Taras Bulba, and Other Tales

TARAS BULBA AND OTHER TALES

By Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol

Introduction by John Cournos

Contents:

Taras Bulba

St. John’s Eve

The Cloak

How the Two Ivans Quarrelled

The Mysterious Portrait

The Calash

INTRODUCTION

Russian literature, so full of enigmas, contains no greater creative

mystery than Nikolai Vasil’evich Gogol (1809-1852), who has done for

the Russian novel and Russian prose what Pushkin has done for Russian

poetry. Before these two men came Russian literature can hardly have

been said to exist. It was pompous and effete with pseudo-classicism;

foreign influences were strong; in the speech of the upper circles there

was an over-fondness for German, French, and English words. Between them

the two friends, by force of their great genius, cleared away the debris

which made for sterility and erected in their stead a new structure out

of living Russian words. The spoken word, born of the people, gave soul

and wing to literature; only by coming to earth, the native earth, was

it enabled to soar. Coming up from Little Russia, the Ukraine, with

Cossack blood in his veins, Gogol injected his own healthy virus into

an effete body, blew his own virile spirit, the spirit of his race, into

its nostrils, and gave the Russian novel its direction to this very day.

More than that. The nomad and romantic in him, troubled and restless

with Ukrainian myth, legend, and song, impressed upon Russian

literature, faced with the realities of modern life, a spirit titanic

and in clash with its material, and produced in the mastery of this

every-day material, commonly called sordid, a phantasmagoria intense

with beauty. A clue to all Russian realism may be found in a Russian

critic’s observation about Gogol: “Seldom has nature created a man so

romantic in bent, yet so masterly in portraying all that is unromantic

in life.” But this statement does not cover the whole ground, for it is

easy to see in almost all of Gogol’s work his “free Cossack soul” trying

to break through the shell of sordid to-day like some ancient demon,

essentially Dionysian. So that his works, true though they are to our

life, are at once a reproach, a protest, and a challenge, ever calling

for joy, ancient joy, that is no more with us. And they have all the joy

and sadness of the Ukrainian songs he loved so much. Ukrainian was to

Gogol “the language of the soul,” and it was in Ukrainian songs rather

than in old chronicles, of which he was not a little contemptuous, that

he read the history of his people. Time and again, in his essays and in

his letters to friends, he expresses his boundless joy in these songs:

“O songs, you are my joy and my life! How I love you. What are the

bloodless chronicles I pore over beside those clear, live chronicles!

I cannot live without songs; they... reveal everything more and more

clearly, oh, how clearly, gone-by life and gone-by men.... The songs

of Little Russia are her everything, her poetry, her history, and her

ancestral grave. He who has not penetrated them deeply knows nothing of

the past of this blooming region of Russia.”

Indeed, so great was his enthusiasm for his own land that after

collecting material for many years, the year 1833 finds him at work on

a history of “poor Ukraine,” a work planned to take up six volumes; and

writing to a friend at this time he promises to say much in it that has

not been said before him. Furthermore, he intended to follow this work

with a universal history in eight volumes with a view to establishing,

as far as may be gathered, Little Russia and the world in proper

relation, connecting the two; a quixotic task, surely. A poet,

passionate, religious, loving the heroic, we find him constantly

impatient and fuming at the lifeless chronicles, which leave him cold as

he seeks in vain for what he cannot find. “Nowhere,” he writes in 1834,

“can I find anything of the time which ought to be richer than any

other in events. Here was a people whose whole existence was passed in

activity, and which, even if nature had made it inactive, was compelled

to go forward to great affairs and deeds because of its neighbours, its

geographic situation, the constant danger to its existence.... If the

Crimeans and the Turks had had a literature I am convinced that no

history of an independent nation in Europe would prove so interesting as

that of the Cossacks.” Again he complains of the “withered chronicles”;

it is only the wealth of his country’s song that encourages him to go on

with its history.

Too much a visionary and a poet to be an impartial historian, it is

hardly astonishing to note the judgment he passes on his own work,

during that same year, 1834: “My history of Little Russia’s past is an

extraordinarily made thing, and it could not be otherwise.” The deeper

he goes into Little Russia’s past the more fanatically he dreams of

Little Russia’s future. St. Petersburg wearies him, Moscow awakens no

emotion in him, he yearns for Kieff, the mother of Russian cities, which

in his vision he sees becoming “the Russian Athens.” Russian history

gives him no pleasure, and he separates it definitely from Ukrainian

history. He is “ready to cast everything aside rather than read Russian

history,” he writes to Pushkin. During his seven-year stay in St.

Petersburg (1829-36) Gogol zealously gathered historical material and,

in the words of Professor Kotlyarevsky, “lived in the dream of becoming

the Thucydides of Little Russia.” How completely he disassociated

Ukrainia from Northern Russia may be judged by the conspectus of his

lectures written in 1832. He says in it, speaking of the conquest of

Southern Russia in the fourteenth century by Prince Guedimin at the head

of his Lithuanian host, still dressed in the skins of wild beasts, still

worshipping the ancient fire and practising pagan rites: “Then Southern

Russia, under the mighty protection of Lithuanian princes, completely

separated itself from the North. Every bond between them was broken;

two kingdoms were established under a single name--Russia--one under the

Tatar yoke, the other under the same rule with Lithuanians. But actually

they had no relation with one another; different laws, different

customs, different aims, different bonds, and different activities gave

them wholly different characters.”

This same Prince Guedimin freed Kieff from the Tatar yoke. This city had

been laid waste by the golden hordes of Ghengis Khan and hidden for a

very long time from the Slavonic chronicler as behind an impenetrable

curtain. A shrewd man, Guedimin appointed a Slavonic prince to rule

over the city and permitted the inhabitants to practise their own

faith, Greek Christianity. Prior to the Mongol invasion, which brought

conflagration and ruin, and subjected Russia to a two-century bondage,

cutting her off from Europe, a state of chaos existed and the separate

tribes fought with one another constantly and for the most petty

reasons. Mutual depredations were possible owing to the absence of

mountain ranges; there were no natural barriers against sudden attack.

The openness of the steppe made the people war-like. But this very

openness made it possible later for Guedimin’s pagan hosts, fresh from

the fir forests of what is now White Russia, to make a clean sweep

of the whole country between Lithuania and Poland, and thus give the

scattered princedoms a much-needed cohesion. In this way Ukrainia was

formed. Except for some forests, infested with bears, the country was

one vast plain, marked by an occasional hillock. Whole herds of wild

horses and deer stampeded the country, overgrown with tall grass, while

flocks of wild goats wandered among the rocks of the Dnieper. Apart from

the Dnieper, and in some measure the Desna, emptying into it, there were

no navigable rivers and so there was little opportunity for a commercial

people. Several tributaries cut across, but made no real boundary line.

