"You brigands! You cut-throats! Don't move, or I shoot!"

"How can we be brigands?" The peasants say, laughing, "No knives and no pitchforks, No hatchets have we!"

"Who are you? And what 30 Do you want?" said the Barin.

"A trouble torments us, It draws us away From our wives, from our children, Away from our work, Kills our appetites too, Do give us your promise To answer us truly, Consulting your conscience And searching your knowledge, 40 Not sneering, nor feigning The question we put you, And then we will tell you The cause of our trouble."

"I promise. I give you The oath of a noble."

"No, don't give us that— Not the oath of a noble! We're better content With the word of a Christian. 50 The nobleman's oaths— They are given with curses, With kicks and with blows! We are better without them!"

"Eh-heh, that's a new creed! Well, let it be so, then. And what is your trouble?"

"But put up the pistol! That's right! Now we'll tell you: We are not assassins, 60 But peaceable peasants, From Government 'Hard-pressed,' From District 'Most Wretched,' From 'Destitute' Parish, From neighbouring hamlets,— 'Patched,' 'Bare-Foot,' and 'Shabby,' 'Bleak,' 'Burnt-out,' and 'Hungry.' From 'Harvestless,' too. We met in the roadway, And one asked another, 70 Who is he—the man Free and happy in Russia? Luka said, 'The pope,' And Roman, 'The Pomyeshchick,' Demyan, 'The official.' 'The round-bellied merchant,' Said both brothers Goobin, Mitrodor and Ivan; Pakhom said, 'His Highness, The Tsar's Chief Adviser,' 80 And Prov said, 'The Tsar.'

"Like bulls are the peasants; Once folly is in them You cannot dislodge it, Although you should beat them With stout wooden cudgels, They stick to their folly, And nothing can move them! We argued and argued, While arguing quarrelled, 90 While quarrelling fought, Till at last we decided That never again Would we turn our steps homeward To kiss wives and children, To see the old people, Until we have settled The subject of discord; Until we have found The reply to our question— 100 Of who can, in Russia, Be happy and free?

"Now tell us, Pomyeshchick, Is your life a sweet one? And is the Pomyeshchick Both happy and free?"

Gavril Afanasich Springs out of the "troika" And comes to the peasants. He takes—like a doctor— 110 The hand of each one, And carefully feeling The pulse gazes searchingly Into their faces, Then clasps his plump sides And stands shaking with laughter. The clear, hearty laugh Of the healthy Pomyeshchick Peals out in the pleasant Cool air of the morning: 120 "Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!" Till he stops from exhaustion. And then he addresses The wondering peasants: "Put on your hats, gentlemen, Please to be seated!"

(He speaks with a bitter[31] And mocking politeness.)

"But we are not gentry; We'd rather stand up 130 In your presence, your worship."

"Sit down, worthy citizens, Here on the bank."

The peasants protest, But, on seeing it useless, Sit down on the bank.

"May I sit beside you? Hey, Proshka! Some sherry, My rug and a cushion!" He sits on the rug. 140 Having finished the sherry, Thus speaks the Pomyeshchick:

"I gave you my promise To answer your question.... The task is not easy, For though you are highly Respectable people, You're not very learned. Well, firstly, I'll try To explain you the meaning 150 Of Lord, or Pomyeshchick. Have you, by some chance, Ever heard the expression The 'Family Tree'? Do you know what it means?"

"The woods are not closed to us. We have seen all kinds Of trees," say the peasants. "Your shot has miscarried! I'll try to speak clearly; 160 I come of an ancient, Illustrious family; One, Oboldooeff, My ancestor, is Amongst those who were mentioned In old Russian chronicles Written for certain Two hundred and fifty Years back. It is written, ''Twas given the Tartar, 170 Obolt-Oboldooeff, A piece of cloth, value Two roubles, for having Amused the Tsaritsa Upon the Tsar's birthday By fights of wild beasts, Wolves and foxes. He also Permitted his own bear To fight with a wild one, Which mauled Oboldooeff, 180 And hurt him severely.' And now, gentle peasants, Did you understand?"

"Why not? To this day One can see them—the loafers Who stroll about leading A bear!"

"Be it so, then! But now, please be silent, And hark to what follows: 190 From this Oboldooeff My family sprang; And this incident happened Two hundred and fifty Years back, as I told you, But still, on my mother's side, Even more ancient The family is: Says another old writing: 'Prince Schepin, and one 200 Vaska Gooseff, attempted To burn down the city Of Moscow. They wanted To plunder the Treasury. They were beheaded.' And this was, good peasants, Full three hundred years back! From these roots it was That our Family Tree sprang."

"And you are the ... as one 210 Might say ... little apple Which hangs on a branch Of the tree," say the peasants.

"Well, apple, then, call it, So long as it please you. At least you appear To have got at my meaning. And now, you yourselves Understand—the more ancient A family is 220 The more noble its members. Is that so, good peasants?"

"That's so," say the peasants. "The black bone and white bone Are different, and they must Be differently honoured."

"Exactly. I see, friends, You quite understand me." The Barin continued: "In past times we lived, 230 As they say, 'in the bosom Of Christ,' and we knew What it meant to be honoured! Not only the people Obeyed and revered us, But even the earth And the waters of Russia.... You knew what it was To be One, in the centre Of vast, spreading lands, 240 Like the sun in the heavens: The clustering villages Yours, yours the meadows, And yours the black depths Of the great virgin forests! You pass through a village; The people will meet you, Will fall at your feet; Or you stroll in the forest; The mighty old trees 250 Bend their branches before you. Through meadows you saunter; The slim golden corn-stems Rejoicing, will curtsey With winning caresses, Will hail you as Master. The little fish sports In the cool little river; Get fat, little fish, At the will of the Master! 260 The little hare speeds Through the green little meadow; Speed, speed, little hare, Till the coming of autumn, The season of hunting, The sport of the Master. And all things exist But to gladden the Master. Each wee blade of grass Whispers lovingly to him, 270 'I live but for thee....'

