Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? Part 17

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 b.u.t.ton-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 G.o.d'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 gra.s.s.

"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 n.o.bles." 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 rehea.r.s.es. 150

G.o.d'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 pa.s.sionate Joy of a sudden At thought of the mighty And n.o.ble 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 G.o.d's holy Decree you are bidden 220 To govern the stupid And ignorant peasant; By G.o.d'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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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