Whether you looked to the north towards Russia, to the east towards the

Tatars, to the south towards the Crimean Tatars, to the west towards

Poland, everywhere the country bordered on a field, everywhere on a

plain, which left it open to the invader from every side. Had there been

here, suggests Gogol in his introduction to his never-written history

of Little Russia, if upon one side only, a real frontier of mountain or

sea, the people who settled here might have formed a definite political

body. Without this natural protection it became a land subject to

constant attack and despoliation. “There where three hostile nations

came in contact it was manured with bones, wetted with blood. A single

Tatar invasion destroyed the whole labour of the soil-tiller; the

meadows and the cornfields were trodden down by horses or destroyed

by flame, the lightly-built habitations reduced to the ground, the

inhabitants scattered or driven off into captivity together with cattle.

It was a land of terror, and for this reason there could develop in it

only a warlike people, strong in its unity and desperate, a people whose

whole existence was bound to be trained and confined to war.”

This constant menace, this perpetual pressure of foes on all sides,

acted at last like a fierce hammer shaping and hardening resistance

against itself. The fugitive from Poland, the fugitive from the Tatar

and the Turk, homeless, with nothing to lose, their lives ever exposed

to danger, forsook their peaceful occupations and became transformed

into a warlike people, known as the Cossacks, whose appearance towards

the end of the thirteenth century or at the beginning of the fourteenth

was a remarkable event which possibly alone (suggests Gogol) prevented

any further inroads by the two Mohammedan nations into Europe. The

appearance of the Cossacks was coincident with the appearance in Europe

of brotherhoods and knighthood-orders, and this new race, in spite of

its living the life of marauders, in spite of turnings its foes’ tactics

upon its foes, was not free of the religious spirit of its time; if it

warred for its existence it warred not less for its faith, which was

Greek. Indeed, as the nation grew stronger and became conscious of its

strength, the struggle began to partake something of the nature of a

religious war, not alone defensive but aggressive also, against the

unbeliever. While any man was free to join the brotherhood it was

obligatory to believe in the Greek faith. It was this religious unity,

blazed into activity by the presence across the borders of unbelieving

nations, that alone indicated the germ of a political body in this

gathering of men, who otherwise lived the audacious lives of a band

of highway robbers. “There was, however,” says Gogol, “none of the

austerity of the Catholic knight in them; they bound themselves to no

vows or fasts; they put no self-restraint upon themselves or mortified

their flesh, but were indomitable like the rocks of the Dnieper among

which they lived, and in their furious feasts and revels they forgot

the whole world. That same intimate brotherhood, maintained in robber

communities, bound them together. They had everything in common--wine,

food, dwelling. A perpetual fear, a perpetual danger, inspired them with

a contempt towards life. The Cossack worried more about a good measure

of wine than about his fate. One has to see this denizen of the frontier

in his half-Tatar, half-Polish costume--which so sharply outlined the

spirit of the borderland--galloping in Asiatic fashion on his horse, now

lost in thick grass, now leaping with the speed of a tiger from ambush,

or emerging suddenly from the river or swamp, all clinging with mud, and

appearing an image of terror to the Tatar....”

Little by little the community grew and with its growing it began to

assume a general character. The beginning of the sixteenth century found

whole villages settled with families, enjoying the protection of the

Cossacks, who exacted certain obligations, chiefly military, so that

these settlements bore a military character. The sword and the plough

were friends which fraternised at every settler’s. On the other hand,

Gogol tells us, the gay bachelors began to make depredations across the

border to sweep down on Tatars’ wives and their daughters and to marry

them. “Owing to this co-mingling, their facial features, so different

from one another’s, received a common impress, tending towards the

Asiatic. And so there came into being a nation in faith and place

belonging to Europe; on the other hand, in ways of life, customs, and

dress quite Asiatic. It was a nation in which the world’s two extremes

came in contact; European caution and Asiatic indifference, niavete and

cunning, an intense activity and the greatest laziness and indulgence,

an aspiration to development and perfection, and again a desire to

appear indifferent to perfection.”

All of Ukraine took on its colour from the Cossack, and if I have drawn

largely on Gogol’s own account of the origins of this race, it was

because it seemed to me that Gogol’s emphasis on the heroic rather than

on the historical--Gogol is generally discounted as an historian--would

give the reader a proper approach to the mood in which he created “Taras

Bulba,” the finest epic in Russian literature. Gogol never wrote either

his history of Little Russia or his universal history. Apart from

several brief studies, not always reliable, the net result of his many

years’ application to his scholarly projects was this brief epic

in prose, Homeric in mood. The sense of intense living, “living

dangerously”--to use a phrase of Nietzsche’s, the recognition of courage

as the greatest of all virtues--the God in man, inspired Gogol, living

in an age which tended toward grey tedium, with admiration for his more

fortunate forefathers, who lived in “a poetic time, when everything was

won with the sword, when every one in his turn strove to be an active

being and not a spectator.” Into this short work he poured all his love

of the heroic, all his romanticism, all his poetry, all his joy. Its

abundance of life bears one along like a fast-flowing river. And it

is not without humour, a calm, detached humour, which, as the critic

Bolinsky puts it, is not there merely “because Gogol has a tendency to

see the comic in everything, but because it is true to life.”

Yet “Taras Bulba” was in a sense an accident, just as many other works

of great men are accidents. It often requires a happy combination

of circumstances to produce a masterpiece. I have already told in my

introduction to “Dead Souls” (1) how Gogol created his great realistic

masterpiece, which was to influence Russian literature for generations

to come, under the influence of models so remote in time or place

as “Don Quixote” or “Pickwick Papers”; and how this combination of

influences joined to his own genius produced a work quite new and

original in effect and only remotely reminiscent of the models which

have inspired it. And just as “Dead Souls” might never have been written

if “Don Quixote” had not existed, so there is every reason to believe

that “Taras Bulba” could not have been written without the “Odyssey.”

Once more ancient fire gave life to new beauty. And yet at the time

Gogol could not have had more than a smattering of the “Odyssey.”

The magnificent translation made by his friend Zhukovsky had not yet

appeared and Gogol, in spite of his ambition to become a historian, was

not equipped as a scholar. But it is evident from his dithyrambic letter

on the appearance of Zhukovsky’s version, forming one of the famous

series of letters known as “Correspondence with Friends,” that he was

better acquainted with the spirit of Homer than any mere scholar could

be. That letter, unfortunately unknown to the English reader, would make

every lover of the classics in this day of their disparagement dance

with joy. He describes the “Odyssey” as the forgotten source of all that

is beautiful and harmonious in life, and he greets its appearance in

Russian dress at a time when life is sordid and discordant as a thing

inevitable, “cooling” in effect upon a too hectic world. He sees in its

perfect grace, its calm and almost childlike simplicity, a power for

individual and general good. “It combines all the fascination of a fairy

tale and all the simple truth of human adventure, holding out the

same allurement to every being, whether he is a noble, a commoner, a

merchant, a literate or illiterate person, a private soldier, a lackey,

children of both sexes, beginning at an age when a child begins to love

a fairy tale--all might read it or listen to it, without tedium.” Every

one will draw from it what he most needs. Not less than upon these

he sees its wholesome effect on the creative writer, its refreshing

influence on the critic. But most of all he dwells on its heroic

qualities, inseparable to him from what is religious in the “Odyssey”;

and, says Gogol, this book contains the idea that a human being,

“wherever he might be, whatever pursuit he might follow, is threatened

by many woes, that he must need wrestle with them--for that very purpose

was life given to him--that never for a single instant must he despair,

just as Odysseus did not despair, who in every hard and oppressive

moment turned to his own heart, unaware that with this inner scrutiny

of himself he had already said that hidden prayer uttered in a moment of

distress by every man having no understanding whatever of God.” Then he

goes on to compare the ancient harmony, perfect down to every detail of

dress, to the slightest action, with our slovenliness and confusion and

pettiness, a sad result--considering our knowledge of past experience,

our possession of superior weapons, our religion given to make us holy

and superior beings. And in conclusion he asks: Is not the “Odyssey” in

every sense a deep reproach to our nineteenth century?