"The joy and the beauty, The pride of all Russia— The Lord's holy churches— Which brighten the hill-sides And gleam like great jewels On the slopes of the valleys, Were rivalled by one thing In glory, and that Was the nobleman's manor. 280 Adjoining the manor Were glass-houses sparkling, And bright Chinese arbours, While parks spread around it. On each of the buildings Gay banners displaying Their radiant colours, And beckoning softly, Invited the guest To partake of the pleasures 290 Of rich hospitality. Never did Frenchmen In dreams even picture Such sumptuous revels As we used to hold. Not only for one-day, Or two, did they last— But for whole months together! We fattened great turkeys, We brewed our own liquors, 300 We kept our own actors, And troupes of musicians, And legions of servants! Why, I kept five cooks, Besides pastry-cooks, working, Two blacksmiths, three carpenters, Eighteen musicians, And twenty-two huntsmen.... My God!"...

The afflicted 310 Pomyeshchick broke down here, And hastened to bury His face in the cushion.... "Hey, Proshka!" he cried, And then quickly the lackey Poured out and presented A glassful of brandy. The glass was soon empty, And when the Pomyeshchick Had rested awhile, 320 He again began speaking: "Ah, then, Mother Russia, How gladly in autumn Your forests awoke To the horn of the huntsman! Their dark, gloomy depths, Which had saddened and faded, Were pierced by the clear Ringing blast, and they listened, Revived and rejoiced, 330 To the laugh of the echo. The hounds and the huntsmen Are gathered together, And wait on the skirts Of the forest; and with them The Master; and farther Within the deep forest The dog-keepers, roaring And shouting like madmen, The hounds all a-bubble 340 Like fast-boiling water. Hark! There's the horn calling! You hear the pack yelling? They're crowding together! And where's the red beast? Hoo-loo-loo! Hoo-loo-loo! And the sly fox is ready; Fat, furry old Reynard Is flying before us, His bushy tail waving! 350 The knowing hounds crouch, And each lithe body quivers, Suppressing the fire That is blazing within it: 'Dear guests of our hearts, Do come nearer and greet us, We're panting to meet you, We, hale little fellows! Come nearer to us And away from the bushes!' 360

"They're off! Now, my horse, Let your swiftness not fail me! My hounds, you are staunch And you will not betray me! Hoo-loo! Faster, faster! Now, at him, my children!"... Gavril Afanasich Springs up, wildly shouting, His arms waving madly, He dances around them! 370 He's certainly after A fox in the forest!

The peasants observe him In silent enjoyment, They smile in their beards....

"Eh ... you, mad, merry hunters! Although he forgets Many things—the Pomyeshchick— Those hunts in the autumn Will not be forgotten. 380 'Tis not for our own loss We grieve, Mother Russia, But you that we pity; For you, with the hunting Have lost the last traces Of days bold and warlike That made you majestic....

"At times, in the autumn, A party of fifty Would start on a hunting tour; 390 Then each Pomyeshchick Brought with him a hundred Fine dogs, and twelve keepers, And cooks in abundance. And after the cooks Came a long line of waggons Containing provisions. And as we went forward With music and singing, You might have mistaken 400 Our band for a fine troop Of cavalry, moving! The time flew for us Like a falcon." How lightly The breast of the nobleman Rose, while his spirit Went back to the days Of Old Russia, and greeted The gallant Boyarin.[32] ...

"No whim was denied us. 410 To whom I desire I show mercy and favour; And whom I dislike I strike dead on the spot. The law is my wish, And my fist is my hangman! My blow makes the sparks crowd, My blow smashes jaw-bones, My blow scatters teeth!"...

Like a string that is broken, 420 The voice of the nobleman Suddenly ceases; He lowers his eyes To the ground, darkly frowning ... And then, in a low voice, He says:

"You yourselves know That strictness is needful; But I, with love, punished. The chain has been broken, 430 The links burst asunder; And though we do not beat The peasant, no longer We look now upon him With fatherly feelings. Yes, I was severe too At times, but more often I turned hearts towards me With patience and mildness.

"Upon Easter Sunday 440 I kissed all the peasants Within my domain. A great table, loaded With 'Paska' and 'Koolich'[33] And eggs of all colours, Was spread in the manor. My wife, my old mother, My sons, too, and even My daughters did not scorn To kiss[34] the last peasant: 450 'Now Christ has arisen!' 'Indeed He has risen!' The peasants broke fast then, Drank vodka and wine. Before each great holiday, In my best staterooms The All-Night Thanksgiving Was held by the pope. My serfs were invited With every inducement: 460 'Pray hard now, my children, Make use of the chance, Though you crack all your foreheads!'[35] The nose suffered somewhat, But still at the finish We brought all the women-folk Out of a village To scrub down the floors. You see 'twas a cleansing Of souls, and a strengthening 470 Of spiritual union; Now, isn't that so?"

"That's so," say the peasants, But each to himself thinks, "They needed persuading With sticks though, I warrant, To get them to pray In your Lordship's fine manor!"

"I'll say, without boasting, They loved me—my peasants. 480 In my large Surminsky Estate, where the peasants Were mostly odd-jobbers, Or very small tradesmen, It happened that they Would get weary of staying At home, and would ask My permission to travel, To visit strange parts At the coming of spring. 490 They'd often be absent Through summer and autumn. My wife and the children Would argue while guessing The gifts that the peasants Would bring on returning. And really, besides Lawful dues of the 'Barin' In cloth, eggs, and live stock, The peasants would gladly 500 Bring gifts to the family: Jam, say, from Kiev, From Astrakhan fish, And the richer among them Some silk for the lady. You see!—as he kisses Her hand he presents her A neat little packet! And then for the children Are sweetmeats and toys; 510 For me, the old toper, Is wine from St. Petersburg— Mark you, the rascal Won't go to the Russian For that! He knows better— He runs to the Frenchman! And when we have finished Admiring the presents I go for a stroll And a chat with the peasants; 520 They talk with me freely. My wife fills their glasses, My little ones gather Around us and listen, While sucking their sweets, To the tales of the peasants: Of difficult trading, Of places far distant, Of Petersburg, Astrakhan, Kazan, and Kiev.... 530 On such terms it was That I lived with my peasants. Now, wasn't that nice?"

