburg is,So they say, with its statues,Before it had enteredThe heads of the peopleThat he was a madman. 530
"Another strict orderWas sent to the commune:'The dog which belongsTo Sofrónoff the watchmanDoes not behave nicely,It barked at the Barin.Be therefore SofrónoffDismissed. Let EvrémkaBe watchman to guardThe estate of the Barin.' 540(Another loud laugh,For Evremka, the 'simple,'Is known as the deaf-muteAnd fool of the village).But Klímka's delighted:At last he's found somethingThat suits him exactly.He bustles aboutAnd in everything meddles,And even drinks less. 550There's a sharp little womanWhose name is Orévna,And she is Klím's gossip,And finely she helps himTo fool the old Barin.And as to the women,They're living in clover:They run to the manorWith linen and mushroomsAnd strawberries, knowing 560The ladies will buy themAnd pay what they ask themAnd feed them besides.We laughed and made gameTill we fell into dangerAnd nearly were lost:There was one man among us,Petrov, an ungraciousAnd bitter-tongued peasant;He never forgave us 570Because we'd consentedTo humour the Barin.'The Tsar,' he would say,'Has had mercy upon you,And now, you, yourselvesLift the load to your backs.To Hell with the hayfields!We want no more masters!'We only could stop himBy giving him vodka 580(His weakness was vodka).The devil must needsFling him straight at the Barin.One morning PetrovHad set out to the forestTo pilfer some logs(For the night would not serve him,It seems, for his thieving,He must go and do itIn broadest white daylight), 590And there comes the carriage,On springs, with the Barin!
"'From whence, little peasant,That beautiful tree-trunk?From whence has it come?'He knew, the old fellow,From whence it had come.Petrov stood there silent,And what could he answer?He'd taken the tree 600From the Barin's own forest.
"The Barin alreadyIs bursting with anger;He nags and reproaches,He can't stop recallingThe rights of the nobles.The rank of his Fathers,He winds them all intoPetrov, like a corkscrew.
"The peasants are patient, 610But even their patienceMust come to an end.Petrov was out early,Had eaten no breakfast,Felt dizzy already,And now with the wordsOf the Barin all buzzingLike flies in his ears—Why, he couldn't keep steady,He laughed in his face! 620
"'Have done, you old scarecrow!'He said to the Barin.'You crazy old clown!'His jaw once unmuzzledHe let enough words outTo stuff the PomyéshchickWith Fathers and GrandfathersInto the bargain.The oaths of the lordsAre like stings of mosquitoes, 630But those of the peasantLike blows of the pick-axe.The Barin's dumbfounded!He'd safely encounterA rain of small shot,But he cannot face stones.The ladies are with him,They, too, are bewildered,They run to the peasantAnd try to restrain him. 640
"He bellows, 'I'll kill you!For what are you swollenWith pride, you old dotard,You scum of the pig-sty?Have done with your jabber!You've lost your strong gripOn the soul of the peasant,The last one you are.By the will of the peasantBecause he is foolish 650They treat you as masterTo-day. But to-morrowThe ball will be ended;A good kick behindWe will give the Pomyéshchick,And tail between legsSend him back to his dwellingTo leave us in peace!'
"The Barin is gasping,'You rebel … you rebel!' 660He trembles all over,Half-dead he has fallen,And lies on the earth!
"The end! think the others,The black-moustached footguards,The beautiful ladies;But they are mistaken;It isn't the end.
"An order: to summonThe village together 670To witness the punishmentDealt to the rebelBefore the Pomyéshchick….The heirs and the ladiesCome running in terrorTo Klím, to Petrov,And to me: 'Only save us!'Their faces are pale,'If the trick is discoveredWe're lost!' 680It is Klím's placeTo deal with the matter:He drinks with PetrovAll day long, till the evening,Embracing him fondly.Together till midnightThey pace round the village,At midnight start drinkingAgain till the morning.Petrov is as tipsy 690As ever man was,And like that he is broughtTo the Barin's large courtyard,And all is perfection!The Barin can't moveFrom the balcony, thanksTo his yesterday's shaking.And Klím is well pleased.
"He leads Petrov intoThe stable and sets him 700In front of a gallonOf vodka, and tells him:'Now, drink and start crying,''Oh, oh, little Fathers!Oh, oh, little. Mothers!Have mercy! Have mercy!'''