(1) Everyman’s Library, No. 726.

An understanding of Gogol’s point of view gives the key to “Taras

Bulba.” For in this panoramic canvas of the Setch, the military

brotherhood of the Cossacks, living under open skies, picturesquely and

heroically, he has drawn a picture of his romantic ideal, which if far

from perfect at any rate seemed to him preferable to the grey tedium of

a city peopled with government officials. Gogol has written in “Taras

Bulba” his own reproach to the nineteenth century. It is sad and joyous

like one of those Ukrainian songs which have helped to inspire him to

write it. And then, as he cut himself off more and more from the world

of the past, life became a sadder and still sadder thing to him; modern

life, with all its gigantic pettiness, closed in around him, he began to

write of petty officials and of petty scoundrels, “commonplace heroes”

he called them. But nothing is ever lost in this world. Gogol’s

romanticism, shut in within himself, finding no outlet, became a flame.

It was a flame of pity. He was like a man walking in hell, pitying. And

that was the miracle, the transfiguration. Out of that flame of pity the

Russian novel was born.

JOHN COURNOS

Evenings on the Farm near the Dikanka, 1829-31; Mirgorod, 1831-33; Taras

Bulba, 1834; Arabesques (includes tales, The Portrait and A Madman’s

Diary), 1831-35; The Cloak, 1835; The Revizor (The Inspector-General),

1836; Dead Souls, 1842; Correspondence with Friends, 1847; Letters,

1847, 1895, 4 vols. 1902.

ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS: Cossack Tales (The Night of Christmas Eve, Tarass

Boolba), trans. by G. Tolstoy, 1860; St. John’s Eve and Other Stories,

trans. by Isabel F. Hapgood, New York, Crowell, 1886; Taras Bulba: Also

St. John’s Eve and Other Stories, London, Vizetelly, 1887; Taras Bulba,

trans. by B. C. Baskerville, London, Scott, 1907; The Inspector: a

Comedy, Calcutta, 1890; The Inspector-General, trans. by A. A. Sykes,

London, Scott, 1892; Revizor, trans. for the Yale Dramatic Association

by Max S. Mandell, New Haven, Conn., 1908; Home Life in Russia

(adaptation of Dead Souls), London, Hurst, 1854; Tchitchikoff’s

Journey’s; or Dead Souls, trans. by Isabel F. Hapgood, New York,

Crowell, 1886; Dead Souls, London, Vizetelly, 1887; Dead Souls, London,

Maxwell 1887; Dead Souls, London, Fisher Unwin, 1915; Dead Souls,

London, Everyman’s Library (Intro. by John Cournos), 1915; Meditations

on the Divine Liturgy, trans. by L. Alexeieff, London, A. R. Mowbray and

Co., 1913.

LIVES, etc.: (Russian) Kotlyarevsky (N. A.), 1903; Shenrok (V. I.),

Materials for a Biography, 1892; (French) Leger (L.), Nicholas Gogol,

1914.

TARAS BULBA

CHAPTER I

“Turn round, my boy! How ridiculous you look! What sort of a priest’s

cassock have you got on? Does everybody at the academy dress like that?”

With such words did old Bulba greet his two sons, who had been absent

for their education at the Royal Seminary of Kief, and had now returned

home to their father.

His sons had but just dismounted from their horses. They were a couple

of stout lads who still looked bashful, as became youths recently

released from the seminary. Their firm healthy faces were covered with

the first down of manhood, down which had, as yet, never known a razor.

They were greatly discomfited by such a reception from their father, and

stood motionless with eyes fixed upon the ground.

“Stand still, stand still! let me have a good look at you,” he

continued, turning them around. “How long your gaberdines are! What

gaberdines! There never were such gaberdines in the world before. Just

run, one of you! I want to see whether you will not get entangled in the

skirts, and fall down.”

“Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, father!” said the eldest lad at length.

“How touchy we are! Why shouldn’t I laugh?”

“Because, although you are my father, if you laugh, by heavens, I will

strike you!”

“What kind of son are you? what, strike your father!” exclaimed Taras

Bulba, retreating several paces in amazement.

“Yes, even my father. I don’t stop to consider persons when an insult is

in question.”

“So you want to fight me? with your fist, eh?”

“Any way.”

“Well, let it be fisticuffs,” said Taras Bulba, turning up his sleeves.

“I’ll see what sort of a man you are with your fists.”

And father and son, in lieu of a pleasant greeting after long

separation, began to deal each other heavy blows on ribs, back, and

chest, now retreating and looking at each other, now attacking afresh.

“Look, good people! the old man has gone mad! he has lost his senses

completely!” screamed their pale, ugly, kindly mother, who was standing

on the threshold, and had not yet succeeded in embracing her darling

children. “The children have come home, we have not seen them for over a

year; and now he has taken some strange freak--he’s pommelling them.”

“Yes, he fights well,” said Bulba, pausing; “well, by heavens!” he

continued, rather as if excusing himself, “although he has never tried

his hand at it before, he will make a good Cossack! Now, welcome, son!

embrace me,” and father and son began to kiss each other. “Good lad! see

that you hit every one as you pommelled me; don’t let any one escape.

Nevertheless your clothes are ridiculous all the same. What rope is this

hanging there?--And you, you lout, why are you standing there with your

hands hanging beside you?” he added, turning to the youngest. “Why don’t

you fight me? you son of a dog!”

“What an idea!” said the mother, who had managed in the meantime to

embrace her youngest. “Who ever heard of children fighting their own

father? That’s enough for the present; the child is young, he has had

a long journey, he is tired.” The child was over twenty, and about six

feet high. “He ought to rest, and eat something; and you set him to

fighting!”

“You are a gabbler!” said Bulba. “Don’t listen to your mother, my lad;

she is a woman, and knows nothing. What sort of petting do you need? A

clear field and a good horse, that’s the kind of petting for you! And do

you see this sword? that’s your mother! All the rest people stuff your

heads with is rubbish; the academy, books, primers, philosophy, and all

that, I spit upon it all!” Here Bulba added a word which is not used in

print. “But I’ll tell you what is best: I’ll take you to Zaporozhe

(1) this very week. That’s where there’s science for you! There’s your

school; there alone will you gain sense.”