"Yes," answer the peasants; "Yes, well might one envy The noble Pomyeshchick! His life was so sweet There was no need to leave it."

"And now it is past.... It has vanished for ever! 540 Hark! There's the bell tolling!"

They listen in silence: In truth, through the stillness Which settles around them, The slow, solemn sound On the breeze of the morning Is borne from Kusminsky....

"Sweet peace to the peasant! God greet him in Heaven!"

The peasants say softly, 550 And cross themselves thrice; And the mournful Pomyeshchick Uncovers his head, As he piously crosses Himself, and he answers: "'Tis not for the peasant The knell is now tolling, It tolls the lost life Of the stricken Pomyeshchick. Farewell to the past, 560 And farewell to thee, Russia, The Russia who cradled The happy Pomyeshchick, Thy place has been stolen And filled by another!... Heh, Proshka!" (The brandy Is given, and quickly He empties the glass.) "Oh, it isn't consoling To witness the change 570 In thy face, oh, my Motherland! Truly one fancies The whole race of nobles Has suddenly vanished! Wherever one goes, now, One falls over peasants Who lie about, tipsy, One meets not a creature But excise official, Or stupid 'Posrednik,'[36] 580 Or Poles who've been banished. One sees the troops passing, And then one can guess That a village has somewhere Revolted, 'in thankful And dutiful spirit....' In old days, these roads Were made gay by the passing Of carriage, 'dormeuse,' And of six-in-hand coaches, 590 And pretty, light troikas; And in them were sitting The family troop Of the jolly Pomyeshchick: The stout, buxom mother, The fine, roguish sons, And the pretty young daughters; One heard with enjoyment The chiming of large bells, The tinkling of small bells, 600 Which hung from the harness. And now?... What distraction Has life? And what joy Does it bring the Pomyeshchick? At each step, you meet Something new to revolt you; And when in the air You can smell a rank graveyard, You know you are passing A nobleman's manor! 610 My Lord!... They have pillaged The beautiful dwelling! They've pulled it all down, Brick by brick, and have fashioned The bricks into hideously Accurate columns! The broad shady park Of the outraged Pomyeshchick, The fruit of a hundred years' Careful attention, 620 Is falling away 'Neath the axe of a peasant! The peasant works gladly, And greedily reckons The number of logs Which his labour will bring him. His dark soul is closed To refinement of feeling, And what would it matter To him, if you told him 630 That this stately oak Which his hatchet is felling My grandfather's hand Had once planted and tended; That under this ash-tree My dear little children, My Vera and Ganushka, Echoed my voice As they played by my side; That under this linden 640 My young wife confessed me That little Gavrioushka, Our best-beloved first-born, Lay under her heart, As she nestled against me And bashfully hid Her sweet face in my bosom As red as a cherry.... It is to his profit To ravish the park, 650 And his mission delights him. It makes one ashamed now To pass through a village; The peasant sits still And he dreams not of bowing. One feels in one's breast Not the pride of a noble But wrath and resentment. The axe of the robber Resounds in the forest, 660 It maddens your heart, But you cannot prevent it, For who can you summon To 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 complain For ourselves—of our sorrows, 670 Our hearts bleed for thee: Like a widow thou standest In helpless affliction With tresses dishevelled And grief-stricken face.... They have blighted the forest, The noisy low taverns Have risen and flourished. They've picked the most worthless And loose of the people, 680 And given them power In the posts of the Zemstvos; They've seized on the peasant And 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 690 Or drink on the premises.' Was it worth while, pray, To weary the peasant With learning his letters In order to read them? The land that we keep Is our mother no longer, Our stepmother rather. And then to improve things, These pert good-for-nothings, 700 These impudent writers Must needs shout in chorus: 'But whose fault, then, is it, That you thus exhausted And wasted your country?' But I say—you duffers! Who could foresee this? They babble, 'Enough Of your lordly pretensions! It's time that you learnt something, 710 Lazy Pomyeshchicks! Get up, now, and work!'

"Work! To whom, in God's name, Do you think you are speaking? I am not a peasant In 'laputs,' good madman! I am—by God's mercy— A Noble of Russia. You take us for Germans! We nobles have tender 720 And delicate feelings, Our pride is inborn, And in Russia our classes Are not taught to work. Why, the meanest official Will not raise a finger To clear his own table, Or light his own stove! I can say, without boasting, That though I have lived 730 Forty years in the country, And scarcely have left it, I could not distinguish Between rye and barley. And they sing of 'work' to me!

"If we Pomyeshchicks Have really mistaken Our duty and calling, If really our mission Is not, as in old days, 740 To keep up the hunting, To revel in luxury, Live on forced labour, Why did they not tell us Before? Could I learn it? For what do I see? I've worn the Tsar's livery, 'Sullied the Heavens,' And 'squandered the treasury Gained by the people,' 750 And fully imagined To do so for ever, And now ... God in Heaven!"... The Barin is sobbing!...

The kind-hearted peasants Can hardly help crying Themselves, and they think: "Yes, the chain has been broken, The strong links have snapped, And the one end recoiling 760 Has struck the Pomyeshchick, The other—the peasant."



PART II.

THE LAST POMYESHCHICK

PROLOGUE

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 Pakhom, "Why, the folk must be giants." The two brothers Goobin 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 Vlasuchka) 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 Pomyeshchick Returning from boating!" Says Vlasuchka, running To busy the mowers: "Wake up! Look alive there! And mind—above all things, Don't heat the Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchick.

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 Pomyeshchick, 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 Pomyeshchick. 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 Pomyeshchick, 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 Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchick.

