Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia?

The day of St. Peter—

And very hot weather;

The mowers are all

At their work in the meadows.

The peasants are passing

A tumble-down village,

Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"

Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"

Of Government "Know-Nothing.'

They are approaching 10

The banks of the Volga.

They come to the river,

The sea-gulls are wheeling

And flashing above it;

The sea-hens are walking

About on the sand-banks;

And in the bare hayfields,

Which look just as naked

As any youth's cheek

After yesterday's shaving, 20

The Princes Volkonsky[37]

Are haughtily standing,

And round them their children,

Who (unlike all others)

Are born at an earlier

Date than their sires.

"The fields are enormous,"

Remarks old Pakhóm,

"Why, the folk must be giants."

The two brothers Goóbin 30

Are smiling at something:

For some time they've noticed

A very tall peasant

Who stands with a pitcher

On top of a haystack;

He drinks, and a woman

Below, with a hay-fork,

Is looking at him

With her head leaning back.

The peasants walk on 40

Till they come to the haystack;

The man is still drinking;

They pass it quite slowly,

Go fifty steps farther,

Then all turn together

And look at the haystack.

Not much has been altered:

The peasant is standing

With body bent back

As before,—but the pitcher 50

Has turned bottom upwards….

The strangers go farther.

The camps are thrown out

On the banks of the river;

And there the old people

And children are gathered,

And horses are waiting

With big empty waggons;

And then, in the fields

Behind those that are finished, 60

The distance is filled

By the army of workers,

The white shirts of women,

The men's brightly coloured,

And voices and laughter,

With all intermingled

The hum of the scythes….

"God help you, good fellows!"

"Our thanks to you, brothers!"

The peasants stand noting 70

The long line of mowers,

The poise of the scythes

And their sweep through the sunshine.

The rhythmical swell

Of melodious murmur.

The timid grass stands

For a moment, and trembles,

Then falls with a sigh….

On the banks of the Volga

The grass has grown high 80

And the mowers work gladly.

The peasants soon feel

That they cannot resist it.

"It's long since we've stretched ourselves,

Come, let us help you!"

And now seven women

Have yielded their places.

The spirit of work

Is devouring our peasants;

Like teeth in a ravenous 90

Mouth they are working—

The muscular arms,

And the long grass is falling

To songs that are strange

To this part of the country,

To songs that are taught

By the blizzards and snow-storms,

The wild savage winds

Of the peasants' own homelands:

"Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry," 100

"Patched," "Bare-Foot," and "Shabby,"

And "Harvestless," too….

And when the strong craving

For work is appeased

They sit down by a haystack.

"From whence have you come?"

A grey-headed old peasant

(The one whom the women

Call 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 Pomyéshchick

Returning from boating!"

Says Vlásuchka, running

To busy the mowers:

"Wake up! Look alive there!

And mind—above all things,

Don't heat the Pomyéshchick 120

And 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 peasant

With beard long and bushy

Bestirs himself also 130

To busy them all,

Then puts on his "kaftan," [38]

And runs away quickly

To meet the Pomyéshchick.

And now to the bank-side

Three boats are approaching.

In one sit the servants

And 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 body

Of ancient retainers.

And then in the third

There are sitting the gentry:

Two beautiful ladies

(One slender and fair-haired,

One heavy and black-browed) 150

And two moustached Barins

And three little Barins,

And last—the Pomyéshchick,

A very old man

Wearing 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 160

As 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 poodles

With tufts on their ankles

Are in the boat too. 170

The old man alighting

Has mounted the bank,

Where for long he reposes

Upon a red carpet

Spread out by the servants.

And then he arises

To visit the mowers,

To pass through the fields

On a tour of inspection.

He leans on the arm— 180

Now of one of the Barins,

And now upon those

Of 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 hayfields

Proceeds the Pomyéshchick. 190

The peasants on all sides

Bow down to the ground;

And the big, burly peasant

(The Elder he is

As the peasants have noticed)

Is cringing and bending

Before the Pomyéshchick,

Just like the Big Devil

Before the high altar:

"Just so! Yes, Your Highness, 200

It's done, at your bidding!"

I think he will soon fall

Before the Pomyéshchick

And roll in the dust….

So moves the procession,

Until it stops short

In the front of a haystack

Of wonderful size,

Only this day erected.