(1) The Cossack country beyond (za) the falls (porozhe) of the

Dnieper.

“And are they only to remain home a week?” said the worn old mother

sadly and with tears in her eyes. “The poor boys will have no chance of

looking around, no chance of getting acquainted with the home where they

were born; there will be no chance for me to get a look at them.”

“Enough, you’ve howled quite enough, old woman! A Cossack is not born

to run around after women. You would like to hide them both under your

petticoat, and sit upon them as a hen sits on eggs. Go, go, and let

us have everything there is on the table in a trice. We don’t want any

dumplings, honey-cakes, poppy-cakes, or any other such messes: give us

a whole sheep, a goat, mead forty years old, and as much corn-brandy as

possible, not with raisins and all sorts of stuff, but plain scorching

corn-brandy, which foams and hisses like mad.”

Bulba led his sons into the principal room of the hut; and two pretty

servant girls wearing coin necklaces, who were arranging the apartment,

ran out quickly. They were either frightened at the arrival of the young

men, who did not care to be familiar with anyone; or else they merely

wanted to keep up their feminine custom of screaming and rushing away

headlong at the sight of a man, and then screening their blushes for

some time with their sleeves. The hut was furnished according to the

fashion of that period--a fashion concerning which hints linger only in

the songs and lyrics, no longer sung, alas! in the Ukraine as of yore by

blind old men, to the soft tinkling of the native guitar, to the

people thronging round them--according to the taste of that warlike and

troublous time, of leagues and battles prevailing in the Ukraine after

the union. Everything was cleanly smeared with coloured clay. On the

walls hung sabres, hunting-whips, nets for birds, fishing-nets,

guns, elaborately carved powder-horns, gilded bits for horses, and

tether-ropes with silver plates. The small window had round dull

panes, through which it was impossible to see except by opening the one

moveable one. Around the windows and doors red bands were painted. On

shelves in one corner stood jugs, bottles, and flasks of green and

blue glass, carved silver cups, and gilded drinking vessels of various

makes--Venetian, Turkish, Tscherkessian, which had reached Bulba’s cabin

by various roads, at third and fourth hand, a thing common enough in

those bold days. There were birch-wood benches all around the room,

a huge table under the holy pictures in one corner, and a huge stove

covered with particoloured patterns in relief, with spaces between it

and the wall. All this was quite familiar to the two young men, who

were wont to come home every year during the dog-days, since they had

no horses, and it was not customary to allow students to ride afield on

horseback. The only distinctive things permitted them were long locks of

hair on the temples, which every Cossack who bore weapons was entitled

to pull. It was only at the end of their course of study that Bulba had

sent them a couple of young stallions from his stud.

Bulba, on the occasion of his sons’ arrival, ordered all the sotniks or

captains of hundreds, and all the officers of the band who were of any

consequence, to be summoned; and when two of them arrived with his

old comrade, the Osaul or sub-chief, Dmitro Tovkatch, he immediately

presented the lads, saying, “See what fine young fellows they are! I

shall send them to the Setch (2) shortly.” The guests congratulated

Bulba and the young men, telling them they would do well and that there

was no better knowledge for a young man than a knowledge of that same

Zaporozhian Setch.

(2) The village or, rather, permanent camp of the Zaporozhian

Cossacks.

“Come, brothers, seat yourselves, each where he likes best, at the

table; come, my sons. First of all, let’s take some corn-brandy,” said

Bulba. “God bless you! Welcome, lads; you, Ostap, and you, Andrii. God

grant that you may always be successful in war, that you may beat

the Musselmans and the Turks and the Tatars; and that when the Poles

undertake any expedition against our faith, you may beat the Poles.

Come, clink your glasses. How now? Is the brandy good? What’s

corn-brandy in Latin? The Latins were stupid: they did not know there

was such a thing in the world as corn-brandy. What was the name of the

man who wrote Latin verses? I don’t know much about reading and writing,

so I don’t quite know. Wasn’t it Horace?”

“What a dad!” thought the elder son Ostap. “The old dog knows

everything, but he always pretends the contrary.”

“I don’t believe the archimandrite allowed you so much as a smell of

corn-brandy,” continued Taras. “Confess, my boys, they thrashed you well

with fresh birch-twigs on your backs and all over your Cossack bodies;

and perhaps, when you grew too sharp, they beat you with whips. And not

on Saturday only, I fancy, but on Wednesday and Thursday.”

“What is past, father, need not be recalled; it is done with.”

“Let them try it know,” said Andrii. “Let anybody just touch me, let any

Tatar risk it now, and he’ll soon learn what a Cossack’s sword is like!”

“Good, my son, by heavens, good! And when it comes to that, I’ll go with

you; by heavens, I’ll go too! What should I wait here for? To become a

buckwheat-reaper and housekeeper, to look after the sheep and swine, and

loaf around with my wife? Away with such nonsense! I am a Cossack; I’ll

have none of it! What’s left but war? I’ll go with you to Zaporozhe to

carouse; I’ll go, by heavens!” And old Bulba, growing warm by degrees

and finally quite angry, rose from the table, and, assuming a dignified

attitude, stamped his foot. “We will go to-morrow! Wherefore delay? What

enemy can we besiege here? What is this hut to us? What do we want with

all these things? What are pots and pans to us?” So saying, he began to

knock over the pots and flasks, and to throw them about.

The poor old woman, well used to such freaks on the part of her husband,

looked sadly on from her seat on the wall-bench. She did not dare say a

word; but when she heard the decision which was so terrible for her, she

could not refrain from tears. As she looked at her children, from whom

so speedy a separation was threatened, it is impossible to describe the

full force of her speechless grief, which seemed to quiver in her eyes

and on her lips convulsively pressed together.

Bulba was terribly headstrong. He was one of those characters which

could only exist in that fierce fifteenth century, and in that

half-nomadic corner of Europe, when the whole of Southern Russia,

deserted by its princes, was laid waste and burned to the quick by

pitiless troops of Mongolian robbers; when men deprived of house

and home grew brave there; when, amid conflagrations, threatening

neighbours, and eternal terrors, they settled down, and growing

accustomed to looking these things straight in the face, trained

themselves not to know that there was such a thing as fear in the world;

when the old, peacable Slav spirit was fired with warlike flame, and

the Cossack state was instituted--a free, wild outbreak of Russian

nature--and when all the river-banks, fords, and like suitable places

were peopled by Cossacks, whose number no man knew. Their bold comrades

had a right to reply to the Sultan when he asked how many they were,

“Who knows? We are scattered all over the steppes; wherever there is a

hillock, there is a Cossack.”