The table is shining All dazzlingly white On the bank of the river. 250 The strangers, astonished, Draw near to old Vlasuchka; "Pray, little Uncle," They say, "what's the meaning Of all these strange doings? And who is that curious Old man?"

"Our Pomyeshchick, The great Prince Yutiatin."

"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 Vlasuchka, 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 Vlasuchka 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 Vlasuchka tells them The following story.

I

THE DIE-HARD

"The great prince, Yutiatin, The ancient Pomyeshchick, 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 posrednik 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 Pomyeshchick, The habit gets into The blood," says Mitrodor, "And not the Pomyeshchick's Alone, for the habit Is strong in the peasant As well," old Pakhom said. "I once on suspicion 50 Was put into prison, And met there a peasant Called Sedor, 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 Pomyeshchick 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 posrednik 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 Pomyeshchicks; 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 Yutiatin, The Princes Yu-tia-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 Pomyeshchick Once more is prostrated, His death is a question Of time, and to make it Run smoothly till then An agreement was come to, 140 A plan to deceive him: So one of the ladies (The fair one, I fancy, She used at that time To attend the old master And rub his left side With a brush), well, she told him That orders had come From the Government lately That peasants set free 150 Should return to their bondage. And he quite believed it. (You see, since his illness The Prince had become Like a child.) When he heard it He cried with delight; And the household was summoned To prayer round the icons;[40] And Thanksgiving Service Was held by his orders 160 In every small village, And bells were set ringing. And little by little His strength returned partly. And then as before It was hunting and music, The servants were caned And the peasants were punished. 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 Ipat, And when we were made free He refused to believe it; 'The great Prince Yutiatin 180 Be left without peasants! What pranks are you playing?' At last, when the 'Order Of Freedom' was shown him, Ipat said, 'Well, well, Get you gone to your pleasures, But I am the slave Of the Princes Yutiatin!' 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, Ipat.' 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 Ipat, 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 Vlasuchka, 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 posrednik 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 posrednik, 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 Pomyeshchick 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 Klimka Lavin 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 Klimka 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 Klimka 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 Klimka the 'scapegrace' He suddenly changed Into Klim, 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 Pomyeshchick; His ears burn, I warrant, When we come together! And Klim, 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 Pomyeshchick That Widow Terentevna's Cottage had fallen. And that she is begging Her bread. He commands you To marry the widow To Gabriel Jockoff; 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 Pomyeshchick 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. Yakutsk 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 Sofronoff the watchman Does not behave nicely, It barked at the Barin. Be therefore Sofronoff Dismissed. Let Evremka 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 Klimka'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 Orevna, And she is Klim'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 Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchick, 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 Pomyeshchick.... The heirs and the ladies Come running in terror To Klim, to Petrov, And to me: 'Only save us!' Their faces are pale, 'If the trick is discovered We're lost!' 680 It is Klim'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 Klim 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 Pomyeshchick," Says Prov, and old Vlasuchka 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 Klimka, 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."

II

KLIM, THE ELDER

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, Ipat, the domestic, The faithful old servant, In white tie and shirt-front Is brushing the flies off. 30 Beside the Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchick, 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, Klim's gossip, Orevna, Makes answer for them: "Yes, Klim, 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 Pomyeshchick 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 Vlasuchka 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 Klim, 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 Pomyeshchicks, "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 Pomyeshchick, 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; Klim 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, Ipat, who is standing Behind the Pomyeshchick 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 Vlasuchka, crossly.)

The red sun peeps slyly At them from a cloud, And the slow, dreamy music Is heard from the river....

The ancient Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchick, 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, Roman," 320 Say the two brothers Goobin, "You love the Pomyeshchicks."

"I'd rather you went, though!" And each is quite willing To offer the other. Then Klim looses patience; "Now, Vlasuchka, help us! Do something to save us! I'm sick of the thing!"

"Yes! Nicely you lied there!" 330

"Oho!" says Klim 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, Klim?"

"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, Klim! 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 Klim—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, Ipat, 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 Vlasuchka, 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 Pomyeshchick. 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 Pomyeshchick 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 Pomyeshchick," 540 Said Klim 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 Pomyeshchick, 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 Pomyeshchick, 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 Vlasuchka sadly And thoughtfully answers, "How long, though, how long, though, Have we—not we only 590 But all Russian peasants— Endured the Pomyeshchicks? 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 Klimka. 600 "Hurrah! Let us toss him!" And now they are placing Old Widow Terentevna Next to her bridegroom, The little child Jockoff, 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 Pomyeshchick, 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 Vlasuchka 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.



PART III.

THE PEASANT WOMAN

PROLOGUE

"Not only to men Must we go with our question, We'll ask of the women," The peasants decided. They asked in the village "Split-up," but the people Replied to them shortly, "Not here will you find one. But go to the village 'Stripped-Naked'—a woman 10 Lives there who is happy. She's hardly a woman, She's more like a cow, For a woman so healthy, So smooth and so clever, Could hardly be found. You must seek in the village Matrona Korchagin— The people there call her 'The Governor's Lady.'" 20 The peasants considered And went....

Now already The corn-stalks are rising Like tall graceful columns, With gilded heads nodding, And whispering softly In gentle low voices. Oh, beautiful summer! No time is so gorgeous, 30 So regal, so rich.

You full yellow cornfields, To look at you now One would never imagine How sorely God's people Had toiled to array you Before you arose, In the sight of the peasant, And stood before him, Like a glorious army 40 n front of a Tsar! 'Tis not by warm dew-drops That you have been moistened, The sweat of the peasant Has fallen upon you.

The peasants are gladdened At sight of the oats And the rye and the barley, But not by the wheat, For it feeds but the chosen: 50 "We love you not, wheat! But the rye and the barley We love—they are kind, They feed all men alike."

