(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 Pomyéshchick.
The table is shining
All dazzlingly white
On the bank of the river. 250
The strangers, astonished,
Draw near to old Vlásuchka;
"Pray, little Uncle,"
They say, "what's the meaning
Of all these strange doings?
And who is that curious
Old man?"
"Our Pomyéshchick,
The great Prince Yutiátin."
"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 God's mercy
The order is changed now
For us as for others;
But ours is a special case."