"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?
Luká said, 'The pope,'
And Roman, 'The Pomyéshchick,'
Demyán, 'The official.'
'The round-bellied merchant,'
Said both brothers Goóbin,
Mitródor and Ívan;
Pakhóm 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, Pomyéshchick,
Is your life a sweet one?
And is the Pomyéshchick
Both happy and free?"
Gavríl Afanásich
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 Pomyéshchick
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.)