The flax, too, is growing So sweetly and bravely: "Ai! you little mite! You are caught and entangled!" A poor little lark In the flax has been captured; 60 It struggles for freedom. Pakhom picks it up, He kisses it tenderly: "Fly, little birdie!" ... The lark flies away To the blue heights of Heaven; The kind-hearted peasants Gaze lovingly upwards To see it rejoice In the freedom above.... 70 The peas have come on, too; Like locusts, the peasants Attack them and eat them. They're like a plump maiden— The peas—for whoever Goes by must needs pinch them. Now peas are being carried In old hands, in young hands, They're spreading abroad Over seventy high-roads. 80 The vegetables—how They're flourishing also! Each toddler is clasping A radish or carrot, And many are cracking The seeds of the sunflower. The beetroots are dotted Like little red slippers All over the earth.

Our peasants are walking, 90 Now faster—now slower. At last they have reached it— The village 'Stripped-Naked,' It's not much to look at: Each hut is propped up Like a beggar on crutches; The thatch from the roofs Has made food for the cattle; The huts are like feeble Old skeletons standing, 100 Like desolate rooks' nests When young birds forsake them. When wild Autumn winds Have dismantled the birch-trees. The people are all In the fields; they are working. Behind the poor village A manor is standing; It's built on the slope Of a hill, and the peasants 110 Are making towards it To look at it close.

The house is gigantic, The courtyard is huge, There's a pond in it too; A watch-tower arises From over the house, With a gallery round it, A flagstaff upon it.

They meet with a lackey 120 Near one of the gates: He seems to be wearing A strange kind of mantle; "Well, what are you up to?" He says to the friends, "The Pomyeshchick's abroad now, The manager's dying." He shows them his back, And they all begin laughing: A tiger is clutching 130 The edge of his shoulders! "Heh! here's a fine joke!" They are hotly discussing What kind of a mantle The lackey is wearing, Till clever Pakhom Has got hold of the riddle. "The cunning old rascal, He's stolen a carpet, And cut in the middle 140 A hole for his head!"

Like weak, straddling beetles Shut up to be frozen In cold empty huts By the pitiless peasants. The servants are crawling All over the courtyard. Their master long since Has forgotten about them, And left them to live 150 As they can. They are hungry, All old and decrepit, And dressed in all manners, They look like a crowd In a gipsy encampment. And some are now dragging A net through the pond: "God come to your help! Have you caught something, brothers?" "One carp—nothing more; 160 There used once to be many, But now we have come To the end of the feast!"

"Do try to get five!" Says a pale, pregnant woman, Who's fervently blowing A fire near the pond.

"And what are those pretty Carved poles you are burning? They're balcony railings, 170 I think, are they not?"

"Yes, balcony railings."

"See here. They're like tinder; Don't blow on them, Mother! I bet they'll burn faster Than you find the victuals To cook in the pot!"

"I'm waiting and waiting, And Mityenka sickens Because of the musty 180 Old bread that I give him. But what can I do? This life—it is bitter!" She fondles the head Of a half-naked baby Who sits by her side In a little brass basin, A button-nosed mite.

"The boy will take cold there, The basin will chill him," 190 Says Prov; and he wishes To lift the child up, But it screams at him, angry. "No, no! Don't you touch him," The mother says quickly, "Why, can you not see That's his carriage he's driving? Drive on, little carriage! Gee-up, little horses! You see how he drives!" 200

The peasants each moment Observe some new marvel; And soon they have noticed A strange kind of labour Proceeding around them: One man, it appears, To the door has got fastened; He's toiling away To unscrew the brass handles, His hands are so weak 210 He can scarcely control them. Another is hugging Some tiles: "See, Yegorshka, I've dug quite a heap out!" Some children are shaking An apple-tree yonder: "You see, little Uncles, There aren't many left, Though the tree was quite heavy." "But why do you want them? 220 They're quite hard and green." "We're thankful to get them!"

The peasants examine The park for a long time; Such wonders are seen here, Such cunning inventions: In one place a mountain Is raised; in another A ravine yawns deep! A lake has been made too; 230 Perhaps at one time There were swans on the water? The summer-house has some Inscriptions upon it, Demyan begins spelling Them out very slowly. A grey-haired domestic Is watching the peasants; He sees they have very Inquisitive natures, 240 And presently slowly Goes hobbling towards them, And holding a book. He says, "Will you buy it?" Demyan is a peasant Acquainted with letters, He tries for some time But he can't read a word.

"Just sit down yourself On that seat near the linden, 250 And read the book leisurely Like a Pomyeshchick!"

"You think you are clever," The grey-headed servant Retorts with resentment, "Yet books which are learned Are wasted upon you. You read but the labels On public-house windows, And that which is written 260 On every odd corner: 'Most strictly forbidden.'"

The pathways are filthy, The graceful stone ladies Bereft of their noses. "The fruit and the berries, The geese and the swans Which were once on the water, The thieving old rascals Have stuffed in their maws. 270 Like church without pastor, Like fields without peasants, Are all these fine gardens Without a Pomyeshchick," The peasants remark. For long the Pomyeshchick Has gathered his treasures, When all of a sudden.... (The six peasants laugh, But the seventh is silent, 280 He hangs down his head.)

A song bursts upon them! A voice is resounding Like blasts of a trumpet. The heads of the peasants Are eagerly lifted, They gaze at the tower. On the balcony round it A man is now standing; He wears a pope's cassock; 290 He sings ... on the balmy Soft air of the evening, The bass, like a huge Silver bell, is vibrating, And throbbing it enters The hearts of the peasants. The words are not Russian, But some foreign language, But, like Russian songs, It is full of great sorrow, 300 Of passionate grief, Unending, unfathomed; It wails and laments, It is bitterly sobbing....

