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 Pomyéshchicks
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 Pomyéshchick,
The other—the peasant."
PART II.
THE LAST POMYÉSHCHICK
The day of St. Peter—
And very hot weather;
The mowers are all
At their work in the meadows.
The peasants are passing
A tumble-down village,
Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"
Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"
Of Government "Know-Nothing.'
They are approaching 10
The banks of the Volga.
They come to the river,
The sea-gulls are wheeling
And flashing above it;
The sea-hens are walking
About on the sand-banks;
And in the bare hayfields,
Which look just as naked
As any youth's cheek
After yesterday's shaving, 20
The Princes Volkonsky[37]
Are haughtily standing,
And round them their children,
Who (unlike all others)
Are born at an earlier
Date than their sires.
"The fields are enormous,"
Remarks old Pakhóm,
"Why, the folk must be giants."
The two brothers Goóbin 30
Are smiling at something:
For some time they've noticed
A very tall peasant
Who stands with a pitcher
On top of a haystack;
He drinks, and a woman
Below, with a hay-fork,
Is looking at him
With her head leaning back.
The peasants walk on 40
Till they come to the haystack;
The man is still drinking;
They pass it quite slowly,
Go fifty steps farther,
Then all turn together
And look at the haystack.
Not much has been altered:
The peasant is standing
With body bent back
As before,—but the pitcher 50
Has turned bottom upwards….
The strangers go farther.
The camps are thrown out
On the banks of the river;
And there the old people
And children are gathered,
And horses are waiting
With big empty waggons;
And then, in the fields
Behind those that are finished, 60
The distance is filled
By the army of workers,
The white shirts of women,
The men's brightly coloured,
And voices and laughter,
With all intermingled
The hum of the scythes….
"God help you, good fellows!"
"Our thanks to you, brothers!"
The peasants stand noting 70
The long line of mowers,
The poise of the scythes
And their sweep through the sunshine.
The rhythmical swell
Of melodious murmur.
The timid grass stands
For a moment, and trembles,
Then falls with a sigh….
On the banks of the Volga
The grass has grown high 80
And the mowers work gladly.
The peasants soon feel
That they cannot resist it.
"It's long since we've stretched ourselves,
Come, let us help you!"
And now seven women
Have yielded their places.
The spirit of work
Is devouring our peasants;
Like teeth in a ravenous 90
Mouth they are working—
The muscular arms,
And the long grass is falling
To songs that are strange
To this part of the country,
To songs that are taught
By the blizzards and snow-storms,
The wild savage winds
Of the peasants' own homelands:
"Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry," 100
"Patched," "Bare-Foot," and "Shabby,"
And "Harvestless," too….
And when the strong craving
For work is appeased
They sit down by a haystack.
"From whence have you come?"
A grey-headed old peasant
(The one whom the women
Call Vlásuchka) asks them,
"And where are you going?" 110
"We are—" say the peasants,
Then suddenly stop,
There's some music approaching!
"Oh, that's the Pomyéshchick
Returning from boating!"
Says Vlásuchka, running
To busy the mowers:
"Wake up! Look alive there!
And mind—above all things,
Don't heat the Pomyéshchick 120
And don't make him angry!
And if he abuse you,
Bow low and say nothing,
And if he should praise you,
Start lustily cheering.
You women, stop cackling!
And get to your forks!"
A big burly peasant
With beard long and bushy
Bestirs himself also 130
To busy them all,
Then puts on his "kaftan," [38]
And runs away quickly
To meet the Pomyéshchick.