The Die-Hard

"The great prince, Yutiatin,The ancient Pomyeshchick,Is very eccentric.His wealth is untold,And his titles exalted,His family ranksWith the first in the Empire.The whole of his lifeHe has spent in amusement,Has known no controlSave his own will and pleasure.When we were set freeHe refused to believe it:'They lie! the low scoundrels!'There came the posrednikAnd Chief of Police,But he would not admit them,He ordered them outAnd went on as before,And only becameFull of hate and suspicion:'Bow low, or I'll flog youTo death, without mercy!'The Governor himself cameTo try to explain things,And long they disputedAnd argued together;The furious voiceOf the prince was heard ragingAll over the house,And he got so excitedThat on the same eveningA stroke fell upon him:His left side went dead,Black as earth, so they tell us,And all over nothing!It wasn't his pocketThat pinched, but his prideThat was touched and enraged him.He lost but a miteAnd would never have missed it."

"Ah, that's what it means, friends,To be a Pomyeshchick,The habit gets intoThe blood," says Mitrodor,"And not the Pomyeshchick'sAlone, for the habitIs strong in the peasantAs well," old Pakhom said."I once on suspicionWas put into prison,And met there a peasantCalled Sedor, a strange man,Arrested for horse-stealing,If I remember;And he from the prisonWould send to the BarinHis taxes. (The prisoner'sIncome is scanty,He gets what he begsOr a trifle for working.)The others all laughed at him;'Why should you send themAnd you off for lifeTo hard labour?' they asked him.But he only said,'All the same ... it is better.'"

"Well, now, little Uncle,Go on with the story."

"A mite is a small thing,Except when it happensTo be in the eye!The Pomyeshchick lay senseless,And many were sureThat he'd never recover.His children were sent for,Those black-moustached footguards(You saw them just nowWith their wives, the fine ladies),The eldest of themWas to settle all mattersConcerning his father.He called the posrednikTo draw up the papersAnd sign the agreement,When suddenly--thereStands the old man before them!He springs on them straightLike a wounded old tiger,He bellows like thunder.It was but a short timeAgo, and it happenedThat I was then Elder,And chanced to have enteredThe house on some errand,And I heard myselfHow he cursed the Pomyeshchicks;The words that he spokeI have never forgotten:'The Jews are reproachedFor betraying their Master;But what are you doing?The rights of the noblesBy centuries sanctionedYou fling to the beggars!'He said to his sons,'Oh, you dastardly cowards!My children no longer!It is for small reptiles--The pope's crawling breed--To take bribes from vile traitors,To purchase base peasants,And they may be pardoned!But you!--you have sprungFrom the house of Yutiatin,The Princes Yu-tia-tinYou are! Go!... Go, leave me!You pitiful puppies!'The heirs were alarmed;How to tide matters overUntil he should die?For they are not small items,The forests and landsThat belong to our father;His money-bags are notSo light as to make itA question of nothingWhose shoulders shall bear them;We know that our fatherHas three 'private' daughtersIn Petersburg living,To Generals married,So how do we knowThat they may not inheritHis wealth?... The PomyeshchickOnce more is prostrated,His death is a questionOf time, and to make itRun smoothly till thenAn agreement was come to,A plan to deceive him:So one of the ladies(The fair one, I fancy,She used at that timeTo attend the old masterAnd rub his left sideWith a brush), well, she told himThat orders had comeFrom the Government latelyThat peasants set freeShould return to their bondage.And he quite believed it.(You see, since his illnessThe Prince had becomeLike a child.) When he heard itHe cried with delight;And the household was summonedTo prayer round the icons;And Thanksgiving ServiceWas held by his ordersIn every small village,And bells were set ringing.And little by littleHis strength returned partly.And then as beforeIt was hunting and music,The servants were canedAnd the peasants were punished.The heirs had, of course,Set things right with the servants,A good understandingThey came to, and one man(You saw him go runningJust now with the napkin)Did not need persuading---He so loved his Barin.His name is Ipat,And when we were made freeHe refused to believe it;'The great Prince YutiatinBe left without peasants!What pranks are you playing?'At last, when the 'OrderOf Freedom' was shown him,Ipat said, 'Well, well,Get you gone to your pleasures,But I am the slaveOf the Princes Yutiatin!'He cannot get overThe old Prince's kindnessTo him, and he's told usSome curious storiesOf things that had happenedTo him in his childhood,His youth and old age.(You see, I had oftenTo go to the PrinceOn some matter or otherConcerning the peasants,And waited and waitedFor hours in the kitchens,And so I have heard themA hundred times over.)'When I was a young manOur gracious young PrinceSpent his holidays sometimesAt home, and would dip me(His meanest slave, mind you)Right under the iceIn the depths of the Winter.He did it in suchA remarkable way, too!He first made two holesIn the ice of the river,In one he would lowerMe down in a net--Pull me up through the other!'And when I beganTo grow old, it would happenThat sometimes I droveWith the Prince in the Winter;The snow would block upHalf the road, and we usedTo drive five-in-a-file.Then the fancy would strike him(How whimsical, mark you!)To set me astrideOn the horse which was leading,Me--last of his slaves!Well, he dearly loved music,And so he would throw meA fiddle: 'Here! play now,Ipat.' Then the driverWould shout to the horses,And urge them to gallop.The snow would half-blind me,My hands with the musicWere occupied both;So what with the jolting,The snow, and the fiddle,Ipat, like a sillyOld noodle, would tumble.Of course, if he landedRight under the horsesThe sledge must go overHis ribs,--who could help it?But that was a trifle;The cold was the worst thing,It bites you, and youCan do nothing against it!The snow lay all roundOn the vast empty desert,I lay looking upAt the stars and confessingMy sins. But--my friends,This is true as the Gospel--I heard before longHow the sledge-bells came ringing,Drew nearer and nearer:The Prince had remembered,And come back to fetch me!'

