Chapter V: The Pomyeshchick

The "troika" is drawingThe local Pomyeshchick--Gavril AfanasichObolt-Oboldooeff.A portly Pomyeshchick,With long grey moustaches,Some sixty years old.His bearing is stately,His cheeks very rosy,He wears a short top-coat,Tight-fitting and braided,Hungarian fashion;And very wide trousers.Gavril AfanasichWas probably startledAt seeing the peasantsUnflinchingly barringThe way to his horses;He promptly producesA loaded revolverAs bulky and roundAs himself; and directs itUpon 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 whatDo you want?" said the Barin.

"A trouble torments us,It draws us awayFrom our wives, from our children,Away from our work,Kills our appetites too,Do give us your promiseTo answer us truly,Consulting your conscienceAnd searching your knowledge,Not sneering, nor feigningThe question we put you,And then we will tell youThe cause of our trouble."

"I promise. I give youThe oath of a noble."

"No, don't give us that--Not the oath of a noble!We're better contentWith the word of a Christian.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,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,Who is he--the manFree and happy in Russia?Luka said, 'The pope,'And Roman, 'The Pomyeshchick,'Demyan, 'The official.''The round-bellied merchant,'Said both brothers Goobin,Mitrodor and Ivan;Pakhom said, 'His Highness,The Tsar's Chief Adviser,'And Prov said, 'The Tsar.'

"Like bulls are the peasants;Once folly is in themYou cannot dislodge it,Although you should beat themWith stout wooden cudgels,They stick to their folly,And nothing can move them!We argued and argued,While arguing quarrelled,While quarrelling fought,Till at last we decidedThat never againWould we turn our steps homewardTo kiss wives and children,To see the old people,Until we have settledThe subject of discord;Until we have foundThe reply to our question--Of who can, in Russia,Be happy and free?

"Now tell us, Pomyeshchick,Is your life a sweet one?And is the PomyeshchickBoth happy and free?"

Gavril AfanasichSprings out of the "troika"And comes to the peasants.He takes--like a doctor--The hand of each one,And carefully feelingThe pulse gazes searchinglyInto their faces,Then clasps his plump sidesAnd stands shaking with laughter.The clear, hearty laughOf the healthy PomyeshchickPeals out in the pleasantCool air of the morning:"Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!"Till he stops from exhaustion.And then he addressesThe wondering peasants:"Put on your hats, gentlemen,Please to be seated!"

(He speaks with a bitterAnd mocking politeness.)

"But we are not gentry;We'd rather stand upIn 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.Having finished the sherry,Thus speaks the Pomyeshchick:

"I gave you my promiseTo answer your question....The task is not easy,For though you are highlyRespectable people,You're not very learned.Well, firstly, I'll tryTo explain you the meaningOf Lord, or Pomyeshchick.Have you, by some chance,Ever heard the expressionThe 'Family Tree'?Do you know what it means?"

"The woods are not closed to us.We have seen all kindsOf trees," say the peasants."Your shot has miscarried!I'll try to speak clearly;I come of an ancient,Illustrious family;One, Oboldooeff,My ancestor, isAmongst those who were mentionedIn old Russian chroniclesWritten for certainTwo hundred and fiftyYears back. It is written,''Twas given the Tartar,Obolt-Oboldooeff,A piece of cloth, valueTwo roubles, for havingAmused the TsaritsaUpon the Tsar's birthdayBy fights of wild beasts,Wolves and foxes. He alsoPermitted his own bearTo fight with a wild one,Which mauled Oboldooeff,And hurt him severely.'And now, gentle peasants,Did you understand?"

"Why not? To this dayOne can see them--the loafersWho stroll about leadingA bear!"

"Be it so, then!But now, please be silent,And hark to what follows:From this OboldooeffMy family sprang;And this incident happenedTwo hundred and fiftyYears back, as I told you,But still, on my mother's side,Even more ancientThe family is:Says another old writing:'Prince Schepin, and oneVaska Gooseff, attemptedTo burn down the cityOf Moscow. They wantedTo plunder the Treasury.They were beheaded.'And this was, good peasants,Full three hundred years back!From these roots it wasThat our Family Tree sprang."

"And you are the ... as oneMight say ... little appleWhich hangs on a branchOf the tree," say the peasants.

