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Nikolay Nekrasov - Who is happy in Russia?
Work rating: Medium

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  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."
PART II.

THE LAST POMYeSHCHICK

PROLOGUE

The day of St. Peter-
  And very hot weather;
The mowers are all
  At their work in the meadows.
The peasants are passing
  A tumble-down village,
Called "Ignorant-Duffers,"
  Of Volost "Old-Dustmen,"
Of Government "Know-Nothing.'
  They are approaching 10
The banks of the Volga.
  They come to the river,
The sea-gulls are wheeling
  And flashing above it;
The sea-hens are walking
  About on the sand-banks;
And in the bare hayfields,
  Which look just as naked
As any youth's cheek
  After yesterday's shaving, 20
The Princes Volkonsky[37]
  Are haughtily standing,
And round them their children,
  Who (unlike all others)
Are born at an earlier
  Date than their sires.
"The fields are enormous,"
Remarks old Pakhom,
  "Why, the folk must be giants."
The two brothers Goobin 30
  Are smiling at something:
For some time they've noticed
  A very tall peasant
Who stands with a pitcher
  On top of a haystack;
He drinks, and a woman
  Below, with a hay-fork,
Is looking at him
  With her head leaning back.
The peasants walk on 40
  Till they come to the haystack;
The man is still drinking;
  They pass it quite slowly,
Go fifty steps farther,
  Then all turn together
And look at the haystack.
  Not much has been altered:
The peasant is standing
  With body bent back
As before,-but the pitcher 50
  Has turned bottom upwards...
The strangers go farther.
  The camps are thrown out
On the banks of the river;
  And there the old people
And children are gathered,
  And horses are waiting
With big empty waggons;
  And then, in the fields
Behind those that are finished, 60
  The distance is filled
By the army of workers,
  The white shirts of women,
The men's brightly coloured,
  And voices and laughter,
With all intermingled
  The hum of the scythes...
  "God help you, good fellows!"
"Our thanks to you, brothers!"
  The peasants stand noting 70
The long line of mowers,
  The poise of the scythes
And their sweep through the sunshine.
  The rhythmical swell
Of melodious murmur.
  The timid grass stands
For a moment, and trembles,
  Then falls with a sigh...
  On the banks of the Volga
The grass has grown high 80
And the mowers work gladly.
  The peasants soon feel
That they cannot resist it.
"It's long since we've stretched ourselves,
  Come, let us help you!"
And now seven women
  Have yielded their places.
  The spirit of work
Is devouring our peasants;
  Like teeth in a ravenous 90
Mouth they are working-
  The muscular arms,
And the long grass is falling
  To songs that are strange
To this part of the country,
  To songs that are taught
By the blizzards and snow-storms,
The wild savage winds
  Of the peasants' own homelands:
"Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry," 100
  "Patched," "Bare-Foot," and "Shabby,"
And "Harvestless," too...
  And when the strong craving
For work is appeased
  They sit down by a haystack.
"From whence have you come?"
  A grey-headed old peasant
(The one whom the women
  Call Vlasuchka) asks them,
"And where are you going?" 110
  "We are-" say the peasants,
Then suddenly stop,
  There's some music approaching!
"Oh, that's the Pomyeshchick
  Returning from boating!"
Says Vlasuchka, running
  To busy the mowers:
"Wake up! Look alive there!
  And mind-above all things,
Don't heat the Pomyeshchick 120
  And don't make him angry!
And if he abuse you,
  Bow low and say nothing,
And if he should praise you,
  Start lustily cheering.
You women, stop cackling!
  And get to your forks!"
A big burly peasant
With beard long and bushy
  Bestirs himself also 130
To busy them all,
  Then puts on his "kaftan," [38]
And runs away quickly
  To meet the Pomyeshchick.
And now to the bank-side
  Three boats are approaching.
In one sit the servants
  And band of musicians,
Most busily playing;
  The second one groans 140
'Neath a mountainous wet-nurse,
  Who dandles a baby,
A withered old dry-nurse,
  A motionless body
Of ancient retainers.
  And then in the third
There are sitting the gentry:
  Two beautiful ladies
(One slender and fair-haired,
  One heavy and black-browed) 150
And two moustached Barins
  And three little Barins,
And last-the Pomyeshchick,
  A very old man
Wearing long white moustaches
  (He seems to be all white);
His cap, broad and high-crowned,
  Is white, with a peak,
In the front, of red satin.
  His body is lean 160
As a hare's in the winter,
  His nose like a hawk's beak,
His eyes-well, they differ:
  The one sharp and shining,
The other-the left eye-
  Is sightless and blank,
Like a dull leaden farthing.
  Some woolly white poodles
With tufts on their ankles
  Are in the boat too. 170
The old man alighting
  Has mounted the bank,
Where for long he reposes
  Upon a red carpet
Spread out by the servants.
And then he arises
  To visit the mowers,
To pass through the fields
  On a tour of inspection.
He leans on the arm- 180
  Now of one of the Barins,
And now upon those
  Of the beautiful ladies.
And so with his suite-
  With the three little Barins,
The wet-nurse, the dry-nurse,
  The ancient retainers,
The woolly white poodles,-
Along through the hayfields
  Proceeds the Pomyeshchick. 190
The peasants on all sides
  Bow down to the ground;
And the big, burly peasant
  (The Elder he is
As the peasants have noticed)
  Is cringing and bending
Before the Pomyeshchick,
  Just like the Big Devil
Before the high altar:
"Just so! Yes, Your Highness, 200
  It's done, at your bidding!"
I think he will soon fall
  Before the Pomyeshchick
And roll in the dust...
  So moves the procession,
Until it stops short
  In the front of a haystack
Of wonderful size,
  Only this day erected.
The old man is poking 210
  His forefinger in it,
He thinks it is damp,
  And he blazes with fury:
"Is this how you rot
  The best goods of your master?
I'll rot you with barschin,[39]
  I'll make you repent it!
Undo it-at once!"
  The Elder is writhing
In great agitation: 220
  "I was not quite careful
Enough, and it is damp.
  It's my fault, Your Highness!"
He summons the peasants,
  Who run with their pitchforks
To punish the monster.
  And soon they have spread it
In small heaps around,
  At the feet of the master;
His wrath is appeased. 230
  (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 Pomyeshchick.
  The table is shining
All dazzlingly white
  On the bank of the river. 250
The strangers, astonished,
Draw near to old Vlasuchka;
  "Pray, little Uncle,"
They say, "what's the meaning
  Of all these strange doings?
And who is that curious
    Old man?"
    "Our Pomyeshchick,
The great Prince Yutiatin."
"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."
"Tell us about it." 280
  The old man lay down
At the foot of the haystack
  And answered them-nothing.
  The peasants producing
  The magic white napkin
Sit down and say softly,
  "O napkin enchanted,
Give food to the peasants!"
The napkin unfolds,
  And two hands, which come floating
From no one sees where, 291
  Place a bucket of vodka,
A large pile of bread
  On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away...
  The peasants, still wishing
To question old Vlasuchka,
  Wisely present him
A cupful of vodka:
  "Now come, little Uncle, 300
Be gracious to strangers,
  And tell us your story."
"There's nothing to tell you.
  You haven't told me yet
Who you are and whence
You have journeyed to these parts,
  And whither you go."
"We will not be surly
  Like you. We will tell you.
We've come a great distance, 310
  And seek to discover
A thing of importance.
  A trouble torments us,
It draws us away
  From our work, from our homes,
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