"(The tears began fallingAnd rolled down his faceAt this part of the story.Whenever he told itHe always would cryUpon coming to this!)'He covered me upWith some rugs, and he warmed me,He lifted me up,And he placed me beside him,Me--last of his slaves--Beside his Princely Person!And so we came home.'"They're amused at the story.

Old Vlasuchka, whenHe has emptied his fourth cup,Continues: "The heirs cameAnd called us together--The peasants and servants;They said, 'We're distressedOn account of our father.These changes will kill him,He cannot sustain them.So humour his weakness:Keep silent, and act stillAs if all this troubleHad never existed;Give way to him, bow to himJust as in old days.For each stroke of barschin,For all needless labour,For every rough wordWe will richly reward you.He cannot live long now,The doctors have told usThat two or three monthsIs the most we may hope for.Act kindly towards us,And do as we ask you,And we as the priceOf your silence will give youThe hayfields which lieOn the banks of the Volga.Think well of our offer,And let the posrednikBe sent for to witnessAnd settle the matter.'

"Then gathered the communeTo argue and clamour;The thought of the hayfields(In which we are sitting),With promises boundlessAnd plenty of vodka,Decided the question:The commune would waitFor the death of the Barin.

"Then came the posrednik,And laughing, he said:'It's a capital notion!The hayfields are fine, too,You lose nothing by it;You just play the foolAnd the Lord will forgive you.You know, it's forbiddenTo no one in RussiaTo bow and be silent.'

"But I was against it:I said to the peasants,'For you it is easy,But how about me?Whatever may happenThe Elder must comeTo accounts with the Barin,And how can I answerHis babyish questions?And how can I doHis nonsensical bidding?'

"'Just take off your hatAnd bow low, and say nothing,And then you walk outAnd the thing's at an end.The old man is ill,He is weak and forgetful,And nothing will stayIn his head for an instant.'

"Perhaps they were right;To deceive an old madmanIs not very hard.But for my part, I don't wantTo play at buffoon.For how many yearsHave I stood on the thresholdAnd bowed to the Barin?Enough for my pleasure!I said, 'If the communeIs pleased to be ruledBy a crazy PomyeshchickTo ease his last momentsI don't disagree,I have nothing against it;But then, set me freeFrom my duties as Elder.'

"The whole matter nearlyFell through at that moment,But then Klimka Lavin said,'Let me be Elder,I'll please you on both sides,The master and you.The Lord will soon take him,And then the fine hayfieldsWill come to the commune.I swear I'll establishSuch order amongst youYou'll die of the fun!'

