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?"