"Pray tell us, good woman, What man is that singing?" Roman asks the woman Now feeding her baby With steaming ukha.[43]

"A singer, my brothers, 310 A born Little Russian, The Barin once brought him Away from his home, With a promise to send him To Italy later. But long the Pomyeshchick Has been in strange parts And forgotten his promise; And now the poor fellow Would be but too glad 320 To get back to his village. There's nothing to do here, He hasn't a farthing, There's nothing before him And nothing behind him Excepting his voice. You have not really heard it; You will if you stay here Till sunrise to-morrow: Some three versts away 330 There is living a deacon, And he has a voice too. They greet one another: Each morning at sunrise Will our little singer Climb up to the watch-tower, And call to the other, 'Good-morrow to Father Ipat, and how fares he?' (The windows all shake 340 At the sound.) From the distance The deacon will answer, 'Good-morrow, good-morrow, To our little sweet-throat! I go to drink vodka, I'm going ... I'm going....' The voice on the air Will hang quivering around us For more than an hour, 350 Like the neigh of a stallion."

The cattle are now Coming home, and the evening Is filled with the fragrance Of milk; and the woman, The mother of Mityenka, Sighs; she is thinking, "If only one cow Would turn into the courtyard!" But hark! In the distance 360 Some voices in chorus! "Good-bye, you poor mourners, May God send you comfort! The people are coming, We're going to meet them."

The peasants are filled With relief; because after The whining old servants The people who meet them Returning from work 370 In the fields seem such healthy And beautiful people. The men and the women And pretty young girls Are all singing together.

"Good health to you! Which is Among you the woman Matrona Korchagin?" The peasants demand.

"And what do you want 380 With Matrona Korchagin?"

The woman Matrona Is tall, finely moulded, Majestic in bearing, And strikingly handsome. Of thirty-eight years She appears, and her black hair Is mingled with grey. Her complexion is swarthy, Her eyes large and dark 390 And severe, with rich lashes. A white shirt, and short Sarafan[44] she is wearing, She walks with a hay-fork Slung over her shoulder.

"Well, what do you want With Matrona Korchagin?" The peasants are silent; They wait till the others Have gone in advance, 400 And then, bowing, they answer:

"We come from afar, And a trouble torments us, A trouble so great That for it we've forsaken Our homes and our work, And our appetites fail. We're orthodox peasants, From District 'Most Wretched,' From 'Destitute Parish,' 410 From neighbouring hamlets— 'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,' 'Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,' And 'Harvestless,' too. We met in the roadway And argued about Who is happy in Russia. Luka said, 'The pope,' And Demyan, 'The Pomyeshchick,' And Prov said, 'The Tsar,' 420 And Roman, 'The official.' 'The round-bellied merchant,' Said both brothers Goobin, Mitrodor and Ivan. Pakhom said, 'His Highness, The Tsar's Chief Adviser.' Like bulls are the peasants: Once folly is in them You cannot dislodge it Although you should beat them 430 With stout wooden cudgels, They stick to their folly And nothing will move them. We argued and quarrelled, While quarrelling fought, And while fighting decided That never again Would we turn our steps homewards To kiss wives and children, To see the old people, 440 Until we have found The reply to our question, Of who can in Russia Be happy and free? We've questioned the pope, We've asked the Pomyeshchick, And now we ask you. We'll seek the official, The Minister, merchant, We even will go 450 To the Tsar—Little Father, Though whether he'll see us We cannot be sure. But rumour has told us That you're free and happy. Then say, in God's name, If the rumour be true."

Matrona Korchagin Does not seem astonished, But only a sad look 460 Creeps into her eyes, And her face becomes thoughtful.

"Your errand is surely A foolish one, brothers," She says to the peasants, "For this is the season Of work, and no peasant For chatter has time."

"Till now on our journey Throughout half the Empire 470 We've met no denial," The peasants protest.

"But look for yourselves, now, The corn-ears are bursting. We've not enough hands."

"And we? What are we for? Just give us some sickles, And see if we don't Get some work done to-morrow!" The peasants reply. 480

Matrona sees clearly Enough that this offer Must not be rejected; "Agreed," she said, smiling, "To such lusty fellows As you, we may well look For ten sheaves apiece."

"You give us your promise To open your heart to us?"

"I will hide nothing." 490

Matrona Korchagin Now enters her cottage, And while she is working Within it, the peasants Discover a very Nice spot just behind it, And sit themselves down. There's a barn close beside them And two immense haystacks, A flax-field around them; 500 And lying just near them A fine plot of turnips, And spreading above them A wonderful oak-tree, A king among oaks. They're sitting beneath it, And now they're producing The magic white napkin: "Heh, napkin enchanted, Give food to the peasants!" 510 The napkin unfolds, Two hands have come floating From no one sees where, Place a pailful of vodka, A large pile of bread On the magic white napkin, And dwindle away. The two brothers Goobin Are chuckling together, For they have just pilfered 520 A very big horse-radish Out of the garden— It's really a monster!

The skies are dark blue now, The bright stars are twinkling, The moon has arisen And sails high above them; The woman Matrona Comes out of the cottage To tell them her tale. 530



CHAPTER I

THE WEDDING

"My girlhood was happy, For we were a thrifty Arid diligent household; And I, the young maiden, With Father and Mother Knew nothing but joy. My father got up And went out before sunrise, He woke me with kisses And tender caresses; 10 My brother, while dressing, Would sing little verses: 'Get up, little Sister, Get up, little Sister, In no little beds now Are people delaying, In all little churches The peasants are praying, Get up, now, get up, It is time, little Sister. 20 The shepherd has gone To the field with the sheep, And no little maidens Are lying asleep, They've gone to pick raspberries, Merrily singing. The sound of the axe In the forest is ringing.'

"And then my dear mother, When she had done scouring 30 The pots and the pans, When the hut was put tidy, The bread in the oven, Would steal to my bedside, And cover me softly And whisper to me:

"'Sleep on, little dove, Gather strength—you will need it— You will not stay always With Father and Mother, 40 And when you will leave them To live among strangers Not long will you sleep. You'll slave till past midnight, And rise before daybreak; You'll always be weary. They'll give you a basket And throw at the bottom A crust. You will chew it, My poor little dove, 50 And start working again....'

