Chapter 8

THE POMYESHCHICK

The "troika" is drawing The local Pomyeshchick-- Gavril Afanasich Obolt-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, 10 Tight-fitting and braided, Hungarian fashion; And very wide trousers. Gavril Afanasich Was probably startled At seeing the peasants Unflinchingly barring The way to his horses; He promptly produces A loaded revolver 20 As bulky and round As himself; and directs it Upon 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 what 30 Do you want?" said the Barin.

"A trouble torments us, It draws us away From our wives, from our children, Away from our work, Kills our appetites too, Do give us your promise To answer us truly, Consulting your conscience And searching your knowledge, 40 Not sneering, nor feigning The question we put you, And then we will tell you The cause of our trouble."

"I promise. I give you The oath of a noble."

"No, don't give us that-- Not the oath of a noble! We're better content With the word of a Christian. 50 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, 60 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, 70 Who is he--the man Free 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,' 80 And Prov said, 'The Tsar.'

"Like bulls are the peasants; Once folly is in them You cannot dislodge it, Although you should beat them With stout wooden cudgels, They stick to their folly, And nothing can move them! We argued and argued, While arguing quarrelled, 90 While quarrelling fought, Till at last we decided That never again Would we turn our steps homeward To kiss wives and children, To see the old people, Until we have settled The subject of discord; Until we have found The reply to our question-- 100 Of who can, in Russia, Be happy and free?

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

Gavril Afanasich Springs out of the "troika" And comes to the peasants. He takes--like a doctor-- 110 The hand of each one, And carefully feeling The pulse gazes searchingly Into their faces, Then clasps his plump sides And stands shaking with laughter. The clear, hearty laugh Of the healthy Pomyeshchick Peals out in the pleasant Cool air of the morning: 120 "Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!" Till he stops from exhaustion. And then he addresses The wondering peasants: "Put on your hats, _gentlemen_, Please to be seated!"

(He speaks with a bitter[31] And mocking politeness.)

"But we are not gentry; We'd rather stand up 130 In 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. 140 Having finished the sherry, Thus speaks the Pomyeshchick:

"I gave you my promise To answer your question.... The task is not easy, For though you are highly Respectable people, You're not very learned. Well, firstly, I'll try To explain you the meaning 150 Of Lord, or Pomyeshchick. Have you, by some chance, Ever heard the expression The 'Family Tree'? Do you know what it means?"

"The woods are not closed to us. We have seen all kinds Of trees," say the peasants. "Your shot has miscarried! I'll try to speak clearly; 160 I come of an ancient, Illustrious family; One, Oboldooeff, My ancestor, is Amongst those who were mentioned In old Russian chronicles Written for certain Two hundred and fifty Years back. It is written, ''Twas given the Tartar, 170 Obolt-Oboldooeff, A piece of cloth, value Two roubles, for having Amused the Tsaritsa Upon the Tsar's birthday By fights of wild beasts, Wolves and foxes. He also Permitted his own bear To fight with a wild one, Which mauled Oboldooeff, 180 And hurt him severely.' And now, gentle peasants, Did you understand?"

"Why not? To this day One can see them--the loafers Who stroll about leading A bear!"

"Be it so, then! But now, please be silent, And hark to what follows: 190 From this Oboldooeff My family sprang; And this incident happened Two hundred and fifty Years back, as I told you, But still, on my mother's side, Even more ancient The family is: Says another old writing: 'Prince Schepin, and one 200 Vaska Gooseff, attempted To burn down the city Of Moscow. They wanted To plunder the Treasury. They were beheaded.' And this was, good peasants, Full three hundred years back! From these roots it was That our Family Tree sprang."

"And you are the ... as one 210 Might say ... little apple Which hangs on a branch Of the tree," say the peasants.

"Well, apple, then, call it, So long as it please you. At least you appear To have got at my meaning. And now, you yourselves Understand--the more ancient A family is 220 The more noble its members. Is that so, good peasants?"

"That's so," say the peasants. "The black bone and white bone Are different, and they must Be differently honoured."

"Exactly. I see, friends, You quite understand me." The Barin continued: "In past times we lived, 230 As they say, 'in the bosom Of Christ,' and we knew What it meant to be honoured! Not only the people Obeyed and revered us, But even the earth And the waters of Russia.... You knew what it was To be One, in the centre Of vast, spreading lands, 240 Like the sun in the heavens: The clustering villages Yours, yours the meadows, And yours the black depths Of 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 trees 250 Bend their branches before you. Through meadows you saunter; The slim golden corn-stems Rejoicing, will curtsey With winning caresses, Will hail you as Master. The little fish sports In the cool little river; Get fat, little fish, At the will of the Master! 260 The little hare speeds Through 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 exist But to gladden the Master. Each wee blade of grass Whispers lovingly to him, 270 'I live but for thee....'

