"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 n.o.ble 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 cl.u.s.tering villages Yours, yours the meadows, And yours the black depths Of the great virgin forests!

You pa.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 n.o.bleman's manor. 280 Adjoining the manor Were gla.s.s-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 G.o.d!"...

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 gla.s.sful of brandy.

The gla.s.s 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 n.o.bleman 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 n.o.bleman 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 gla.s.ses, 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 n.o.ble 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!

G.o.d greet him in Heaven!"