The old man is poking 210

His forefinger in it,

He thinks it is damp,

And he blazes with fury:

"Is this how you rot

The 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 writhing

In great agitation: 220

"I was not quite careful

Enough, and it is damp.

It's my fault, Your Highness!"

He summons the peasants,

Who run with their pitchforks

To punish the monster.

And soon they have spread it

In small heaps around,

At the feet of the master;

His wrath is appeased. 230

(In the meantime the strangers

Examine the hay—It's

like tinder—so dry!)

A lackey comes flying

Along, 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, 240

The ancient retainers,

The woolly white poodles,

Moves onward to lunch.

The peasants stand watching;

From one of the boats

Comes an outburst of music

To greet the Pomyéshchick.

The table is shining

All dazzlingly white

On the bank of the river. 250

The strangers, astonished,

Draw near to old Vlásuchka;

"Pray, little Uncle,"

They say, "what's the meaning

Of all these strange doings?

And who is that curious

Old man?"

"Our Pomyéshchick,

The great Prince Yutiátin."

"But why is he fussing 260

About in that manner?

For things are all changed now,

And he seems to think

They are still as of old.

The hay is quite dry,

Yet he told you to dry it!"

"But funnier still

That the hay and the hayfields

Are not his at all."

"Then whose are they?" 270

"The Commune's."

"Then why is he poking

His nose into matters

Which do not concern him?

For are you not free?"

"Why, yes, by God's mercy

The order is changed now

For us as for others;

But ours is a special case."

"Tell us about it." 280

The old man lay down

At the foot of the haystack

And answered them—nothing.

The peasants producing

The magic white napkin

Sit down and say softly,

"O napkin enchanted,

Give food to the peasants!"

The napkin unfolds,

And two hands, which come floating

From no one sees where, 291

Place a bucket of vodka,

A large pile of bread

On the magic white napkin,

And dwindle away….

The peasants, still wishing

To question old Vlásuchka,

Wisely present him

A cupful of vodka:

"Now come, little Uncle, 300

Be gracious to strangers,

And tell us your story."

"There's nothing to tell you.

You haven't told me yet

Who you are and whence

You have journeyed to these parts,

And whither you go."

"We will not be surly

Like you. We will tell you.

We've come a great distance, 310

And seek to discover

A thing of importance.

A trouble torments us,

It draws us away

From our work, from our homes,

From the love of our food…."

The peasants then tell him

About their chance meeting,

Their argument, quarrel,

Their vow, and decision; 320

Of how they had sought

In 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 330

Peculiar people.

We're said to be strange here,

But you are still stranger."

"Well, drink some more vodka

And tell us your tale."

And when by the vodka

His tongue becomes loosened,

Old Vlásuchka tells them

The following story.

"The great prince, Yutiátin,

The ancient Pomyéshchick,

Is very eccentric.

His wealth is untold,

And his titles exalted,

His family ranks

With the first in the Empire.

The whole of his life

He has spent in amusement,

Has known no control 10

Save his own will and pleasure.

When we were set free

He refused to believe it:

'They lie! the low scoundrels!'

There came the posrédnik

And Chief of Police,

But he would not admit them,

He ordered them out

And went on as before,

And only became 20

Full of hate and suspicion:

'Bow low, or I'll flog you

To death, without mercy!'

The Governor himself came

To try to explain things,

And long they disputed

And argued together;

The furious voice

Of the prince was heard raging

All over the house, 30

And he got so excited

That on the same evening

A stroke fell upon him:

His left side went dead,

Black as earth, so they tell us,

And all over nothing!

It wasn't his pocket

That pinched, but his pride

That was touched and enraged him.

He lost but a mite 40

And would never have missed it."

"Ah, that's what it means, friends,

To be a Pomyéshchick,

The habit gets into

The blood," says Mitródor,

"And not the Pomyéshchick's

Alone, for the habit

Is strong in the peasant

As well," old Pakhóm said.

"I once on suspicion 50

Was put into prison,

And met there a peasant

Called Sédor, a strange man,

Arrested for horse-stealing,

If I remember;

And he from the prison

Would send to the Barin

His taxes. (The prisoner's

Income is scanty,

He gets what he begs 60

Or a trifle for working.)

The others all laughed at him;

'Why should you send them

And you off for life

To 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, 70

Except when it happens

To be in the eye!