"Petrov does his bidding;He howls, and the Barin,Perched up on the balcony,Listens in rapture. 710He drinks in the soundLike the loveliest music.And who could help laughingTo hear him exclaiming,'Don't spare him, the villain!The im-pu-dent rascal!Just teach him a lesson!'Petrov yells aloudTill the vodka is finished.Of course in the end 720He is perfectly helpless,And four peasants carry himOut of the stable.His state is so sorryThat even the BarinHas pity upon him,And says to him sweetly,'Your own fault it is,Little peasant, you know!'"
"You see what a kind heart 730He has, the Pomyéshchick,"Says Prov, and old VlásuchkaAnswers him quietly,"A saying there is:'Praise the grass—in the haystack,The lord—in his coffin.'
"Twere well if God took him.Petrov is no longerAlive. That same eveningHe started up, raving, 740At midnight the pope came,And just as the day dawnedHe died. He was buried,A cross set above him,And God alone knowsWhat he died of. It's certainThat we never touched him,Nay, not with a finger,Much less with a stick.Yet sometimes the thought comes:Perhaps if that accident 751Never had happenedPetrov would be living.You see, friends, the peasantWas proud more than others,He carried his head high,And never had bent it,And now of a sudden—Lie down for the Barin!Fall flat for his pleasure! 760The thing went off well,But Petrov had not wished it.I think he was frightenedTo anger the communeBy not giving in,And the commune is foolish,It soon will destroy you….The ladies were readyTo kiss the old peasant,They brought fifty roubles 770For him, and some dainties.'Twas Klímka, the scamp,The unscrupulous sinner,Who worked his undoing….
"A servant is comingTo us from the Barin,They've finished their lunch.Perhaps they have sent himTo summon the Elder.I'll go and look on 780At the comedy there."
With him go the strangers,And some of the womenAnd men follow after,For mid-day has sounded,Their rest-time it is,So they gather togetherTo stare at the gentry,To whisper and wonder.They stand in a rowAt a dutiful distance 10Away from the Prince….
At a long snowy tableQuite covered with bottlesAnd all kinds of dishesAre sitting the gentry,The old Prince presidingIn dignified stateAt the head of the table;All white, dressed in white,With his face shrunk awry, 20His dissimilar eyes;In his button-hole fastenedA 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-frontIs brushing the flies off. 30Beside the PomyéshchickOn each hand are sittingThe 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 40And glow, in the sunshine!)Then perched on three high chairsThe three little Barins,Each wearing his napkinTucked under his chin,With the old nurse beside them,And further the bodyOf ancient retainers;And facing the PrinceAt the foot of the table, 50The black-moustached footguardsAre sitting together.Behind each chair standingA young girl is serving,And women are wavingThe flies off with branches.The woolly white poodlesAre under the table,The three little BarinsAre teasing them slyly. 60
Before the Pomyéshchick,Bare-headed and humble,The Elder is standing."Now tell me, how soonWill the mowing be finished?"The Barin says, talkingAnd eating at once.
"It soon will be finished.Three days of the weekDo we work for your Highness; 70A man with a horse,And a youth or a woman,And half an old womanFrom every allotment.To-day for this weekIs the Barin's term finished."
"Tut-tut!" says the Barin,Like one who has noticedSome crafty intentOn the part of another. 80"'The Barin's term,' say you?Now, what do you mean, pray?"The eye which is brightHe has fixed on the peasant.
The Elder is hangingHis head in confusion."Of course it must beAs your Highness may order.In two or three days,If the weather be gracious, 90The hay of your HighnessCan surely be gathered.That's so,—is it not?"
(He turns his broad face roundAnd 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 100Is surely more preciousThan ours. We must tend itAs long as the weather lasts;Ours may come later."
"A woman she is,But more clever than you,"The Pomyéshchick says smiling,And then of a suddenIs shaken with laughter:"Ha, ha! Oh, you blockhead! 110Ha? ha! fool! fool! fool!It's the 'Barin's term,' say you?Ha, ha! fool, ha, ha!The Barin's term, slave,Is the whole of your life-time;And you have forgottenThat I, by God's mercy,By Tsar's ancient charter,By birth and by merit,Am your supreme master!" 120
The strangers remark hereThat Vlásuchka gentlySlips down to the grass.
