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 l.u.s.tily 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d'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 t.i.tles exalted, His family ranks With the first in the Empire.

The whole of his life He has spent in amus.e.m.e.nt, 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.