The Pomyéshchick lay senseless,

And many were sure

That he'd never recover.

His children were sent for,

Those black-moustached footguards

(You saw them just now

With their wives, the fine ladies),

The eldest of them 80

Was to settle all matters

Concerning his father.

He called the posrédnik

To draw up the papers

And sign the agreement,

When suddenly—there

Stands the old man before them!

He springs on them straight

Like a wounded old tiger,

He bellows like thunder. 90

It was but a short time

Ago, and it happened

That I was then Elder,

And chanced to have entered

The house on some errand,

And I heard myself

How he cursed the Pomyéshchicks;

The words that he spoke

I have never forgotten:

'The Jews are reproached 100

For betraying their Master;

But what are you doing?

The rights of the nobles

By centuries sanctioned

You 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— 110

To take bribes from vile traitors,

To purchase base peasants,

And they may be pardoned!

But you!—you have sprung

From the house of Yutiátin,

The Princes Yu-tiá-tin

You are! Go!… 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 Pomyéshchick

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.

The heirs had, of course,

Set things right with the servants, 170

A good understanding

They came to, and one man

(You saw him go running

Just now with the napkin)

Did not need persuading—-

He so loved his Barin.

His name is Ipát,

And when we were made free

He refused to believe it;

'The great Prince Yutiátin 180

Be left without peasants!

What pranks are you playing?'

At last, when the 'Order

Of Freedom' was shown him,

Ipát said, 'Well, well,

Get you gone to your pleasures,

But I am the slave

Of the Princes Yutiátin!'

He cannot get over

The old Prince's kindness 190

To him, and he's told us

Some curious stories

Of things that had happened

To him in his childhood,

His youth and old age.

(You see, I had often

To go to the Prince

On some matter or other

Concerning the peasants,

And waited and waited 200

For hours in the kitchens,

And so I have heard them

A hundred times over.)

'When I was a young man

Our gracious young Prince

Spent his holidays sometimes

At home, and would dip me

(His meanest slave, mind you)

Right under the ice

In the depths of the Winter. 210

He did it in such

A remarkable way, too!

He first made two holes

In the ice of the river,

In one he would lower

Me down in a net—

Pull me up through the other!'

And when I began

To grow old, it would happen

That sometimes I drove 220

With the Prince in the Winter;

The snow would block up

Half the road, and we used

To drive five-in-a-file.

Then the fancy would strike him

(How whimsical, mark you!)

To set me astride

On the horse which was leading,

Me—last of his slaves!

Well, he dearly loved music, 230

And so he would throw me

A fiddle: 'Here! play now,

Ipát.' Then the driver

Would shout to the horses,

And urge them to gallop.

The snow would half-blind me,

My hands with the music

Were occupied both;

So what with the jolting,

The snow, and the fiddle, 240

Ipát, like a silly

Old noodle, would tumble.

Of course, if he landed

Right under the horses

The sledge must go over

His ribs,—who could help it?

But that was a trifle;

The cold was the worst thing,

It bites you, and you

Can do nothing against it! 250

The snow lay all round

On the vast empty desert,

I lay looking up

At the stars and confessing

My sins. But—my friends,

This is true as the Gospel—

I heard before long

How the sledge-bells came ringing,

Drew nearer and nearer:

The Prince had remembered, 260

And come back to fetch me!'

"(The tears began falling

And rolled down his face

At this part of the story.

Whenever he told it

He always would cry

Upon coming to this!)

'He covered me up

With some rugs, and he warmed me,

He lifted me up, 270

And 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, when

He has emptied his fourth cup,

Continues: "The heirs came

And called us together—

The peasants and servants; 280

They said, 'We're distressed

On account of our father.

These changes will kill him,

He cannot sustain them.

So humour his weakness:

Keep silent, and act still

As if all this trouble

Had never existed;

Give way to him, bow to him

Just as in old days. 290

For each stroke of barschin,

For all needless labour,

For every rough word

We will richly reward you.

He cannot live long now,

The doctors have told us

That two or three months

Is the most we may hope for.

Act kindly towards us,

And do as we ask you, 300

And we as the price

Of your silence will give you

The hayfields which lie

On the banks of the Volga.

Think well of our offer,

And let the posrédnik

Be sent for to witness

And settle the matter.'

