And now to the bank-side
Three boats are approaching.
In one sit the servants
And band of musicians,
Most busily playing;
The second one groans 140
'Neath a mountainous wet-nurse,
Who dandles a baby,
A withered old dry-nurse,
A motionless body
Of ancient retainers.
And then in the third
There are sitting the gentry:
Two beautiful ladies
(One slender and fair-haired,
One heavy and black-browed) 150
And two moustached Barins
And three little Barins,
And last—the Pomyéshchick,
A very old man
Wearing long white moustaches
(He seems to be all white);
His cap, broad and high-crowned,
Is white, with a peak,
In the front, of red satin.
His body is lean 160
As a hare's in the winter,
His nose like a hawk's beak,
His eyes—well, they differ:
The one sharp and shining,
The other—the left eye—
Is sightless and blank,
Like a dull leaden farthing.
Some woolly white poodles
With tufts on their ankles
Are in the boat too. 170
The old man alighting
Has mounted the bank,
Where for long he reposes
Upon a red carpet
Spread out by the servants.
And then he arises
To visit the mowers,
To pass through the fields
On a tour of inspection.
He leans on the arm— 180
Now of one of the Barins,
And now upon those
Of the beautiful ladies.
And so with his suite—
With the three little Barins,
The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,
The ancient retainers,
The woolly white poodles,—
Along through the hayfields
Proceeds the Pomyéshchick. 190
The peasants on all sides
Bow down to the ground;
And the big, burly peasant
(The Elder he is
As the peasants have noticed)
Is cringing and bending
Before the Pomyéshchick,
Just like the Big Devil
Before the high altar:
"Just so! Yes, Your Highness, 200
It's done, at your bidding!"
I think he will soon fall
Before the Pomyéshchick
And roll in the dust….
So moves the procession,
Until it stops short
In the front of a haystack
Of wonderful size,
Only this day erected.
The old man is poking 210
His forefinger in it,
He thinks it is damp,
And he blazes with fury:
"Is this how you rot
The best goods of your master?
The Elder is writhing
In great agitation: 220
"I was not quite careful
Enough, and it is damp.
It's my fault, Your Highness!"
He summons the peasants,
Who run with their pitchforks
To punish the monster.
And soon they have spread it
In small heaps around,
At the feet of the master;
His wrath is appeased. 230
(In the meantime the strangers
Examine the hay—It's
like tinder—so dry!)
A lackey comes flying
Along, with a napkin;
He's lame—the poor man!
"Please, the luncheon is served."
And then the procession,
The three little Barins,
The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse, 240
The ancient retainers,
The woolly white poodles,
Moves onward to lunch.
The peasants stand watching;
From one of the boats
Comes an outburst of music
To greet the Pomyéshchick.
The table is shining
All dazzlingly white
On the bank of the river. 250
The strangers, astonished,
Draw near to old Vlásuchka;
"Pray, little Uncle,"
They say, "what's the meaning
Of all these strange doings?
And who is that curious
Old man?"
"Our Pomyéshchick,
The great Prince Yutiátin."
"But why is he fussing 260
About in that manner?
For things are all changed now,
And he seems to think
They are still as of old.
The hay is quite dry,
Yet he told you to dry it!"
"But funnier still
That the hay and the hayfields
Are not his at all."
"Then whose are they?" 270
"The Commune's."
"Then why is he poking
His nose into matters
Which do not concern him?
For are you not free?"
"Why, yes, by God's mercy
The order is changed now
For us as for others;
But ours is a special case."
"Tell us about it." 280
The old man lay down
At the foot of the haystack
And answered them—nothing.
The peasants producing
The magic white napkin
Sit down and say softly,
"O napkin enchanted,
Give food to the peasants!"
The napkin unfolds,
And two hands, which come floating
From no one sees where, 291
Place a bucket of vodka,
A large pile of bread
On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away….