"Well, apple, then, call it,So long as it please you.At least you appearTo have got at my meaning.And now, you yourselvesUnderstand--the more ancientA family isThe more noble its members.Is that so, good peasants?"

"That's so," say the peasants."The black bone and white boneAre different, and they mustBe differently honoured."

"Exactly. I see, friends,You quite understand me."The Barin continued:"In past times we lived,As they say, 'in the bosomOf Christ,' and we knewWhat it meant to be honoured!Not only the peopleObeyed and revered us,But even the earthAnd the waters of Russia....You knew what it wasTo be One, in the centreOf vast, spreading lands,Like the sun in the heavens:The clustering villagesYours, yours the meadows,And yours the black depthsOf the great virgin forests!You pass through a village;The people will meet you,Will fall at your feet;Or you stroll in the forest;The mighty old treesBend their branches before you.Through meadows you saunter;The slim golden corn-stemsRejoicing, will curtseyWith winning caresses,Will hail you as Master.The little fish sportsIn the cool little river;Get fat, little fish,At the will of the Master!The little hare speedsThrough the green little meadow;Speed, speed, little hare,Till the coming of autumn,The season of hunting,The sport of the Master.And all things existBut to gladden the Master.Each wee blade of grassWhispers lovingly to him,'I live but for thee....'

"The joy and the beauty,The pride of all Russia--The Lord's holy churches--Which brighten the hill-sidesAnd gleam like great jewelsOn the slopes of the valleys,Were rivalled by one thingIn glory, and thatWas the nobleman's manor.Adjoining the manorWere glass-houses sparkling,And bright Chinese arbours,While parks spread around it.On each of the buildingsGay banners displayingTheir radiant colours,And beckoning softly,Invited the guestTo partake of the pleasuresOf rich hospitality.Never did FrenchmenIn dreams even pictureSuch sumptuous revelsAs we used to hold.Not only for one-day,Or two, did they last--But for whole months together!We fattened great turkeys,We brewed our own liquors,We kept our own actors,And troupes of musicians,And legions of servants!Why, I kept five cooks,Besides pastry-cooks, working,Two blacksmiths, three carpenters,Eighteen musicians,And twenty-two huntsmen....My God!"...

The afflictedPomyeshchick broke down here,And hastened to buryHis face in the cushion...."Hey, Proshka!" he cried,And then quickly the lackeyPoured out and presentedA glassful of brandy.The glass was soon empty,And when the PomyeshchickHad rested awhile,He again began speaking:"Ah, then, Mother Russia,How gladly in autumnYour forests awokeTo the horn of the huntsman!Their dark, gloomy depths,Which had saddened and faded,Were pierced by the clearRinging blast, and they listened,Revived and rejoiced,To the laugh of the echo.The hounds and the huntsmenAre gathered together,And wait on the skirtsOf the forest; and with themThe Master; and fartherWithin the deep forestThe dog-keepers, roaringAnd shouting like madmen,The hounds all a-bubbleLike fast-boiling water.Hark! There's the horn calling!You hear the pack yelling?They're crowding together!And where's the red beast?Hoo-loo-loo! Hoo-loo-loo!And the sly fox is ready;Fat, furry old ReynardIs flying before us,His bushy tail waving!The knowing hounds crouch,And each lithe body quivers,Suppressing the fireThat is blazing within it:'Dear guests of our hearts,Do come nearer and greet us,We're panting to meet you,We, hale little fellows!Come nearer to usAnd away from the bushes!'

"They're off! Now, my horse,Let your swiftness not fail me!My hounds, you are staunchAnd you will not betray me!Hoo-loo! Faster, faster!Now, at him, my children!"...Gavril AfanasichSprings up, wildly shouting,His arms waving madly,He dances around them!He's certainly afterA fox in the forest!

The peasants observe himIn silent enjoyment,They smile in their beards....

"Eh ... you, mad, merry hunters!Although he forgetsMany things--the Pomyeshchick--Those hunts in the autumnWill not be forgotten.'Tis not for our own lossWe grieve, Mother Russia,But you that we pity;For you, with the huntingHave lost the last tracesOf days bold and warlikeThat made you majestic....