"But, brothers, I did not Spend much time in sleeping; And when I was five On the day of St. Simon, I mounted a horse With the help of my father, And then was no longer A child. And at six years I carried my father 60 His breakfast already, And tended the ducks, And at night brought the cow home, And next—took my rake, And was off to the hayfields! And so by degrees I became a great worker, And yet best of all I loved singing and dancing; The whole day I worked 70 In the fields, and at nightfall Returned to the cottage All covered with grime. But what's the hot bath for? And thanks to the bath And boughs of the birch-tree, And icy spring water, Again I was clean And refreshed, and was ready To take out my spinning-wheel, 80 And with companions To sing half the night.

"I never ran after The youths, and the forward I checked very sharply. To those who were gentle And shy, I would whisper: 'My cheeks will grow hot, And sharp eyes has my mother; Be wise, now, and leave me 90 Alone'—and they left me.

"No matter how clever I was to avoid them, The one came at last I was destined to wed; And he—to my bitter Regret—was a stranger: Young Philip Korchagin, A builder of ovens. He came from St. Petersburg. 100 Oh, how my mother Did weep: 'Like a fish In the ocean, my daughter, You'll plunge and be lost; Like a nightingale, straying Away from its nest, We shall lose you, my daughter! The walls of the stranger Are not built of sugar, Are not spread with honey, 110 Their dwellings are chilly And garnished with hunger; The cold winds will nip you, The black rooks will scold you, The savage dogs bite you, The strangers despise you.'

"But Father sat talking And drinking till late With the 'swat.'[45] I was frightened. I slept not all night.... 120

"Oh, youth, pray you, tell me, Now what can you find In the maiden to please you? And where have you seen her? Perhaps in the sledges With merry young friends Flying down from the mountain? Then you were mistaken, O son of your father, It was but the frost 130 And the speed and the laughter That brought the bright tints To the cheeks of the maiden. Perhaps at some feast In the home of a neighbour You saw her rejoicing And clad in bright colours? But then she was plump From her rest in the winter; Her rosy face bloomed 140 Like the scarlet-hued poppy; But wait!—have you been To the hut of her father And seen her at work Beating flax in the barn? Ah, what shall I do? I will take brother falcon And send him to town: 'Fly to town, brother falcon, And bring me some cloth 150 And six colours of worsted, And tassels of blue. I will make a fine curtain, Embroider each corner With Tsar and Tsaritsa, With Moscow and Kiev, And Constantinople, And set the great sun Shining bright in the middle, And this I will hang 160 In the front of my window: Perhaps you will see it, And, struck by its beauty, Will stand and admire it, And will not remember To seek for the maiden....'

"And so till the morning I lay with such thoughts. 'Now, leave me, young fellow,' I said to the youth 170 When he came in the evening; 'I will not be foolish Enough to abandon My freedom in order To enter your service. God sees me—I will not Depart from my home!'

"'Do come,' said young Philip, 'So far have I travelled To fetch you. Don't fear me— 180 I will not ill-treat you.' I begged him to leave me, I wept and lamented; But nevertheless I was still a young maiden: I did not forget Sidelong glances to cast At the youth who thus wooed me. And Philip was handsome, Was rosy and lusty, 190 Was strong and broad-shouldered, With fair curling hair, With a voice low and tender.... Ah, well ... I was won....

"'Come here, pretty fellow, And stand up against me, Look deep in my eyes— They are clear eyes and truthful; Look well at my rosy Young face, and bethink you: 200 Will you not regret it, Won't my heart be broken, And shall I not weep Day and night if I trust you And go with you, leaving My parents forever?'

"'Don't fear, little pigeon, We shall not regret it,' Said Philip, but still I was timid and doubtful. 210 'Do go,' murmured I, and he, 'When you come with me.' Of course I was fairer And sweeter and dearer Than any that lived, And his arms were about me.... Then all of a sudden I made a sharp effort To wrench myself free. 219 'How now? What's the matter? You're strong, little pigeon!' Said Philip astonished, But still held me tight. 'Ah, Philip, if you had Not held me so firmly You would not have won me; I did it to try you, To measure your strength; You were strong, and it pleased me.' We must have been happy 230 In those fleeting moments When softly we whispered And argued together; I think that we never Were happy again....

"How well I remember.... The night was like this night, Was starlit and silent ... Was dreamy and tender Like this...." 240

And the woman, Matrona, sighed deeply, And softly began— Leaning back on the haystack— To sing to herself With her thoughts in the past:

"'Tell me, young merchant, pray, Why do you love me so— Poor peasant's daughter? I am not clad in gold, 250 I am not hung with pearls, Not decked with silver.'

"'Silver your chastity, Golden your beauty shines, O my beloved, White pearls are falling now Out of your weeping eyes, Falling like tear-drops.'

"My father gave orders To bring forth the wine-cups, 260 To set them all out On the solid oak table. My dear mother blessed me: 'Go, serve them, my daughter, Bow low to the strangers.' I bowed for the first time, My knees shook and trembled; I bowed for the second— My face had turned white; And then for the third time 270 I bowed, and forever The freedom of girlhood Rolled down from my head...."

"Ah, that means a wedding," Cry both brothers Goobin, "Let's drink to the health Of the happy young pair!"

"Well said! We'll begin With the bride," say the others.

"Will you drink some vodka, 280 Matrona Korchagin?"

"An old woman, brothers, And not drink some vodka?"



CHAPTER II

A SONG

Stand before your judge— And your legs will quake! Stand before the priest On your wedding-day,— How your head will ache! How your head will ache! You will call to mind Songs of long ago, Songs of gloom and woe: Telling how the guests 10 Crowd into the yard, Run to see the bride Whom the husband brings Homeward at his side. How his parents both Fling themselves on her; How his brothers soon Call her "wasteful one"; How his sisters next Call her "giddy one"; 20 How his father growls, "Greedy little bear!" How his mother snarls, "Cannibal!" at her. She is "slovenly" And "disorderly," She's a "wicked one"!

"All that's in the song Happened now to me. Do you know the song? 30 Have you heard it sung?"

"Yes, we know it well; Gossip, you begin, We will all join in."

Matrona

So sleepy, so weary I am, and my heavy head Clings to the pillow. But out in the passage My Father-in-law Begins stamping and swearing. 40

Peasants in Chorus

Stamping and swearing! Stamping and swearing! He won't let the poor woman Rest for a moment. Up, up, up, lazy-head! Up, up, up, lie-abed! Lazy-head! Lie-abed! Slut!

Matrona

So sleepy, so weary 50 I am, and my heavy head Clings to the pillow; But out in the passage My Mother-in-law Begins scolding and nagging.

Peasants in Chorus

Scolding and nagging! Scolding and nagging! She won't let the poor woman Rest for a moment. Up, up, up, lazy-head! 60 Up, up, up, lie-abed! Lazy-head! Lie-abed! Slut!

"A quarrelsome household It was—that of Philip's To which I belonged now; And I from my girlhood Stepped straight into Hell. My husband departed 70 To work in the city, And leaving, advised me To work and be silent, To yield and be patient: 'Don't splash the red iron With cold water—it hisses!' With father and mother And sisters-in-law he Now left me alone; Not a soul was among them 80 To love or to shield me, But many to scold. One sister-in-law— It was Martha, the eldest,— Soon set me to work Like a slave for her pleasure. And Father-in-law too One had to look after, Or else all his clothes To redeem from the tavern. 90 In all that one did There was need to be careful, Or Mother-in-law's Superstitions were troubled (One never could please her). Well, some superstitions Of course may be right; But they're most of them evil. And one day it happened That Mother-in-law 100 Murmured low to her husband That corn which is stolen Grows faster and better. So Father-in-law Stole away after midnight.... It chanced he was caught, And at daybreak next morning Brought back and flung down Like a log in the stable.

"But I acted always 110 As Philip had told me: I worked, with the anger Hid deep in my bosom, And never a murmur Allowed to escape me. And then with the winter Came Philip, and brought me A pretty silk scarf; And one feast-day he took me To drive in the sledges; 120 And quickly my sorrows Were lost and forgotten: I sang as in old days At home, with my father. For I and my husband Were both of an age, And were happy together When only they left us Alone, but remember A husband like Philip 130 Not often is found."

"Do you mean to say That he never once beat you?"

Matrona was plainly Confused by the question; "Once, only, he beat me," She said, very low.

"And why?" asked the peasants.

"Well, you know yourselves, friends, How quarrels arise 140 In the homes of the peasants. A young married sister Of Philip's one day Came to visit her parents. She found she had holes In her boots, and it vexed her. Then Philip said, 'Wife, Fetch some boots for my sister.' And I did not answer At once; I was lifting 150 A large wooden tub, So, of course, couldn't speak. But Philip was angry With me, and he waited Until I had hoisted The tub to the oven, Then struck me a blow With his fist, on my temple.

"'We're glad that you came, But you see that you'd better 160 Keep out of the way,' Said the other young sister To her that was married.

"Again Philip struck me!

"'It's long since I've seen you, My dearly-loved daughter, But could I have known How the baggage would treat you!'... Whined Mother-in-law.

"And again Philip struck me! 170

"Well, that is the story. 'Tis surely not fitting For wives to sit counting The blows of their husbands, But then I had promised To keep nothing back."

"Ah, well, with these women— The poisonous serpents!— A corpse would awaken And snatch up a horsewhip," 180 The peasants say, smiling.

Matrona said nothing. The peasants, in order To keep the occasion In manner befitting, Are filling the glasses; And now they are singing In voices of thunder A rollicking chorus, Of husbands' relations, 190 And wielding the knout.

... ...

"Cruel hated husband, Hark! he is coming! Holding the knout...."

Chorus

"Hear the lash whistle! See the blood spurt! Ai, leli, leli! See the blood spurt!"

... ...

"Run to his father! Bowing before him— 200 'Save me!' I beg him; 'Stop my fierce husband— Venomous serpent!' Father-in-law says, 'Beat her more soundly! Draw the blood freely!'"

Chorus

"Hear the lash whistle! See the blood spurt! Ai, leli, leli! See the blood spurt!" 210

... ...

"Quick—to his mother! Bowing before her— 'Save me!' I beg her; 'Stop my cruel husband! Venomous serpent!' Mother-in-law says, 'Beat her more soundly, Draw the blood freely!'"

Chorus

"Hear the lash whistle! See the blood spurt! 220 Ai, leli, leli! See the blood spurt!"

* * * * *

"On Lady-day Philip Went back to the city; A little while later Our baby was born. Like a bright-coloured picture Was he—little Djoma; The sunbeams had given Their radiance to him, 230 The pure snow its whiteness; The poppies had painted His lips; by the sable His brow had been pencilled; The falcon had fashioned His eyes, and had lent them Their wonderful brightness. At sight of his first Angel smile, all the anger And bitterness nursed 240 In my bosom was melted; It vanished away Like the snow on the meadows At sight of the smiling Spring sun. And not longer I worried and fretted; I worked, and in silence I let them upbraid. But soon after that A misfortune befell me: 250 The manager by The Pomyeshchick appointed, Called Sitnikov, hotly Began to pursue me. 'My lovely Tsaritsa! 'My rosy-ripe berry!' Said he; and I answered, 'Be off, shameless rascal! Remember, the berry Is not in your forest!' 260 I stayed from the field-work, And hid in the cottage; He very soon found me. I hid in the corn-loft, But Mother-in-law Dragged me out to the courtyard; 'Now don't play with fire, girl!' She said. I besought her To send him away, But she answered me roughly, 270 'And do you want Philip To serve as a soldier?' I ran to Savyeli, The grandfather, begging His aid and advice.