"Then gathered the commune

To argue and clamour; 310

The thought of the hayfields

(In which we are sitting),

With promises boundless

And plenty of vodka,

Decided the question:

The commune would wait

For the death of the Barin.

"Then came the posrédnik,

And laughing, he said:

'It's a capital notion! 320

The hayfields are fine, too,

You lose nothing by it;

You just play the fool

And the Lord will forgive you.

You know, it's forbidden

To no one in Russia

To bow and be silent.'

"But I was against it:

I said to the peasants,

'For you it is easy, 330

But how about me?

Whatever may happen

The Elder must come

To accounts with the Barin,

And how can I answer

His babyish questions?

And how can I do

His nonsensical bidding?'

"'Just take off your hat

And bow low, and say nothing, 340

And then you walk out

And the thing's at an end.

The old man is ill,

He is weak and forgetful,

And nothing will stay

In his head for an instant.'

"Perhaps they were right;

To deceive an old madman

Is not very hard.

But for my part, I don't want 350

To play at buffoon.

For how many years

Have I stood on the threshold

And bowed to the Barin?

Enough for my pleasure!

I said, 'If the commune

Is pleased to be ruled

By a crazy Pomyéshchick

To ease his last moments

I don't disagree, 360

I have nothing against it;

But then, set me free

From my duties as Elder.'

"The whole matter nearly

Fell through at that moment,

But then Klímka Lávin said,

'Let me be Elder,

I'll please you on both sides,

The master and you.

The Lord will soon take him, 370

And then the fine hayfields

Will come to the commune.

I swear I'll establish

Such order amongst you

You'll die of the fun!'

"The commune took long

To consider this offer:

A desperate fellow

Is Klímka the peasant,

A drunkard, a rover, 380

And not very honest,

No lover of work,

And acquainted with gipsies;

A vagabond, knowing

A lot about horses.

A scoffer at those

Who work hard, he will tell you:

'At work you will never

Get rich, my fine fellow;

You'll never get rich,— 390

But 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 was

That he ever returned!

He's clever enough, 400

But he can't keep a farthing;

He's sharp—but he's always

In some kind of trouble.

He's picked some fine words up

From 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 forehead

He'll swallow the vodka.

A bottle at once

He'll consume, like a mouthful.

He'll fall at your feet

For a bottle of vodka.

But if he has money

He'll share with you, freely;

The first man he meets 420

May partake of his drink.

He's clever at shouting

And cheating and fooling,

At showing the best side

Of goods which are rotten,

At boasting and lying;

And when he is caught

He'll slip out through a cranny,

And throw you a jest,

Or his favourite saying: 430

'A crack in the jaw

Will your honesty bring you!'

"Well, after much thinking

The commune decided

That I must remain

The responsible Elder;

But Klímka might act

In my stead to the Barin

As though he were Elder.

Why, then, let him do it! 440

The right kind of Elder

He is for his Barin,

They make a fine pair!

Like putty his conscience;

Like Meenin's[41] his beard,

So that looking upon him

You'd think a sedater,

More dutiful peasant

Could never be found.

The heirs made his kaftan, 450

And he put it on,

And from Klímka the 'scapegrace'

He suddenly changed

Into Klím, Son-of-Jacob,[42]

Most worthy of Elders.

So that's how it is;—

And to our great misfortune

The Barin is ordered

A carriage-drive daily.

Each day through the village 460

He drives in a carriage

That'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 peasant

At work in the fields, 470

And he swears we are lazy

And lie-abed sluggards

(Though never worked peasant

With half such a will

In the time of the Barin).

He has not a notion

That they are not his fields,

But ours. When we gather

We laugh, for each peasant

Has something to tell 480

Of the crazy Pomyéshchick;

His ears burn, I warrant,

When we come together!

And Klím, Son-of-Jacob,

Will run, with the manner

Of bearing the commune

Some news of importance

(The pig has got proud

Since he's taken to scratching

His sides on the steps 490

Of the nobleman's manor).

He runs and he shouts:

'A command to the commune!

I told the Pomyèshchick

That Widow Teréntevna's

Cottage had fallen.

And that she is begging

Her bread. He commands you

To marry the widow

To Gabriel Jóckoff; 500

To rebuild the cottage,

And let them reside there

And 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 510

By foolishly mooing

While passing his courtyard.