"At times, in the autumn,A party of fiftyWould start on a hunting tour;Then each PomyeshchickBrought with him a hundredFine dogs, and twelve keepers,And cooks in abundance.And after the cooksCame a long line of waggonsContaining provisions.And as we went forwardWith music and singing,You might have mistakenOur band for a fine troopOf cavalry, moving!The time flew for usLike a falcon." How lightlyThe breast of the noblemanRose, while his spiritWent back to the daysOf Old Russia, and greetedThe gallant Boyarin. ...

"No whim was denied us.To whom I desireI show mercy and favour;And whom I dislikeI strike dead on the spot.The law is my wish,And my fist is my hangman!My blow makes the sparks crowd,My blow smashes jaw-bones,My blow scatters teeth!"...

Like a string that is broken,The voice of the noblemanSuddenly ceases;He lowers his eyesTo the ground, darkly frowning ...And then, in a low voice,He says:

"You yourselves knowThat strictness is needful;But I, with love, punished.The chain has been broken,The links burst asunder;And though we do not beatThe peasant, no longerWe look now upon himWith fatherly feelings.Yes, I was severe tooAt times, but more oftenI turned hearts towards meWith patience and mildness.

"Upon Easter SundayI kissed all the peasantsWithin my domain.A great table, loadedWith 'Paska' and 'Koolich'And eggs of all colours,Was spread in the manor.My wife, my old mother,My sons, too, and evenMy daughters did not scornTo kiss the last peasant:'Now Christ has arisen!''Indeed He has risen!'The peasants broke fast then,Drank vodka and wine.Before each great holiday,In my best stateroomsThe All-Night ThanksgivingWas held by the pope.My serfs were invitedWith every inducement:'Pray hard now, my children,Make use of the chance,Though you crack all your foreheads!'The nose suffered somewhat,But still at the finishWe brought all the women-folkOut of a villageTo scrub down the floors.You see 'twas a cleansingOf souls, and a strengtheningOf spiritual union;Now, isn't that so?"

"That's so," say the peasants,But each to himself thinks,"They needed persuadingWith sticks though, I warrant,To get them to prayIn your Lordship's fine manor!"

"I'll say, without boasting,They loved me--my peasants.In my large SurminskyEstate, where the peasantsWere mostly odd-jobbers,Or very small tradesmen,It happened that theyWould get weary of stayingAt home, and would askMy permission to travel,To visit strange partsAt the coming of spring.They'd often be absentThrough summer and autumn.My wife and the childrenWould argue while guessingThe gifts that the peasantsWould bring on returning.And really, besidesLawful dues of the 'Barin'In cloth, eggs, and live stock,The peasants would gladlyBring gifts to the family:Jam, say, from Kiev,From Astrakhan fish,And the richer among themSome silk for the lady.You see!--as he kissesHer hand he presents herA neat little packet!And then for the childrenAre sweetmeats and toys;For me, the old toper,Is wine from St. Petersburg--Mark you, the rascalWon't go to the RussianFor that! He knows better--He runs to the Frenchman!And when we have finishedAdmiring the presentsI go for a strollAnd a chat with the peasants;They talk with me freely.My wife fills their glasses,My little ones gatherAround us and listen,While sucking their sweets,To the tales of the peasants:Of difficult trading,Of places far distant,Of Petersburg, Astrakhan,Kazan, and Kiev....On such terms it wasThat I lived with my peasants.Now, wasn't that nice?"

"Yes," answer the peasants;"Yes, well might one envyThe noble Pomyeshchick!His life was so sweetThere was no need to leave it."

"And now it is past....It has vanished for ever!Hark! There's the bell tolling!"

They listen in silence:In truth, through the stillnessWhich settles around them,The slow, solemn soundOn the breeze of the morningIs borne from Kusminsky....

"Sweet peace to the peasant!God greet him in Heaven!"