"The joy and the beauty, The pride of all Russia-- The Lord's holy churches-- Which brighten the hill-sides And gleam like great jewels On the slopes of the valleys, Were rivalled by one thing In glory, and that Was the nobleman's manor. 280 Adjoining the manor Were glass-houses sparkling, And bright Chinese arbours, While parks spread around it. On each of the buildings Gay banners displaying Their radiant colours, And beckoning softly, Invited the guest To partake of the pleasures 290 Of rich hospitality. Never did Frenchmen In dreams even picture Such sumptuous revels As 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, 300 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 afflicted 310 Pomyeshchick broke down here, And hastened to bury His face in the cushion.... "Hey, Proshka!" he cried, And then quickly the lackey Poured out and presented A glassful of brandy. The glass was soon empty, And when the Pomyeshchick Had rested awhile, 320 He again began speaking: "Ah, then, Mother Russia, How gladly in autumn Your forests awoke To the horn of the huntsman! Their dark, gloomy depths, Which had saddened and faded, Were pierced by the clear Ringing blast, and they listened, Revived and rejoiced, 330 To the laugh of the echo. The hounds and the huntsmen Are gathered together, And wait on the skirts Of the forest; and with them The Master; and farther Within the deep forest The dog-keepers, roaring And shouting like madmen, The hounds all a-bubble 340 Like 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 Reynard Is flying before us, His bushy tail waving! 350 The knowing hounds crouch, And each lithe body quivers, Suppressing the fire That 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 us And away from the bushes!' 360

"They're off! Now, my horse, Let your swiftness not fail me! My hounds, you are staunch And you will not betray me! Hoo-loo! Faster, faster! Now, _at him_, my children!"... Gavril Afanasich Springs up, wildly shouting, His arms waving madly, He dances around them! 370 He's certainly after A fox in the forest!

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

"Eh ... you, mad, merry hunters! Although he forgets Many things--the Pomyeshchick-- Those hunts in the autumn Will not be forgotten. 380 'Tis not for our own loss We grieve, Mother Russia, But you that we pity; For you, with the hunting Have lost the last traces Of days bold and warlike That made you majestic....

"At times, in the autumn, A party of fifty Would start on a hunting tour; 390 Then each Pomyeshchick Brought with him a hundred Fine dogs, and twelve keepers, And cooks in abundance. And after the cooks Came a long line of waggons Containing provisions. And as we went forward With music and singing, You might have mistaken 400 Our band for a fine troop Of cavalry, moving! The time flew for us Like a falcon." How lightly The breast of the nobleman Rose, while his spirit Went back to the days Of Old Russia, and greeted The gallant Boyarin.[32] ...

"No whim was denied us. 410 To whom I desire I show mercy and favour; And whom I dislike I 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, 420 The voice of the nobleman Suddenly ceases; He lowers his eyes To the ground, darkly frowning ... And then, in a low voice, He says:

"You yourselves know That strictness is needful; But I, with love, punished. The chain has been broken, 430 The links burst asunder; And though we do not beat The peasant, no longer We look now upon him With fatherly feelings. Yes, I was severe too At times, but more often I turned hearts towards me With patience and mildness.

"Upon Easter Sunday 440 I kissed all the peasants Within my domain. A great table, loaded With 'Paska' and 'Koolich'[33] And eggs of all colours, Was spread in the manor. My wife, my old mother, My sons, too, and even My daughters did not scorn To kiss[34] the last peasant: 450 'Now Christ has arisen!' 'Indeed He has risen!' The peasants broke fast then, Drank vodka and wine. Before each great holiday, In my best staterooms The All-Night Thanksgiving Was held by the pope. My serfs were invited With every inducement: 460 'Pray hard now, my children, Make use of the chance, Though you crack all your foreheads!'[35] The nose suffered somewhat, But still at the finish We brought all the women-folk Out of a village To scrub down the floors. You see 'twas a cleansing Of souls, and a strengthening 470 Of spiritual union; Now, isn't that so?"

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

"I'll say, without boasting, They loved me--my peasants. 480 In my large Surminsky Estate, where the peasants Were mostly odd-jobbers, Or very small tradesmen, It happened that they Would get weary of staying At home, and would ask My permission to travel, To visit strange parts At the coming of spring. 490 They'd often be absent Through summer and autumn. My wife and the children Would argue while guessing The gifts that the peasants Would bring on returning. And really, besides Lawful dues of the 'Barin' In cloth, eggs, and live stock, The peasants would gladly 500 Bring gifts to the family: Jam, say, from Kiev, From Astrakhan fish, And the richer among them Some silk for the lady. You see!--as he kisses Her hand he presents her A neat little packet! And then for the children Are sweetmeats and toys; 510 For me, the old toper, Is wine from St. Petersburg-- Mark you, the rascal Won't go to the Russian For that! He knows better-- He runs to the Frenchman! And when we have finished Admiring the presents I go for a stroll And a chat with the peasants; 520 They talk with me freely. My wife fills their glasses, My little ones gather Around 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.... 530 On such terms it was That I lived with my peasants. Now, wasn't that nice?"

"Yes," answer the peasants; "Yes, well might one envy The noble Pomyeshchick! His life was so sweet There was no need to leave it."

