"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? Luka said, 'The pope,' And Roman, 'The Pomyeshchick,' Demyan, 'The official.' 'The round-bellied merchant,' Said both brothers Goobin, Mitrodor and Ivan; Pakhom 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, 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: