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  "Ho! where has it gone to, Your noble complaint?   Look how nimble he's getting!" 850
  "Well, well, Little Father, Now finish the story!"
  "It's time to go home now, My children,—God willing,   We'll meet again some day And finish it then…."
  The people disperse As the dawn is approaching.   Our peasants begin To bethink them of sleeping, 860   When all of a sudden A "troika" [30] comes flying   From no one sees where, With its silver bells ringing.
  Within it is sitting A plump little Barin,   His little mouth smoking A little cigar.
  The peasants draw up In a line on the roadway, 870   Thus barring the passage In front of the horses;   And, standing bareheaded, Bow low to the Barin.

CHAPTER V

THE POMYÉSHCHICK

  The "troika" is drawing

The local Pomyéshchick—

  Gavríl Afanásich

    Obólt-Oboldoóeff.

A portly Pomyéshchick,

  With long grey moustaches,

Some sixty years old.

  His bearing is stately,

His cheeks very rosy,

  He wears a short top-coat, 10

Tight-fitting and braided,

  Hungarian fashion;

And very wide trousers.

  Gavríl Afanásich

Was probably startled

  At seeing the peasants

  Unflinchingly barring

The way to his horses;

  He promptly produces

A loaded revolver 20

  As bulky and round

As himself; and directs it

  Upon the intruders:

  "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?

Luká said, 'The pope,'

  And Roman, 'The Pomyéshchick,'

Demyán, 'The official.'

  'The round-bellied merchant,'

Said both brothers Goóbin,

  Mitródor and Ívan;

Pakhóm 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, Pomyéshchick,

Is your life a sweet one?

  And is the Pomyéshchick

Both happy and free?"

  Gavríl Afanásich

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 Pomyéshchick

  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 Pomyéshchick:

  "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 Pomyéshchick.

Have you, by some chance,

  Ever heard the expression

  The 'Family Tree'?

вернуться

30

A three-horsed carriage.

вернуться

31

The Pomyeshchick is still bitter because his serfs have been set free by the Government.