"And now it is past.... It has vanished for ever! 540 Hark! There's the bell tolling!"

They listen in silence: In truth, through the stillness Which settles around them, The slow, solemn sound On the breeze of the morning Is borne from Kusminsky....

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

The peasants say softly, 550 And cross themselves thrice; And the mournful Pomyeshchick Uncovers his head, As he piously crosses Himself, and he answers: "'Tis not for the peasant The knell is now tolling, It tolls the lost life Of the stricken Pomyeshchick. Farewell to the past, 560 And farewell to thee, Russia, The Russia who cradled The happy Pomyeshchick, Thy place has been stolen And filled by another!... Heh, Proshka!" (The brandy Is given, and quickly He empties the glass.) "Oh, it isn't consoling To witness the change 570 In thy face, oh, my Motherland! Truly one fancies The whole race of nobles Has suddenly vanished! Wherever one goes, now, One falls over peasants Who lie about, tipsy, One meets not a creature But excise official, Or stupid 'Posrednik,'[36] 580 Or Poles who've been banished. One sees the troops passing, And then one can guess That a village has somewhere Revolted, 'in thankful And dutiful spirit....' In old days, these roads Were made gay by the passing Of carriage, 'dormeuse,' And of six-in-hand coaches, 590 And pretty, light troikas; And in them were sitting The family troop Of the jolly Pomyeshchick: The stout, buxom mother, The fine, roguish sons, And the pretty young daughters; One heard with enjoyment The chiming of large bells, The tinkling of small bells, 600 Which hung from the harness. And now?... What distraction Has life? And what joy Does it bring the Pomyeshchick? At each step, you meet Something new to revolt you; And when in the air You can smell a rank graveyard, You know you are passing A nobleman's manor! 610 My Lord!... They have pillaged The beautiful dwelling! They've pulled it all down, Brick by brick, and have fashioned The bricks into hideously Accurate columns! The broad shady park Of the outraged Pomyeshchick, The fruit of a hundred years' Careful attention, 620 Is falling away 'Neath the axe of a peasant! The peasant works gladly, And greedily reckons The number of logs Which his labour will bring him. His dark soul is closed To refinement of feeling, And what would it matter To him, if you told him 630 That this stately oak Which his hatchet is felling My grandfather's hand Had once planted and tended; That under this ash-tree My dear little children, My Vera and Ganushka, Echoed my voice As they played by my side; That under this linden 640 My young wife confessed me That little Gavrioushka, Our best-beloved first-born, Lay under her heart, As she nestled against me And bashfully hid Her sweet face in my bosom As red as a cherry.... It is to his profit To ravish the park, 650 And his mission delights him. It makes one ashamed now To pass through a village; The peasant sits still And he dreams not of bowing. One feels in one's breast Not the pride of a noble But wrath and resentment. The axe of the robber Resounds in the forest, 660 It maddens your heart, But you cannot prevent it, For who can you summon To 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 complain For ourselves--of our sorrows, 670 Our hearts bleed for thee: Like a widow thou standest In helpless affliction With tresses dishevelled And grief-stricken face.... They have blighted the forest, The noisy low taverns Have risen and flourished. They've picked the most worthless And loose of the people, 680 And given them power In the posts of the Zemstvos; They've seized on the peasant And 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 you 690 Or drink on the premises.' Was it worth while, pray, To weary the peasant With learning his letters In order to read them? The land that we keep Is our mother no longer, Our stepmother rather. And then to improve things, These pert good-for-nothings, 700 These impudent writers Must needs shout in chorus: 'But whose fault, then, is it, That you thus exhausted And wasted your country?' But I say--you duffers! Who _could_ foresee this? They babble, 'Enough Of your lordly pretensions! It's time that you learnt something, 710 Lazy Pomyeshchicks! Get up, now, and work!'

"Work! To whom, in God's name, Do you think you are speaking? I am not a peasant In 'laputs,' good madman! I am--by God's mercy-- A Noble of Russia. You take us for Germans! We nobles have tender 720 And delicate feelings, Our pride is inborn, And in Russia our classes Are not taught to work. Why, the meanest official Will not raise a finger To clear his own table, Or light his own stove! I can say, without boasting, That though I have lived 730 Forty years in the country, And scarcely have left it, I could not distinguish Between rye and barley. And they sing of 'work' to me!

"If we Pomyeshchicks Have really mistaken Our duty and calling, If really our mission Is not, as in old days, 740 To keep up the hunting, To revel in luxury, Live on forced labour, Why did they not tell us Before? Could I learn it? For what do I see? I've worn the Tsar's livery, 'Sullied the Heavens,' And 'squandered the treasury Gained by the people,' 750 And fully imagined To do so for ever, And now ... God in Heaven!"... The Barin is sobbing!...

The kind-hearted peasants Can hardly help crying Themselves, and they think: "Yes, the chain has been broken, The strong links have snapped, And the one end recoiling 760 Has struck the Pomyeshchick, The other--the peasant."