The cow-herd is ordered

To see that the cows

Do 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; 520

He had a liking

For sticking live cows

Upon spikes round the city,

And every free spot

Was adorned in that manner,

As Petersburg is,

So they say, with its statues,

Before it had entered

The heads of the people

That he was a madman. 530

"Another strict order

Was sent to the commune:

'The dog which belongs

To Sofrónoff the watchman

Does not behave nicely,

It barked at the Barin.

Be therefore Sofrónoff

Dismissed. Let Evrémka

Be watchman to guard

The estate of the Barin.' 540

(Another loud laugh,

For Evremka, the 'simple,'

Is known as the deaf-mute

And fool of the village).

But Klímka's delighted:

At last he's found something

That suits him exactly.

He bustles about

And in everything meddles,

And even drinks less. 550

There's a sharp little woman

Whose name is Orévna,

And she is Klím's gossip,

And finely she helps him

To fool the old Barin.

And as to the women,

They're living in clover:

They run to the manor

With linen and mushrooms

And strawberries, knowing 560

The ladies will buy them

And pay what they ask them

And feed them besides.

We laughed and made game

Till we fell into danger

And nearly were lost:

There was one man among us,

Petrov, an ungracious

And bitter-tongued peasant;

He never forgave us 570

Because we'd consented

To humour the Barin.

'The Tsar,' he would say,

'Has had mercy upon you,

And now, you, yourselves

Lift the load to your backs.

To Hell with the hayfields!

We want no more masters!'

We only could stop him

By giving him vodka 580

(His weakness was vodka).

The devil must needs

Fling him straight at the Barin.

One morning Petrov

Had set out to the forest

To pilfer some logs

(For the night would not serve him,

It seems, for his thieving,

He must go and do it

In broadest white daylight), 590

And 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 600

From the Barin's own forest.

"The Barin already

Is bursting with anger;

He nags and reproaches,

He can't stop recalling

The rights of the nobles.

The rank of his Fathers,

He winds them all into

Petrov, like a corkscrew.

"The peasants are patient, 610

But even their patience

Must come to an end.

Petrov was out early,

Had eaten no breakfast,

Felt dizzy already,

And now with the words

Of the Barin all buzzing

Like 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 unmuzzled

He let enough words out

To stuff the Pomyéshchick

With Fathers and Grandfathers

Into the bargain.

The oaths of the lords

Are like stings of mosquitoes, 630

But those of the peasant

Like blows of the pick-axe.

The Barin's dumbfounded!

He'd safely encounter

A rain of small shot,

But he cannot face stones.

The ladies are with him,

They, too, are bewildered,

They run to the peasant

And try to restrain him. 640

"He bellows, 'I'll kill you!

For what are you swollen

With pride, you old dotard,

You scum of the pig-sty?

Have done with your jabber!

You've lost your strong grip

On the soul of the peasant,

The last one you are.

By the will of the peasant

Because he is foolish 650

They treat you as master

To-day. But to-morrow

The ball will be ended;

A good kick behind

We will give the Pomyéshchick,

And tail between legs

Send him back to his dwelling

To leave us in peace!'

"The Barin is gasping,

'You rebel … you rebel!' 660

He 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 summon

The village together 670

To witness the punishment

Dealt to the rebel

Before the Pomyéshchick….

The heirs and the ladies

Come running in terror

To Klím, to Petrov,

And to me: 'Only save us!'

Their faces are pale,

'If the trick is discovered

We're lost!' 680

It is Klím's place

To deal with the matter:

He drinks with Petrov

All day long, till the evening,

Embracing him fondly.

Together till midnight

They pace round the village,

At midnight start drinking

Again till the morning.

Petrov is as tipsy 690

As ever man was,

And like that he is brought

To the Barin's large courtyard,

And all is perfection!

The Barin can't move

From the balcony, thanks

To his yesterday's shaking.

And Klím is well pleased.

"He leads Petrov into

The stable and sets him 700

In front of a gallon

Of 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. 710

He drinks in the sound

Like the loveliest music.

And who could help laughing

To hear him exclaiming,

'Don't spare him, the villain!

The im-pu-dent rascal!

Just teach him a lesson!'

Petrov yells aloud

Till the vodka is finished.

Of course in the end 720

He is perfectly helpless,

And four peasants carry him

Out of the stable.