It was, in fact, a most remarkable exhibition of Russian strength,

forced by dire necessity from the bosom of the people. In place of the

original provinces with their petty towns, in place of the warring

and bartering petty princes ruling in their cities, there arose great

colonies, kurens (3), and districts, bound together by one common danger

and hatred against the heathen robbers. The story is well known how

their incessant warfare and restless existence saved Europe from the

merciless hordes which threatened to overwhelm her. The Polish kings,

who now found themselves sovereigns, in place of the provincial princes,

over these extensive tracts of territory, fully understood, despite the

weakness and remoteness of their own rule, the value of the Cossacks,

and the advantages of the warlike, untrammelled life led by them. They

encouraged them and flattered this disposition of mind. Under their

distant rule, the hetmans or chiefs, chosen from among the Cossacks

themselves, redistributed the territory into military districts. It

was not a standing army, no one saw it; but in case of war and general

uprising, it required a week, and no more, for every man to appear on

horseback, fully armed, receiving only one ducat from the king; and in

two weeks such a force had assembled as no recruiting officers would

ever have been able to collect. When the expedition was ended, the army

dispersed among the fields and meadows and the fords of the Dnieper;

each man fished, wrought at his trade, brewed his beer, and was once

more a free Cossack. Their foreign contemporaries rightly marvelled at

their wonderful qualities. There was no handicraft which the Cossack was

not expert at: he could distil brandy, build a waggon, make powder,

and do blacksmith’s and gunsmith’s work, in addition to committing wild

excesses, drinking and carousing as only a Russian can--all this he was

equal to. Besides the registered Cossacks, who considered themselves

bound to appear in arms in time of war, it was possible to collect at

any time, in case of dire need, a whole army of volunteers. All that was

required was for the Osaul or sub-chief to traverse the market-places

and squares of the villages and hamlets, and shout at the top of his

voice, as he stood in his waggon, “Hey, you distillers and beer-brewers!

you have brewed enough beer, and lolled on your stoves, and stuffed

your fat carcasses with flour, long enough! Rise, win glory and warlike

honours! You ploughmen, you reapers of buckwheat, you tenders of sheep,

you danglers after women, enough of following the plough, and soiling

your yellow shoes in the earth, and courting women, and wasting your

warlike strength! The hour has come to win glory for the Cossacks!”

These words were like sparks falling on dry wood. The husbandman broke

his plough; the brewers and distillers threw away their casks and

destroyed their barrels; the mechanics and merchants sent their trade

and their shop to the devil, broke pots and everything else in their

homes, and mounted their horses. In short, the Russian character here

received a profound development, and manifested a powerful outwards

expression.

(3) Cossack villages. In the Setch, a large wooden barrack.

Taras was one of the band of old-fashioned leaders; he was born

for warlike emotions, and was distinguished for his uprightness of

character. At that epoch the influence of Poland had already begun to

make itself felt upon the Russian nobility. Many had adopted Polish

customs, and began to display luxury in splendid staffs of servants,

hawks, huntsmen, dinners, and palaces. This was not to Taras’s taste. He

liked the simple life of the Cossacks, and quarrelled with those of his

comrades who were inclined to the Warsaw party, calling them serfs of

the Polish nobles. Ever on the alert, he regarded himself as the legal

protector of the orthodox faith. He entered despotically into any

village where there was a general complaint of oppression by the revenue

farmers and of the addition of fresh taxes on necessaries. He and his

Cossacks executed justice, and made it a rule that in three cases it

was absolutely necessary to resort to the sword. Namely, when the

commissioners did not respect the superior officers and stood before

them covered; when any one made light of the faith and did not observe

the customs of his ancestors; and, finally, when the enemy were

Mussulmans or Turks, against whom he considered it permissible, in every

case, to draw the sword for the glory of Christianity.

Now he rejoiced beforehand at the thought of how he would present

himself with his two sons at the Setch, and say, “See what fine young

fellows I have brought you!” how he would introduce them to all his old

comrades, steeled in warfare; how he would observe their first exploits

in the sciences of war and of drinking, which was also regarded as one

of the principal warlike qualities. At first he had intended to send

them forth alone; but at the sight of their freshness, stature, and

manly personal beauty his martial spirit flamed up and he resolved to go

with them himself the very next day, although there was no necessity for

this except his obstinate self-will. He began at once to hurry about and

give orders; selected horses and trappings for his sons, looked through

the stables and storehouses, and chose servants to accompany them on

the morrow. He delegated his power to Osaul Tovkatch, and gave with it

a strict command to appear with his whole force at the Setch the very

instant he should receive a message from him. Although he was jolly, and

the effects of his drinking bout still lingered in his brain, he forgot

nothing. He even gave orders that the horses should be watered, their

cribs filled, and that they should be fed with the finest corn; and then

he retired, fatigued with all his labours.

“Now, children, we must sleep, but to-morrow we shall do what God wills.

Don’t prepare us a bed: we need no bed; we will sleep in the courtyard.”

Night had but just stole over the heavens, but Bulba always went to

bed early. He lay down on a rug and covered himself with a sheepskin

pelisse, for the night air was quite sharp and he liked to lie warm when

he was at home. He was soon snoring, and the whole household speedily

followed his example. All snored and groaned as they lay in different

corners. The watchman went to sleep the first of all, he had drunk so

much in honour of the young masters’ home-coming.

The mother alone did not sleep. She bent over the pillow of her

beloved sons, as they lay side by side; she smoothed with a comb their

carelessly tangled locks, and moistened them with her tears. She gazed

at them with her whole soul, with every sense; she was wholly merged in

the gaze, and yet she could not gaze enough. She had fed them at her

own breast, she had tended them and brought them up; and now to see them

only for an instant! “My sons, my darling sons! what will become of you!

what fate awaits you?” she said, and tears stood in the wrinkles which

disfigured her once beautiful face. In truth, she was to be pitied, as

was every woman of that period. She had lived only for a moment of love,

only during the first ardour of passion, only during the first flush of

youth; and then her grim betrayer had deserted her for the sword, for

his comrades and his carouses. She saw her husband two or three days in

a year, and then, for several years, heard nothing of him. And when

she did see him, when they did live together, what a life was hers! She

endured insult, even blows; she felt caresses bestowed only in pity;

she was a misplaced object in that community of unmarried warriors, upon

which wandering Zaporozhe cast a colouring of its own. Her pleasureless

youth flitted by; her ripe cheeks and bosom withered away unkissed and

became covered with premature wrinkles. Love, feeling, everything that

is tender and passionate in a woman, was converted in her into maternal

love. She hovered around her children with anxiety, passion, tears, like

the gull of the steppes. They were taking her sons, her darling sons,

from her--taking them from her, so that she should never see them again!

Who knew? Perhaps a Tatar would cut off their heads in the very first

skirmish, and she would never know where their deserted bodies might

lie, torn by birds of prey; and yet for each single drop of their blood

she would have given all hers. Sobbing, she gazed into their eyes, and

thought, “Perhaps Bulba, when he wakes, will put off their departure for

a day or two; perhaps it occurred to him to go so soon because he had

been drinking.”