The peasants say softly,And cross themselves thrice;And the mournful PomyeshchickUncovers his head,As he piously crossesHimself, and he answers:"'Tis not for the peasantThe knell is now tolling,It tolls the lost lifeOf the stricken Pomyeshchick.Farewell to the past,And farewell to thee, Russia,The Russia who cradledThe happy Pomyeshchick,Thy place has been stolenAnd filled by another!...Heh, Proshka!" (The brandyIs given, and quicklyHe empties the glass.)"Oh, it isn't consolingTo witness the changeIn thy face, oh, my Motherland!Truly one fanciesThe whole race of noblesHas suddenly vanished!Wherever one goes, now,One falls over peasantsWho lie about, tipsy,One meets not a creatureBut excise official,Or stupid 'Posrednik,'Or Poles who've been banished.One sees the troops passing,And then one can guessThat a village has somewhereRevolted, 'in thankfulAnd dutiful spirit....'In old days, these roadsWere made gay by the passingOf carriage, 'dormeuse,'And of six-in-hand coaches,And pretty, light troikas;And in them were sittingThe family troopOf the jolly Pomyeshchick:The stout, buxom mother,The fine, roguish sons,And the pretty young daughters;One heard with enjoymentThe chiming of large bells,The tinkling of small bells,Which hung from the harness.And now?... What distractionHas life? And what joyDoes it bring the Pomyeshchick?At each step, you meetSomething new to revolt you;And when in the airYou can smell a rank graveyard,You know you are passingA nobleman's manor!My Lord!... They have pillagedThe beautiful dwelling!They've pulled it all down,Brick by brick, and have fashionedThe bricks into hideouslyAccurate columns!The broad shady parkOf the outraged Pomyeshchick,The fruit of a hundred years'Careful attention,Is falling away'Neath the axe of a peasant!The peasant works gladly,And greedily reckonsThe number of logsWhich his labour will bring him.His dark soul is closedTo refinement of feeling,And what would it matterTo him, if you told himThat this stately oakWhich his hatchet is fellingMy grandfather's handHad once planted and tended;That under this ash-treeMy dear little children,My Vera and Ganushka,Echoed my voiceAs they played by my side;That under this lindenMy young wife confessed meThat little Gavrioushka,Our best-beloved first-born,Lay under her heart,As she nestled against meAnd bashfully hidHer sweet face in my bosomAs red as a cherry....It is to his profitTo ravish the park,And his mission delights him.It makes one ashamed nowTo pass through a village;The peasant sits stillAnd he dreams not of bowing.One feels in one's breastNot the pride of a nobleBut wrath and resentment.The axe of the robberResounds in the forest,It maddens your heart,But you cannot prevent it,For who can you summonTo rescue your forest?The fields are half-laboured,The seeds are half-wasted,No trace left of order....O Mother, my country,We do not complainFor ourselves--of our sorrows,Our hearts bleed for thee:Like a widow thou standestIn helpless afflictionWith tresses dishevelledAnd grief-stricken face....They have blighted the forest,The noisy low tavernsHave risen and flourished.They've picked the most worthlessAnd loose of the people,And given them powerIn the posts of the Zemstvos;They've seized on the peasantAnd taught him his letters--Much good may it do him!Your brow they have branded,As felons are branded,As cattle are branded,With these words they've stamped it:'To take away with youOr drink on the premises.'Was it worth while, pray,To weary the peasantWith learning his lettersIn order to read them?The land that we keepIs our mother no longer,Our stepmother rather.And then to improve things,These pert good-for-nothings,These impudent writersMust needs shout in chorus:'But whose fault, then, is it,That you thus exhaustedAnd wasted your country?'But I say--you duffers!Who could foresee this?They babble, 'EnoughOf your lordly pretensions!It's time that you learnt something,Lazy Pomyeshchicks!Get up, now, and work!'

"Work! To whom, in God's name,Do you think you are speaking?I am not a peasantIn 'laputs,' good madman!I am--by God's mercy--A Noble of Russia.You take us for Germans!We nobles have tenderAnd delicate feelings,Our pride is inborn,And in Russia our classesAre not taught to work.Why, the meanest officialWill not raise a fingerTo clear his own table,Or light his own stove!I can say, without boasting,That though I have livedForty years in the country,And scarcely have left it,I could not distinguishBetween rye and barley.And they sing of 'work' to me!

"If we PomyeshchicksHave really mistakenOur duty and calling,If really our missionIs not, as in old days,To keep up the hunting,To revel in luxury,Live on forced labour,Why did they not tell usBefore? Could I learn it?For what do I see?I've worn the Tsar's livery,'Sullied the Heavens,'And 'squandered the treasuryGained by the people,'And fully imaginedTo do so for ever,And now ... God in Heaven!"...The Barin is sobbing!...

The kind-hearted peasantsCan hardly help cryingThemselves, and they think:"Yes, the chain has been broken,The strong links have snapped,And the one end recoilingHas struck the Pomyeshchick,The other--the peasant."