"What's that for?" they ask him."We may as well rest now;He's off. You can't stop him.For since it was rumouredThat we should be givenOur freedom, the BarinTakes care to remind us 130That till the last hourOf the world will the peasantBe clenched in the gripOf the nobles." And reallyAn hour slips awayAnd the Prince is still speaking;His tongue will not alwaysObey him, he spluttersAnd hisses, falls overHis words, and his right eye 140So shares his disquietThat it trembles and twitches.The left eye expands,Grows as round as an owl's eye,Revolves like a wheel.The rights of his FathersThrough ages respected,His services, merits,His name and possessions,The Barin rehearses. 150
God's curse, the Tsar's anger,He hurls at the headsOf obstreperous peasants.And strictly gives orderTo sweep from the communeAll senseless ideas,Bids the peasants rememberThat they are his slavesAnd must honour their master.
"Our Fathers," cried Klím, 160And his voice sounded strangely,It rose to a squeakAs if all things within himLeapt up with a passionateJoy of a suddenAt thought of the mightyAnd noble Pomyéshchicks,"And whom should we serveSave the Master we cherish?And whom should we honour? 170In whom should we hope?We feed but on sorrows,We bathe but in tear-drops,How can we rebel?
"Our tumble-down hovels,Our weak little bodies,Ourselves, we are yours,We belong to our Master.The seeds which we sowIn the earth, and the harvest, 180The hair on our heads—All belongs to the Master.Our ancestors fallenTo dust in their coffins,Our feeble old parentsWho nod on the oven,Our little ones lyingAsleep in their cradlesAre yours—are our Master's,And we in our homes 190Use our wills but as freelyAs fish in a net."
The words of the ElderHave pleased the Pomyéshchick,The right eye is gazingBenignantly at him,The left has grown smallerAnd peaceful againLike the moon in the heavens.He pours out a goblet 200Of red foreign wine:"Drink," he says to the peasant.The rich wine is burningLike blood in the sunshine;Klím drinks without protest.Again he is speaking:
"Our Fathers," he says,"By your mercy we live nowAs though in the bosomOf Christ. Let the peasant 210But try to existWithout grace from the Barin!"(He sips at the goblet.)"The whole world would perishIf not for the Barin'sDeep wisdom and learning.If not for the peasant'sMost humble submission.By birth, and God's holyDecree you are bidden 220To govern the stupidAnd ignorant peasant;By God's holy willIs the peasant commandedTo honour and cherishAnd work for his lord!"
And here the old servant,Ipát, who is standingBehind the PomyéshchickAnd waving his branches, 230Begins to sob loudly,The tears streaming downO'er his withered old face:"Let us pray that the BarinFor many long yearsMay be spared to his servants!"The simpleton blubbers,The loving old servant,And raising his hand,Weak and trembling, he crosses 240Himself without ceasing.The black-moustached footguardsLook sourly upon himWith secret displeasure.But how can they help it?So off come their hatsAnd they cross themselves also.And then the old PrinceAnd the wrinkled old dry-nurseBoth sign themselves thrice, 250And the Elder does likewise.He winks to the woman,His sharp little gossip,And straightway the women,Who nearer and nearerHave drawn to the table,Begin most devoutlyTo cross themselves too.And one begins sobbingIn just such a manner 260As had the old servant.("That's right, now, start whining,Old Widow Terentevna,Sill-y old noodle!"Says Vlásuchka, crossly.)
The red sun peeps slylyAt them from a cloud,And the slow, dreamy musicIs heard from the river….
The ancient Pomyéshchick 270Is moved, and the right eyeIs blinded with tears,Till the golden-haired ladyRemoves them and dries it;She kisses the other eyeHeartily too.
"You see!" then remarksThe old man to his children,The two stalwart sonsAnd the pretty young ladies; 280"I wish that those villains,Those Petersburg liarsWho say we are tyrants,Could only be here nowTo see and hear this!"
But then something happenedWhich checked of a suddenThe speech of the Barin:A peasant who couldn'tControl his amusement 290Gave vent to his laughter.
The Barin starts wildly,He clutches the table,He fixes his faceIn the sinner's direction;The right eye is fierce,Like a lynx he is watchingTo dart on his prey,And the left eye is whirling."Go, find him!" he hisses, 300"Go, fetch him! the scoundrel!"