The moon from the summit of the heavens had long since lit up the whole

courtyard filled with sleepers, the thick clump of willows, and the tall

steppe-grass, which hid the palisade surrounding the court. She still

sat at her sons’ pillow, never removing her eyes from them for a moment,

nor thinking of sleep. Already the horses, divining the approach of

dawn, had ceased eating and lain down upon the grass; the topmost leaves

of the willows began to rustle softly, and little by little the

rippling rustle descended to their bases. She sat there until daylight,

unwearied, and wishing in her heart that the night might prolong itself

indefinitely. From the steppes came the ringing neigh of the horses, and

red streaks shone brightly in the sky. Bulba suddenly awoke, and sprang

to his feet. He remembered quite well what he had ordered the night

before. “Now, my men, you’ve slept enough! ‘tis time, ‘tis time! Water

the horses! And where is the old woman?” He generally called his wife

so. “Be quick, old woman, get us something to eat; the way is long.”

The poor old woman, deprived of her last hope, slipped sadly into the

hut.

Whilst she, with tears, prepared what was needed for breakfast, Bulba

gave his orders, went to the stable, and selected his best trappings for

his children with his own hand.

The scholars were suddenly transformed. Red morocco boots with silver

heels took the place of their dirty old ones; trousers wide as the Black

Sea, with countless folds and plaits, were kept up by golden girdles

from which hung long slender thongs, with tassles and other tinkling

things, for pipes. Their jackets of scarlet cloth were girt by flowered

sashes into which were thrust engraved Turkish pistols; their swords

clanked at their heels. Their faces, already a little sunburnt, seemed

to have grown handsomer and whiter; their slight black moustaches now

cast a more distinct shadow on this pallor and set off their healthy

youthful complexions. They looked very handsome in their black sheepskin

caps, with cloth-of-gold crowns.

When their poor mother saw them, she could not utter a word, and tears

stood in her eyes.

“Now, my lads, all is ready; no delay!” said Bulba at last. “But we must

first all sit down together, in accordance with Christian custom before

a journey.”

All sat down, not excepting the servants, who had been standing

respectfully at the door.

“Now, mother, bless your children,” said Bulba. “Pray God that they may

fight bravely, always defend their warlike honour, always defend the

faith of Christ; and, if not, that they may die, so that their breath

may not be longer in the world.”

“Come to your mother, children; a mother’s prayer protects on land and

sea.”

The mother, weak as mothers are, embraced them, drew out two small

holy pictures, and hung them, sobbing, around their necks. “May God’s

mother--keep you! Children, do not forget your mother--send some little

word of yourselves--” She could say no more.

“Now, children, let us go,” said Bulba.

At the door stood the horses, ready saddled. Bulba sprang upon his

“Devil,” which bounded wildly, on feeling on his back a load of over

thirty stone, for Taras was extremely stout and heavy.

When the mother saw that her sons were also mounted, she rushed towards

the younger, whose features expressed somewhat more gentleness than

those of his brother. She grasped his stirrup, clung to his saddle, and

with despair in her eyes, refused to loose her hold. Two stout Cossacks

seized her carefully, and bore her back into the hut. But before the

cavalcade had passed out of the courtyard, she rushed with the speed of

a wild goat, disproportionate to her years, to the gate, stopped a

horse with irresistible strength, and embraced one of her sons with mad,

unconscious violence. Then they led her away again.

The young Cossacks rode on sadly, repressing their tears out of fear of

their father, who, on his side, was somewhat moved, although he strove

not to show it. The morning was grey, the green sward bright, the birds

twittered rather discordantly. They glanced back as they rode. Their

paternal farm seemed to have sunk into the earth. All that was visible

above the surface were the two chimneys of their modest hut and the tops

of the trees up whose trunks they had been used to climb like squirrels.

Before them still stretched the field by which they could recall the

whole story of their lives, from the years when they rolled in its dewy

grass down to the years when they awaited in it the dark-browed Cossack

maiden, running timidly across it on quick young feet. There is the

pole above the well, with the waggon wheel fastened to its top, rising

solitary against the sky; already the level which they have traversed

appears a hill in the distance, and now all has disappeared. Farewell,

childhood, games, all, all, farewell!

CHAPTER II

All three horsemen rode in silence. Old Taras’s thoughts were far away:

before him passed his youth, his years--the swift-flying years, over

which the Cossack always weeps, wishing that his life might be all

youth. He wondered whom of his former comrades he should meet at the

Setch. He reckoned up how many had already died, how many were still

alive. Tears formed slowly in his eyes, and his grey head bent sadly.

His sons were occupied with other thoughts. But we must speak further of

his sons. They had been sent, when twelve years old, to the academy at

Kief, because all leaders of that day considered it indispensable to

give their children an education, although it was afterwards utterly

forgotten. Like all who entered the academy, they were wild, having been

brought up in unrestrained freedom; and whilst there they had acquired

some polish, and pursued some common branches of knowledge which gave

them a certain resemblance to each other.

The elder, Ostap, began his scholastic career by running away in the

course of the first year. They brought him back, whipped him well, and

set him down to his books. Four times did he bury his primer in the

earth; and four times, after giving him a sound thrashing, did they buy

him a new one. But he would no doubt have repeated this feat for the

fifth time, had not his father given him a solemn assurance that he

would keep him at monastic work for twenty years, and sworn in advance

that he should never behold Zaporozhe all his life long, unless he

learned all the sciences taught in the academy. It was odd that the man

who said this was that very Taras Bulba who condemned all learning, and

counselled his children, as we have seen, not to trouble themselves at

all about it. From that moment, Ostap began to pore over his tiresome

books with exemplary diligence, and quickly stood on a level with the

best. The style of education in that age differed widely from the manner

of life. The scholastic, grammatical, rhetorical, and logical subtle

ties in vogue were decidedly out of consonance with the times, never

having any connection with, and never being encountered in, actual life.

Those who studied them, even the least scholastic, could not apply their

knowledge to anything whatever. The learned men of those days were

even more incapable than the rest, because farther removed from all

experience. Moreover, the republican constitution of the academy,

the fearful multitude of young, healthy, strong fellows, inspired the

students with an activity quite outside the limits of their learning.

Poor fare, or frequent punishments of fasting, with the numerous

requirements arising in fresh, strong, healthy youth, combined to arouse

in them that spirit of enterprise which was afterwards further developed

among the Zaporozhians. The hungry student running about the streets of

Kief forced every one to be on his guard. Dealers sitting in the bazaar

covered their pies, their cakes, and their pumpkin-rolls with their

hands, like eagles protecting their young, if they but caught sight of

a passing student. The consul or monitor, who was bound by his duty to

look after the comrades entrusted to his care, had such frightfully wide

pockets to his trousers that he could stow away the whole contents

of the gaping dealer’s stall in them. These students constituted an

entirely separate world, for they were not admitted to the higher

circles, composed of Polish and Russian nobles. Even the Waiwode, Adam

Kisel, in spite of the patronage he bestowed upon the academy, did not

seek to introduce them into society, and ordered them to be kept more

strictly in supervision. This command was quite superfluous, for neither

the rector nor the monkish professors spared rod or whip; and the

lictors sometimes, by their orders, lashed their consuls so severely

that the latter rubbed their trousers for weeks afterwards. This was to

many of them a trifle, only a little more stinging than good vodka with

pepper: others at length grew tired of such constant blisters, and ran

away to Zaporozhe if they could find the road and were not caught on the

way. Ostap Bulba, although he began to study logic, and even theology,

with much zeal, did not escape the merciless rod. Naturally, all

this tended to harden his character, and give him that firmness which

distinguishes the Cossacks. He always held himself aloof from his

comrades.