His state is so sorry

That even the Barin

Has pity upon him,

And says to him sweetly,

'Your own fault it is,

Little peasant, you know!'"

"You see what a kind heart 730

He has, the Pomyéshchick,"

Says Prov, and old Vlásuchka

Answers 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 longer

Alive. That same evening

He started up, raving, 740

At midnight the pope came,

And just as the day dawned

He died. He was buried,

A cross set above him,

And God alone knows

What he died of. It's certain

That we never touched him,

Nay, not with a finger,

Much less with a stick.

Yet sometimes the thought comes:

Perhaps if that accident 751

Never had happened

Petrov would be living.

You see, friends, the peasant

Was 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! 760

The thing went off well,

But Petrov had not wished it.

I think he was frightened

To anger the commune

By not giving in,

And the commune is foolish,

It soon will destroy you….

The ladies were ready

To kiss the old peasant,

They brought fifty roubles 770

For him, and some dainties.

'Twas Klímka, the scamp,

The unscrupulous sinner,

Who worked his undoing….

"A servant is coming

To us from the Barin,

They've finished their lunch.

Perhaps they have sent him

To summon the Elder.

I'll go and look on 780

At the comedy there."

With him go the strangers,

And some of the women

And men follow after,

For mid-day has sounded,

Their rest-time it is,

So they gather together

To stare at the gentry,

To whisper and wonder.

They stand in a row

At a dutiful distance 10

Away from the Prince….

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."

"A woman she is,

But more clever than you,"

The Pomyéshchick says smiling,

And then of a sudden

Is shaken with laughter:

"Ha, ha! Oh, you blockhead! 110

Ha? 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 forgotten

That I, by God's mercy,

By Tsar's ancient charter,

By birth and by merit,

Am your supreme master!" 120

The strangers remark here

That Vlásuchka gently

Slips 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 rumoured

That we should be given

Our freedom, the Barin

Takes care to remind us 130

That till the last hour

Of the world will the peasant

Be clenched in the grip

Of the nobles." And really

An hour slips away

And the Prince is still speaking;

His tongue will not always

Obey him, he splutters

And hisses, falls over

His words, and his right eye 140

So shares his disquiet

That it trembles and twitches.

The left eye expands,

Grows as round as an owl's eye,

Revolves like a wheel.

The rights of his Fathers

Through ages respected,

His services, merits,

His name and possessions,

The Barin rehearses. 150

God's curse, the Tsar's anger,

He hurls at the heads

Of obstreperous peasants.

And strictly gives order

To sweep from the commune

All senseless ideas,

Bids the peasants remember

That they are his slaves

And must honour their master.

"Our Fathers," cried Klím, 160

And his voice sounded strangely,

It rose to a squeak

As if all things within him

Leapt up with a passionate

Joy of a sudden

At thought of the mighty

And noble Pomyéshchicks,

"And whom should we serve

Save the Master we cherish?

And whom should we honour? 170

In 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 sow

In the earth, and the harvest, 180

The hair on our heads—

All belongs to the Master.

Our ancestors fallen

To dust in their coffins,

Our feeble old parents

Who nod on the oven,

Our little ones lying

Asleep in their cradles

Are yours—are our Master's,

And we in our homes 190

Use our wills but as freely

As fish in a net."

The words of the Elder

Have pleased the Pomyéshchick,

The right eye is gazing

Benignantly at him,

The left has grown smaller

And peaceful again

Like the moon in the heavens.

He pours out a goblet 200

Of red foreign wine:

"Drink," he says to the peasant.

The rich wine is burning

Like blood in the sunshine;

Klím drinks without protest.

Again he is speaking:

"Our Fathers," he says,

"By your mercy we live now

As though in the bosom

Of Christ. Let the peasant 210

But try to exist

Without grace from the Barin!"

(He sips at the goblet.)

"The whole world would perish

If not for the Barin's

Deep wisdom and learning.

If not for the peasant's

Most humble submission.

By birth, and God's holy

Decree you are bidden 220

To govern the stupid

And ignorant peasant;

By God's holy will

Is the peasant commanded

To honour and cherish

And work for his lord!"

And here the old servant,

Ipát, who is standing

Behind the Pomyéshchick

And waving his branches, 230

Begins to sob loudly,

The tears streaming down

O'er his withered old face:

"Let us pray that the Barin

For many long years

May be spared to his servants!"