"The commune took longTo consider this offer:A desperate fellowIs Klimka the peasant,A drunkard, a rover,And not very honest,No lover of work,And acquainted with gipsies;A vagabond, knowingA lot about horses.A scoffer at thoseWho work hard, he will tell you:'At work you will neverGet rich, my fine fellow;You'll never get rich,--But you're sure to get crippled!'But he, all the same,Is well up in his letters;Has been to St. Petersburg.Yes, and to Moscow,And once to Siberia, too,With the merchants.A pity it wasThat he ever returned!He's clever enough,But he can't keep a farthing;He's sharp--but he's alwaysIn some kind of trouble.He's picked some fine words upFrom out of his travels:'Our Fatherland dear,'And 'The soul of great Russia,'And 'Moscow, the mighty,Illustrious city!''And I,' he will shout,'Am a plain Russian peasant!'And striking his foreheadHe'll swallow the vodka.A bottle at onceHe'll consume, like a mouthful.He'll fall at your feetFor a bottle of vodka.But if he has moneyHe'll share with you, freely;The first man he meetsMay partake of his drink.He's clever at shoutingAnd cheating and fooling,At showing the best sideOf goods which are rotten,At boasting and lying;And when he is caughtHe'll slip out through a cranny,And throw you a jest,Or his favourite saying:'A crack in the jawWill your honesty bring you!'

"Well, after much thinkingThe commune decidedThat I must remainThe responsible Elder;But Klimka might actIn my stead to the BarinAs though he were Elder.Why, then, let him do it!The right kind of ElderHe is for his Barin,They make a fine pair!Like putty his conscience;Like Meenin's his beard,So that looking upon himYou'd think a sedater,More dutiful peasantCould never be found.The heirs made his kaftan,And he put it on,And from Klimka the 'scapegrace'He suddenly changedInto Klim, Son-of-Jacob,Most worthy of Elders.So that's how it is;--And to our great misfortuneThe Barin is orderedA carriage-drive daily.Each day through the villageHe drives in a carriageThat's built upon springs.Then up you jump, quickly,And whip off your hat,And, God knows for what reason,He'll jump down your throat,He'll upbraid and abuse you;But you must keep silent.He watches a peasantAt work in the fields,And he swears we are lazyAnd lie-abed sluggards(Though never worked peasantWith half such a willIn the time of the Barin).He has not a notionThat they are not his fields,But ours. When we gatherWe laugh, for each peasantHas something to tellOf the crazy Pomyeshchick;His ears burn, I warrant,When we come together!And Klim, Son-of-Jacob,Will run, with the mannerOf bearing the communeSome news of importance(The pig has got proudSince he's taken to scratchingHis sides on the stepsOf the nobleman's manor).He runs and he shouts:'A command to the commune!I told the PomyeshchickThat Widow Terentevna'sCottage had fallen.And that she is beggingHer bread. He commands youTo marry the widowTo Gabriel Jockoff;To rebuild the cottage,And let them reside thereAnd multiply freely.'

"The bride will be seventy,Seven the bridegroom!Well, who could help laughing?Another command:'The dull-witted cows,Driven out before sunrise,Awoke the PomyeshchickBy foolishly mooingWhile passing his courtyard.The cow-herd is orderedTo see that the cowsDo not moo in that manner!'"

The peasants laugh loudly.

"But why do you laugh so?We all have our fancies.Yakutsk was once governed,I heard, by a General;He had a likingFor sticking live cowsUpon spikes round the city,And every free spotWas adorned in that manner,As Petersburg is,So they say, with its statues,Before it had enteredThe heads of the peopleThat he was a madman.

"Another strict orderWas sent to the commune:'The dog which belongsTo Sofronoff the watchmanDoes not behave nicely,It barked at the Barin.Be therefore SofronoffDismissed. Let EvremkaBe watchman to guardThe estate of the Barin.'(Another loud laugh,For Evremka, the 'simple,'Is known as the deaf-muteAnd fool of the village).But Klimka's delighted:At last he's found somethingThat suits him exactly.He bustles aboutAnd in everything meddles,And even drinks less.There's a sharp little womanWhose name is Orevna,And she is Klim's gossip,And finely she helps himTo fool the old Barin.And as to the women,They're living in clover:They run to the manorWith linen and mushroomsAnd strawberries, knowingThe ladies will buy themAnd pay what they ask themAnd feed them besides.We laughed and made gameTill we fell into dangerAnd nearly were lost:There was one man among us,Petrov, an ungraciousAnd bitter-tongued peasant;He never forgave usBecause we'd consentedTo humour the Barin.'The Tsar,' he would say,'Has had mercy upon you,And now, you, yourselvesLift the load to your backs.To Hell with the hayfields!We want no more masters!'We only could stop himBy giving him vodka(His weakness was vodka).The devil must needsFling him straight at the Barin.One morning PetrovHad set out to the forestTo pilfer some logs(For the night would not serve him,It seems, for his thieving,He must go and do itIn broadest white daylight),And there comes the carriage,On springs, with the Barin!