He rarely led others into such hazardous enterprises as robbing a

strange garden or orchard; but, on the other hand, he was always among

the first to join the standard of an adventurous student. And

never, under any circumstances, did he betray his comrades; neither

imprisonment nor beatings could make him do so. He was unassailable by

any temptations save those of war and revelry; at least, he scarcely

ever dreamt of others. He was upright with his equals. He was

kind-hearted, after the only fashion that kind-heartedness could exist

in such a character and at such a time. He was touched to his very heart

by his poor mother’s tears; but this only vexed him, and caused him to

hang his head in thought.

His younger brother, Andrii, had livelier and more fully developed

feelings. He learned more willingly and without the effort with which

strong and weighty characters generally have to make in order to apply

themselves to study. He was more inventive-minded than his brother, and

frequently appeared as the leader of dangerous expeditions; sometimes,

thanks to the quickness of his mind, contriving to escape punishment

when his brother Ostap, abandoning all efforts, stripped off his

gaberdine and lay down upon the floor without a thought of begging for

mercy. He too thirsted for action; but, at the same time, his soul was

accessible to other sentiments. The need of love burned ardently within

him. When he had passed his eighteenth year, woman began to present

herself more frequently in his dreams; listening to philosophical

discussions, he still beheld her, fresh, black-eyed, tender; before him

constantly flitted her elastic bosom, her soft, bare arms; the very gown

which clung about her youthful yet well-rounded limbs breathed into his

visions a certain inexpressible sensuousness. He carefully concealed

this impulse of his passionate young soul from his comrades, because in

that age it was held shameful and dishonourable for a Cossack to think

of love and a wife before he had tasted battle. On the whole, during the

last year, he had acted more rarely as leader to the bands of students,

but had roamed more frequently alone, in remote corners of Kief, among

low-roofed houses, buried in cherry orchards, peeping alluringly at the

street. Sometimes he betook himself to the more aristocratic streets,

in the old Kief of to-day, where dwelt Little Russian and Polish nobles,

and where houses were built in more fanciful style. Once, as he was

gaping along, an old-fashioned carriage belonging to some Polish noble

almost drove over him; and the heavily moustached coachman, who sat on

the box, gave him a smart cut with his whip. The young student fired up;

with thoughtless daring he seized the hind-wheel with his powerful hands

and stopped the carriage. But the coachman, fearing a drubbing, lashed

his horses; they sprang forward, and Andrii, succeeding happily in

freeing his hands, was flung full length on the ground with his face

flat in the mud. The most ringing and harmonious of laughs resounded

above him. He raised his eyes and saw, standing at a window, a beauty

such as he had never beheld in all his life, black-eyed, and with

skin white as snow illumined by the dawning flush of the sun. She was

laughing heartily, and her laugh enhanced her dazzling loveliness. Taken

aback he gazed at her in confusion, abstractedly wiping the mud from

his face, by which means it became still further smeared. Who could

this beauty be? He sought to find out from the servants, who, in

rich liveries, stood at the gate in a crowd surrounding a young

guitar-player; but they only laughed when they saw his besmeared face

and deigned him no reply. At length he learned that she was the daughter

of the Waiwode of Koven, who had come thither for a time. The following

night, with the daring characteristic of the student, he crept through

the palings into the garden and climbed a tree which spread its branches

upon the very roof of the house. From the tree he gained the roof, and

made his way down the chimney straight into the bedroom of the beauty,

who at that moment was seated before a lamp, engaged in removing the

costly earrings from her ears. The beautiful Pole was so alarmed on

suddenly beholding an unknown man that she could not utter a single

word; but when she perceived that the student stood before her with

downcast eyes, not daring to move a hand through timidity, when she

recognised in him the one who had fallen in the street, laughter again

overpowered her.

Moreover, there was nothing terrible about Andrii’s features; he was

very handsome. She laughed heartily, and amused herself over him for

a long time. The lady was giddy, like all Poles; but her eyes--her

wondrous clear, piercing eyes--shot one glance, a long glance. The

student could not move hand or foot, but stood bound as in a sack, when

the Waiwode’s daughter approached him boldly, placed upon his head her

glittering diadem, hung her earrings on his lips, and flung over him

a transparent muslin chemisette with gold-embroidered garlands. She

adorned him, and played a thousand foolish pranks, with the childish

carelessness which distinguishes the giddy Poles, and which threw the

poor student into still greater confusion.

He cut a ridiculous feature, gazing immovably, and with open mouth, into

her dazzling eyes. A knock at the door startled her. She ordered him

to hide himself under the bed, and, as soon as the disturber was gone,

called her maid, a Tatar prisoner, and gave her orders to conduct him to

the garden with caution, and thence show him through the fence. But our

student this time did not pass the fence so successfully. The watchman

awoke, and caught him firmly by the foot; and the servants, assembling,

beat him in the street, until his swift legs rescued him. After that

it became very dangerous to pass the house, for the Waiwode’s domestics

were numerous. He met her once again at church. She saw him, and smiled

pleasantly, as at an old acquaintance. He saw her once more, by chance;

but shortly afterwards the Waiwode departed, and, instead of the

beautiful black-eyed Pole, some fat face or other gazed from the window.

This was what Andrii was thinking about, as he hung his head and kept

his eyes on his horse’s mane.

In the meantime the steppe had long since received them all into its

green embrace; and the high grass, closing round, concealed them, till

only their black Cossack caps appeared above it.

“Eh, eh, why are you so quiet, lads?” said Bulba at length, waking from

his own reverie. “You’re like monks. Now, all thinking to the Evil One,

once for all! Take your pipes in your teeth, and let us smoke, and spur

on our horses so swiftly that no bird can overtake us.”

And the Cossacks, bending low on their horses’ necks, disappeared in the

grass. Their black caps were no longer to be seen; a streak of trodden

grass alone showed the trace of their swift flight.

The sun had long since looked forth from the clear heavens and inundated

the steppe with his quickening, warming light. All that was dim and

drowsy in the Cossacks’ minds flew away in a twinkling: their hearts

fluttered like birds.

The farther they penetrated the steppe, the more beautiful it became.

