"The great prince, Yutiatin, The ancient Pomyeshchick, Is very eccentric. His wealth is untold, And his titles exalted, His family ranks With the first in the Empire. The whole of his life He has spent in amusement, Has known no control 10 Save his own will and pleasure. When we were set free He refused to believe it: 'They lie! the low scoundrels!' There came the posrednik And Chief of Police, But he would not admit them, He ordered them out And went on as before, And only became 20 Full of hate and suspicion: 'Bow low, or I'll flog you To death, without mercy!' The Governor himself came To try to explain things, And long they disputed And argued together; The furious voice Of the prince was heard raging All over the house, 30 And he got so excited That on the same evening A stroke fell upon him: His left side went dead, Black as earth, so they tell us, And all over nothing! It wasn't his pocket That pinched, but his pride That was touched and enraged him. He lost but a mite 40 And would never have missed it." "Ah, that's what it means, friends, To be a Pomyeshchick, The habit gets into The blood," says Mitrodor, "And not the Pomyeshchick's Alone, for the habit Is strong in the peasant As well," old Pakhom said. "I once on suspicion 50 Was put into prison, And met there a peasant Called Sedor, a strange man, Arrested for horse-stealing, If I remember; And he from the prison Would send to the Barin His taxes. (The prisoner's Income is scanty, He gets what he begs 60 Or a trifle for working.) The others all laughed at him; 'Why should you send them And you off for life To hard labour?' they asked him. But he only said, 'All the same ... it is better.'" "Well, now, little Uncle, Go on with the story."