The Elder dives straightIn the midst of the people;He asks himself wildly,"Now, what's to be done?"He makes for the edgeOf the crowd, where are sittingThe journeying strangers;His voice is like honey:"Come one of you forward; 310You see, you are strangers,He wouldn't touchyou."
But they are not anxiousTo face the Pomyéshchick,Although they would gladlyHave helped the poor peasants.He's mad, the old Barin,So what's to prevent himFrom beating them too?
"Well, you go, Román," 320Say the two brothers Góobin,"Youlove the Pomyéshchicks."
"I'd rather you went, though!"And each is quite willingTo offer the other.Then Klím looses patience;"Now, Vlásuchka, help us!Do something to save us!I'm sick of the thing!"
"Yes! Nicely you lied there!" 330
"Oho!" says Klím sharply,"What lies did I tell?And shan't we be chokedIn the grip of the BarinsUntil our last dayWhen we lie in our coffins?When we get to Hell, too,Won't they be there waitingTo set us to work?"
"What kind of a job 340Would they find for us there, Klím?"
"To stir up the fireWhile they boil in the pots!"The others laugh loudly.The sons of the BarinCome hurrying to them;"How foolish you are, Klím!Our father has sent us,He's terribly angryThat you are so long, 350And don't bring the offender."
"We can't bring him, Barin;A stranger he is,From St. Petersburg province,A very rich peasant;The devil has sent himTo us, for our sins!He can't understand us,And things here amuse him;He couldn't help laughing." 360
"Well, let him alone, then.Cast lots for a culprit,We'll pay him. Look here!"He offers five roubles.Oh, no. It won't tempt them.
"Well, run to the Barin,And say that the fellowHas hidden himself."
"But what when to-morrow comes?Have you forgotten 370Petrov, how we punishedThe innocent peasant?"
"Then what's to be done?"
"Give me the five roubles!You trust me, I'll save you!"Exclaims the sharp woman,The Elder's sly gossip.She runs from the peasantsLamenting and groaning,And flings herself straight 380At the feet of the Barin:
"O red little sun!O my Father, don't kill me!I have but one child,Oh, have pity upon him!My poor boy is daft,Without wits the Lord made him,And sent him so intoThe world. He is crazy.Why, straight from the bath 390He at once begins scratching;His drink he will tryTo pour into his laputsInstead of the jug.And of work he knows nothing;He laughs, and that's allHe can do—so God made him!Our poor little home,'Tis small comfort he brings it;Our hut is in ruins, 400Not seldom it happensWe've nothing to eat,And that sets him laughing—The poor crazy loon!You may give him a farthing,A crack on the skull,And at one and the otherHe'll laugh—so God made him!And what can one say?From a fool even sorrow 410Comes pouring in laughter."
The knowing young woman!She lies at the feetOf the Barin, and trembles,She squeals like a sillyYoung girl when you pinch her,She kisses his feet.
"Well … go. God be with you!"The Barin says kindly,"I need not be angry 420At idiot laughter,I'll laugh at him too!"
"How good you are, Father,"The black-eyed young ladySays sweetly, and strokesThe white head of the Barin.The black-moustached footguardsAt this put their word in:
"A fool cannot followThe words of his masters, 430Especially thoseLike the words of our father,So noble and clever."
And Klím—shameless rascal!—Is wiping his eyesOn the end of his coat-tails,Is sniffing and whining;"Our Fathers! Our Fathers!The sons of our Father!They know how to punish, 440But better they knowHow to pardon and pity!"
The old man is cheerfulAgain, and is askingFor light frothing wine,And the corks begin poppingAnd shoot in the airTo fall down on the women,Who fly from them, shrieking.The Barin is laughing, 450The ladies then laugh,And at them laugh their husbands,And next the old servant,Ipát, begins laughing,The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,And then the whole partyLaugh loudly together;The feast will be merry!His daughters-in-lawAt the old Prince's order 460Are pouring out vodkaTo give to the peasants,Hand cakes to the youths,To the girls some sweet syrup;The women drink alsoA small glass of vodka.The old Prince is drinkingAnd toasting the peasants;And slyly he pinchesThe beautiful ladies. 470"That's right! That will do himMore good than his physic,"Says Vlásuchka, watching."He drinks by the glassful,Since long he's lost measureIn revel, or wrath…."
The music comes floatingTo them from the Volga,The girls now alreadyAre dancing and singing, 480The old Prince is watching them,Snapping his fingers.He wants to be nearerThe girls, and he rises.His legs will not bear him,His two sons support him;And standing between themHe chuckles and whistles,And stamps with his feetTo the time of the music; 490The left eye beginsOn its own account working,It turns like a wheel.
"But why aren't you dancing?"He says to his sons,And the two pretty ladies."Dance! Dance!" They can't help themselves,There they are dancing!He laughs at them gaily,He wishes to show them 500How things went inhistime;He's shaking and swayingLike one on the deckOf a ship in rough weather.
"Sing, Luiba!" he orders.The golden-haired ladyDoes not want to sing,But the old man will have it.The lady is singingA song low and tender, 510It sounds like the breezeOn a soft summer eveningIn velvety grassesAstray, like spring raindropsThat kiss the young leaves,And it soothes the Pomyéshchick.The feeble old man:He is falling asleep now….And gently they carry himDown to the water, 520And into the boat,And he lies there, still sleeping.Above him stands, holdingA big green umbrella,The faithful old servant,His other hand guardingThe sleeping PomyéshchickFrom gnats and mosquitoes.The oarsmen are silent,The faint-sounding music 530Can hardly be heardAs the boat moving gentlyGlides on through the water….
The peasants stand watching:The bright yellow hairOf the beautiful ladyStreams out in the breezeLike a long golden banner….
"I managed him finely,The noble Pomyéshchick," 540Said Klím to the peasants."Be God with you, Barin!Go bragging and scolding,Don't think for a momentThat we are now freeAnd your servants no longer,But die as you lived,The almighty Pomyéshchick,To sound of our music,To songs of your slaves; 550But only die quickly,And leave the poor peasantsIn peace. And now, brothers,Come, praise me and thank me!I've gladdened the commune.I shook in my shoes thereBefore the Pomyéshchick,For fear I should tripOr my tongue should betray me;And worse—I could hardly 560Speak plain for my laughter!That eye! How it spins!And you look at it, thinking:'But whither, my friend,Do you hurry so quickly?On some hasty errandOf yours, or another's?Perhaps with a passFrom the Tsar—Little Father,You carry a message 570From him.' I was standingAnd bursting with laughter!Well, I am a drunkenAnd frivolous peasant,The rats in my corn-loftAre starving from hunger,My hut is quite bare,Yet I call God to witnessThat I would not takeSuch an office upon me 580For ten hundred roublesUnless I were certainThat he was the last,That I bore with his blusterTo serve my own ends,Of my own will and pleasure."
Old Vlásuchka sadlyAnd thoughtfully answers,"How long, though, how long, though,Have we—not we only 590But all Russian peasants—Endured the Pomyéshchicks?And not for our pleasure,For money or fun,Not for two or three months,But for life. What has changed, though?Of what are we bragging?For still we are peasants."
The peasants, half-tipsy,Congratulate Klímka. 600"Hurrah! Let us toss him!"And now they are placingOld Widow TeréntevnaNext to her bridegroom,The little child Jóckoff,Saluting them gaily.They're eating and drinkingWhat's left on the table.Then romping and jestingThey stay till the evening, 610And only at nightfallReturn to the village.And here they are metBy some sobering tidings:The old Prince is dead.From the boat he was taken,They thought him asleep,But they found he was lifeless.The second stroke—whileHe was sleeping—had fallen! 620
The peasants are sobered,They look at each other,And silently cross themselves.Then they breathe deeply;And never beforeDid the poor squalid villageCalled "Ignorant-Duffers,"Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"Draw such an intenseAnd unanimous breath…. 630Their pleasure, however,Was not very lasting,Because with the deathOf the ancient Pomyéshchick,The sweet-sounding wordsOf his heirs and their bountiesCeased also. Not evenA pick-me-up afterThe yesterday's feastDid they offer the peasants. 640And as to the hayfields—Till now is the law-suitProceeding between them,The heirs and the peasants.Old Vlásuchka wasBy the peasants appointedTo plead in their name,And he lives now in Moscow.He went to St. Petersburg too,But I don't think 650That much can be doneFor the cause of the peasants.