The simpleton blubbers,

The loving old servant,

And raising his hand,

Weak and trembling, he crosses 240

Himself without ceasing.

The black-moustached footguards

Look sourly upon him

With secret displeasure.

But how can they help it?

So off come their hats

And they cross themselves also.

And then the old Prince

And the wrinkled old dry-nurse

Both sign themselves thrice, 250

And the Elder does likewise.

He winks to the woman,

His sharp little gossip,

And straightway the women,

Who nearer and nearer

Have drawn to the table,

Begin most devoutly

To cross themselves too.

And one begins sobbing

In just such a manner 260

As had the old servant.

("That's right, now, start whining,

Old Widow Terentevna,

Sill-y old noodle!"

Says Vlásuchka, crossly.)

The red sun peeps slyly

At them from a cloud,

And the slow, dreamy music

Is heard from the river….

The ancient Pomyéshchick 270

Is moved, and the right eye

Is blinded with tears,

Till the golden-haired lady

Removes them and dries it;

She kisses the other eye

Heartily too.

"You see!" then remarks

The old man to his children,

The two stalwart sons

And the pretty young ladies; 280

"I wish that those villains,

Those Petersburg liars

Who say we are tyrants,

Could only be here now

To see and hear this!"

But then something happened

Which checked of a sudden

The speech of the Barin:

A peasant who couldn't

Control his amusement 290

Gave vent to his laughter.

The Barin starts wildly,

He clutches the table,

He fixes his face

In the sinner's direction;

The right eye is fierce,

Like a lynx he is watching

To dart on his prey,

And the left eye is whirling.

"Go, find him!" he hisses, 300

"Go, fetch him! the scoundrel!"

The Elder dives straight

In the midst of the people;

He asks himself wildly,

"Now, what's to be done?"

He makes for the edge

Of the crowd, where are sitting

The journeying strangers;

His voice is like honey:

"Come one of you forward; 310

You see, you are strangers,

He wouldn't touch you."

But they are not anxious

To face the Pomyéshchick,

Although they would gladly

Have helped the poor peasants.

He's mad, the old Barin,

So what's to prevent him

From beating them too?

"Well, you go, Román," 320

Say the two brothers Góobin,

"You love the Pomyéshchicks."

"I'd rather you went, though!"

And each is quite willing

To 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 choked

In the grip of the Barins

Until our last day

When we lie in our coffins?

When we get to Hell, too,

Won't they be there waiting

To set us to work?"

"What kind of a job 340

Would they find for us there, Klím?"

"To stir up the fire

While they boil in the pots!"

The others laugh loudly.

The sons of the Barin

Come hurrying to them;

"How foolish you are, Klím!

Our father has sent us,

He's terribly angry

That you are so long, 350

And 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 him

To 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 fellow

Has hidden himself."

"But what when to-morrow comes?

Have you forgotten 370

Petrov, how we punished

The 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 peasants

Lamenting and groaning,

And flings herself straight 380

At 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 into

The world. He is crazy.

Why, straight from the bath 390

He at once begins scratching;

His drink he will try

To pour into his laputs

Instead of the jug.

And of work he knows nothing;

He laughs, and that's all

He can do—so God made him!

Our poor little home,

'Tis small comfort he brings it;

Our hut is in ruins, 400

Not seldom it happens

We'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 other

He'll laugh—so God made him!

And what can one say?

From a fool even sorrow 410

Comes pouring in laughter."

The knowing young woman!

She lies at the feet

Of the Barin, and trembles,

She squeals like a silly

Young girl when you pinch her,

She kisses his feet.

"Well … go. God be with you!"

The Barin says kindly,

"I need not be angry 420

At idiot laughter,

I'll laugh at him too!"

"How good you are, Father,"

The black-eyed young lady

Says sweetly, and strokes

The white head of the Barin.

The black-moustached footguards

At this put their word in:

"A fool cannot follow

The words of his masters, 430

Especially those

Like the words of our father,

So noble and clever."

And Klím—shameless rascal!—

Is wiping his eyes

On the end of his coat-tails,

Is sniffing and whining;

"Our Fathers! Our Fathers!

The sons of our Father!

They know how to punish, 440

But better they know

How to pardon and pity!"