"'From whence, little peasant,That beautiful tree-trunk?From whence has it come?'He knew, the old fellow,From whence it had come.Petrov stood there silent,And what could he answer?He'd taken the treeFrom the Barin's own forest.

"The Barin alreadyIs bursting with anger;He nags and reproaches,He can't stop recallingThe rights of the nobles.The rank of his Fathers,He winds them all intoPetrov, like a corkscrew.

"The peasants are patient,But even their patienceMust come to an end.Petrov was out early,Had eaten no breakfast,Felt dizzy already,And now with the wordsOf the Barin all buzzingLike flies in his ears--Why, he couldn't keep steady,He laughed in his face!

"'Have done, you old scarecrow!'He said to the Barin.'You crazy old clown!'His jaw once unmuzzledHe let enough words outTo stuff the PomyeshchickWith Fathers and GrandfathersInto the bargain.The oaths of the lordsAre like stings of mosquitoes,But those of the peasantLike blows of the pick-axe.The Barin's dumbfounded!He'd safely encounterA rain of small shot,But he cannot face stones.The ladies are with him,They, too, are bewildered,They run to the peasantAnd try to restrain him.

"He bellows, 'I'll kill you!For what are you swollenWith pride, you old dotard,You scum of the pig-sty?Have done with your jabber!You've lost your strong gripOn the soul of the peasant,The last one you are.By the will of the peasantBecause he is foolishThey treat you as masterTo-day. But to-morrowThe ball will be ended;A good kick behindWe will give the Pomyeshchick,And tail between legsSend him back to his dwellingTo leave us in peace!'

"The Barin is gasping,'You rebel ... you rebel!'He trembles all over,Half-dead he has fallen,And lies on the earth!

"The end! think the others,The black-moustached footguards,The beautiful ladies;But they are mistaken;It isn't the end.

"An order: to summonThe village togetherTo witness the punishmentDealt to the rebelBefore the Pomyeshchick....The heirs and the ladiesCome running in terrorTo Klim, to Petrov,And to me: 'Only save us!'Their faces are pale,'If the trick is discoveredWe're lost!'It is Klim's placeTo deal with the matter:He drinks with PetrovAll day long, till the evening,Embracing him fondly.Together till midnightThey pace round the village,At midnight start drinkingAgain till the morning.Petrov is as tipsyAs ever man was,And like that he is broughtTo the Barin's large courtyard,And all is perfection!The Barin can't moveFrom the balcony, thanksTo his yesterday's shaking.And Klim is well pleased.

"He leads Petrov intoThe stable and sets himIn front of a gallonOf vodka, and tells him:'Now, drink and start crying,''Oh, oh, little Fathers!Oh, oh, little. Mothers!Have mercy! Have mercy!'''

"Petrov does his bidding;He howls, and the Barin,Perched up on the balcony,Listens in rapture.He drinks in the soundLike the loveliest music.And who could help laughingTo hear him exclaiming,'Don't spare him, the villain!The im-pu-dent rascal!Just teach him a lesson!'Petrov yells aloudTill the vodka is finished.Of course in the endHe is perfectly helpless,And four peasants carry himOut of the stable.His state is so sorryThat even the BarinHas pity upon him,And says to him sweetly,'Your own fault it is,Little peasant, you know!'"

"You see what a kind heartHe has, the Pomyeshchick,"Says Prov, and old VlasuchkaAnswers him quietly,"A saying there is:'Praise the grass--in the haystack,The lord--in his coffin.'

"Twere well if God took him.Petrov is no longerAlive. That same eveningHe started up, raving,At midnight the pope came,And just as the day dawnedHe died. He was buried,A cross set above him,And God alone knowsWhat he died of. It's certainThat we never touched him,Nay, not with a finger,Much less with a stick.Yet sometimes the thought comes:Perhaps if that accidentNever had happenedPetrov would be living.You see, friends, the peasantWas proud more than others,He carried his head high,And never had bent it,And now of a sudden--Lie down for the Barin!Fall flat for his pleasure!The thing went off well,But Petrov had not wished it.I think he was frightenedTo anger the communeBy not giving in,And the commune is foolish,It soon will destroy you....The ladies were readyTo kiss the old peasant,They brought fifty roublesFor him, and some dainties.'Twas Klimka, the scamp,The unscrupulous sinner,Who worked his undoing....

"A servant is comingTo us from the Barin,They've finished their lunch.Perhaps they have sent himTo summon the Elder.I'll go and look onAt the comedy there."