Chapter V The Pomyéshchick
The “troika” is drawing
The local Pomyéshchick—
Gavríl Afanásich
Obólt-Oboldoóeff.
A portly Pomyéshchick,
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.
Gavríl Afanásich
Was probably startled
At seeing the peasants
Unflinchingly barring
The way to his horses;
He promptly produces
A loaded revolver
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
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,
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.
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 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,’
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,
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—
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—
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:
“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 bitter31
And mocking politeness.)
“But we are not gentry;
We’d rather stand up
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.
Having finished the sherry,
Thus speaks the Pomyéshchick:
“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
Of Lord, or Pomyéshchick.
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;
I come of an ancient,
Illustrious family;
One, Oboldoóeff,
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,
Obólt-Oboldoóeff,
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 Oboldoóeff,
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:
From this Oboldoóeff
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 Schépin, and one
Vaska Goóseff, 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
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
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,
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,
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
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!
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,
‘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.
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
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,
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
Pomyéshchick 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 Pomyéshchick
Had rested awhile,
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,
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
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!
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!’
“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!”…
Gavríl Afanásich
Springs up, wildly shouting,
His arms waving madly,
He dances around them!
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 Pomyéshchick—
Those hunts in the autumn
Will not be forgotten.
’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;
Then each Pomyéshchick
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
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 Boyárin.32 …
“No whim was denied us.
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,
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,
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
I kissed all the peasants
Within my domain.
A great table, loaded
With ‘Paska’ and ‘Koólich’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 kiss34 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 staterooms
The All-Night Thanksgiving
Was held by the pope.
My serfs were invited
With every inducement:
‘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
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.
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.
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
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;
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;
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….
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 Pomyéshchick!
His life was so sweet
There 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 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,
And cross themselves thrice;
And the mournful Pomyéshchick
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 Pomyéshchick.
Farewell to the past,
And farewell to thee, Russia,
The Russia who cradled
The happy Pomyéshchick,
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
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 ‘Posrédnik,’36
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,
And pretty, light troikas;
And in them were sitting
The family troop
Of the jolly Pomyéshchick:
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,
Which hung from the harness.
And now?… What distraction
Has life? And what joy
Does it bring the Pomyéshchick?
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!
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 Pomyéshchick,
The fruit of a hundred years’
Careful attention,
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
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 Gánushka,
Echoed my voice
As they played by my side;
That under this linden
My young wife confessed me
That little Gavrióushka,
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,
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,
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,
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,
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
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,
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,
Lazy Pomyéshchicks!
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
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
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 Pomyéshchicks
Have really mistaken
Our duty and calling,
If really our mission
Is not, as in old days,
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,’
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
Has struck the Pomyéshchick,
The other—the peasant.”