The old man is cheerful

Again, and is asking

For light frothing wine,

And the corks begin popping

And shoot in the air

To fall down on the women,

Who fly from them, shrieking.

The Barin is laughing, 450

The 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 party

Laugh loudly together;

The feast will be merry!

His daughters-in-law

At the old Prince's order 460

Are pouring out vodka

To give to the peasants,

Hand cakes to the youths,

To the girls some sweet syrup;

The women drink also

A small glass of vodka.

The old Prince is drinking

And toasting the peasants;

And slyly he pinches

The beautiful ladies. 470

"That's right! That will do him

More good than his physic,"

Says Vlásuchka, watching.

"He drinks by the glassful,

Since long he's lost measure

In revel, or wrath…."

The music comes floating

To them from the Volga,

The girls now already

Are dancing and singing, 480

The old Prince is watching them,

Snapping his fingers.

He wants to be nearer

The girls, and he rises.

His legs will not bear him,

His two sons support him;

And standing between them

He chuckles and whistles,

And stamps with his feet

To the time of the music; 490

The left eye begins

On 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 500

How things went in his time;

He's shaking and swaying

Like one on the deck

Of a ship in rough weather.

"Sing, Luiba!" he orders.

The golden-haired lady

Does not want to sing,

But the old man will have it.

The lady is singing

A song low and tender, 510

It sounds like the breeze

On a soft summer evening

In velvety grasses

Astray, like spring raindrops

That kiss the young leaves,

And it soothes the Pomyéshchick.

The feeble old man:

He is falling asleep now….

And gently they carry him

Down to the water, 520

And into the boat,

And he lies there, still sleeping.

Above him stands, holding

A big green umbrella,

The faithful old servant,

His other hand guarding

The sleeping Pomyéshchick

From gnats and mosquitoes.

The oarsmen are silent,

The faint-sounding music 530

Can hardly be heard

As the boat moving gently

Glides on through the water….

The peasants stand watching:

The bright yellow hair

Of the beautiful lady

Streams out in the breeze

Like a long golden banner….

"I managed him finely,

The noble Pomyéshchick," 540

Said Klím to the peasants.

"Be God with you, Barin!

Go bragging and scolding,

Don't think for a moment

That we are now free

And your servants no longer,

But die as you lived,

The almighty Pomyéshchick,

To sound of our music,

To songs of your slaves; 550

But only die quickly,

And leave the poor peasants

In peace. And now, brothers,

Come, praise me and thank me!

I've gladdened the commune.

I shook in my shoes there

Before the Pomyéshchick,

For fear I should trip

Or my tongue should betray me;

And worse—I could hardly 560

Speak 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 errand

Of yours, or another's?

Perhaps with a pass

From the Tsar—Little Father,

You carry a message 570

From him.' I was standing

And bursting with laughter!

Well, I am a drunken

And frivolous peasant,

The rats in my corn-loft

Are starving from hunger,

My hut is quite bare,

Yet I call God to witness

That I would not take

Such an office upon me 580

For ten hundred roubles

Unless I were certain

That he was the last,

That I bore with his bluster

To serve my own ends,

Of my own will and pleasure."

Old Vlásuchka sadly

And thoughtfully answers,

"How long, though, how long, though,

Have we—not we only 590

But 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 placing

Old Widow Teréntevna

Next to her bridegroom,

The little child Jóckoff,

Saluting them gaily.

They're eating and drinking

What's left on the table.

Then romping and jesting

They stay till the evening, 610

And only at nightfall

Return to the village.

And here they are met

By 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—while

He was sleeping—had fallen! 620

The peasants are sobered,

They look at each other,

And silently cross themselves.

Then they breathe deeply;

And never before

Did the poor squalid village

Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"

Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"

Draw such an intense

And unanimous breath…. 630

Their pleasure, however,

Was not very lasting,

Because with the death

Of the ancient Pomyéshchick,

The sweet-sounding words

Of his heirs and their bounties

Ceased also. Not even

A pick-me-up after

The yesterday's feast

Did they offer the peasants. 640

And as to the hayfields—

Till now is the law-suit

Proceeding between them,

The heirs and the peasants.

Old Vlásuchka was

By the peasants appointed

To plead in their name,

And he lives now in Moscow.

He went to St. Petersburg too,

But I don't think 650

That much can be done

For the cause of the peasants.