Then all the South, all that region which now constitutes New Russia,

even as far as the Black Sea, was a green, virgin wilderness. No plough

had ever passed over the immeasurable waves of wild growth; horses

alone, hidden in it as in a forest, trod it down. Nothing in nature

could be finer. The whole surface resembled a golden-green ocean, upon

which were sprinkled millions of different flowers. Through the tall,

slender stems of the grass peeped light-blue, dark-blue, and lilac

star-thistles; the yellow broom thrust up its pyramidal head; the

parasol-shaped white flower of the false flax shimmered on high. A

wheat-ear, brought God knows whence, was filling out to ripening.

Amongst the roots of this luxuriant vegetation ran partridges with

outstretched necks. The air was filled with the notes of a thousand

different birds. On high hovered the hawks, their wings outspread, and

their eyes fixed intently on the grass. The cries of a flock of wild

ducks, ascending from one side, were echoed from God knows what distant

lake. From the grass arose, with measured sweep, a gull, and skimmed

wantonly through blue waves of air. And now she has vanished on high,

and appears only as a black dot: now she has turned her wings, and

shines in the sunlight. Oh, steppes, how beautiful you are!

Our travellers halted only a few minutes for dinner. Their escort of ten

Cossacks sprang from their horses and undid the wooden casks of brandy,

and the gourds which were used instead of drinking vessels. They ate

only cakes of bread and dripping; they drank but one cup apiece to

strengthen them, for Taras Bulba never permitted intoxication upon the

road, and then continued their journey until evening.

In the evening the whole steppe changed its aspect. All its varied

expanse was bathed in the last bright glow of the sun; and as it grew

dark gradually, it could be seen how the shadow flitted across it and it

became dark green. The mist rose more densely; each flower, each blade

of grass, emitted a fragrance as of ambergris, and the whole steppe

distilled perfume. Broad bands of rosy gold were streaked across the

dark blue heaven, as with a gigantic brush; here and there gleamed,

in white tufts, light and transparent clouds: and the freshest,

most enchanting of gentle breezes barely stirred the tops of the

grass-blades, like sea-waves, and caressed the cheek. The music which

had resounded through the day had died away, and given place to another.

The striped marmots crept out of their holes, stood erect on their

hind legs, and filled the steppe with their whistle. The whirr of the

grasshoppers had become more distinctly audible. Sometimes the cry of

the swan was heard from some distant lake, ringing through the air like

a silver trumpet. The travellers, halting in the midst of the plain,

selected a spot for their night encampment, made a fire, and hung over

it the kettle in which they cooked their oatmeal; the steam rising and

floating aslant in the air. Having supped, the Cossacks lay down to

sleep, after hobbling their horses and turning them out to graze. They

lay down in their gaberdines. The stars of night gazed directly down

upon them. They could hear the countless myriads of insects which filled

the grass; their rasping, whistling, and chirping, softened by the fresh

air, resounded clearly through the night, and lulled the drowsy ear. If

one of them rose and stood for a time, the steppe presented itself to

him strewn with the sparks of glow-worms. At times the night sky

was illumined in spots by the glare of burning reeds along pools or

river-bank; and dark flights of swans flying to the north were suddenly

lit up by the silvery, rose-coloured gleam, till it seemed as though red

kerchiefs were floating in the dark heavens.

The travellers proceeded onward without any adventure. They came across

no villages. It was ever the same boundless, waving, beautiful steppe.

Only at intervals the summits of distant forests shone blue, on one

hand, stretching along the banks of the Dnieper. Once only did Taras

point out to his sons a small black speck far away amongst the grass,

saying, “Look, children! yonder gallops a Tatar.” The little head with

its long moustaches fixed its narrow eyes upon them from afar, its

nostrils snuffing the air like a greyhound’s, and then disappeared like

an antelope on its owner perceiving that the Cossacks were thirteen

strong. “And now, children, don’t try to overtake the Tatar! You would

never catch him to all eternity; he has a horse swifter than my Devil.”

But Bulba took precautions, fearing hidden ambushes. They galloped along

the course of a small stream, called the Tatarka, which falls into the

Dnieper; rode into the water and swam with their horses some distance

in order to conceal their trail. Then, scrambling out on the bank, they

continued their road.

Three days later they were not far from the goal of their journey. The

air suddenly grew colder: they could feel the vicinity of the Dnieper.

And there it gleamed afar, distinguishable on the horizon as a dark

band. It sent forth cold waves, spreading nearer, nearer, and finally

seeming to embrace half the entire surface of the earth. This was that

section of its course where the river, hitherto confined by the rapids,

finally makes its own away and, roaring like the sea, rushes on at will;

where the islands, flung into its midst, have pressed it farther

from their shores, and its waves have spread widely over the earth,

encountering neither cliffs nor hills. The Cossacks, alighting from

their horses, entered the ferry-boat, and after a three hours’ sail

reached the shores of the island of Khortitz, where at that time stood

the Setch, which so often changed its situation.

A throng of people hastened to the shore with boats. The Cossacks

arranged the horses’ trappings. Taras assumed a stately air, pulled his

belt tighter, and proudly stroked his moustache. His sons also inspected

themselves from head to foot, with some apprehension and an undefined

feeling of satisfaction; and all set out together for the suburb, which

was half a verst from the Setch. On their arrival, they were deafened by

the clang of fifty blacksmiths’ hammers beating upon twenty-five anvils

sunk in the earth. Stout tanners seated beneath awnings were scraping

ox-hides with their strong hands; shop-keepers sat in their booths, with

piles of flints, steels, and powder before them; Armenians spread out

their rich handkerchiefs; Tatars turned their kabobs upon spits; a Jew,

with his head thrust forward, was filtering some corn-brandy from a

cask. But the first man they encountered was a Zaporozhetz (1) who was

sleeping in the very middle of the road with legs and arms outstretched.

Taras Bulba could not refrain from halting to admire him. “How

splendidly developed he is; phew, what a magnificent figure!” he

said, stopping his horse. It was, in fact, a striking picture. This

Zaporozhetz had stretched himself out in the road like a lion; his

scalp-lock, thrown proudly behind him, extended over upwards of a foot

of ground; his trousers of rich red cloth were spotted with tar, to show

his utter disdain for them. Having admired to his heart’s content, Bulba

passed on through the narrow street, crowded with mechanics exercising

their trades, and with people of all nationalities who thronged this

suburb of the Setch, resembling a fair, and fed and clothed the Setch

itself, which knew only how to revel and burn powder.

(1) Sometimes written Zaporovian.

At length they left the suburb behind them, and perceived some scattered

kurens (2), covered with turf, or in Tatar fashion with felt. Some were

furnished with cannon. Nowhere were any fences visible, or any of those

low-roofed houses with verandahs supported upon low wooden pillars, such

as were seen in the suburb. A low wall and a ditch, totally unguarded,

betokened a terrible degree of recklessness. Some sturdy Zaporozhtzi

lying, pipe in mouth, in the very road, glanced indifferently at them,

but never moved from their places. Taras threaded his way carefully

among them, with his sons, saying, “Good-day, gentles.”--“Good-day

to you,” answered the Zaporozhtzi. Scattered over the plain were

picturesque groups. From their weatherbeaten faces, it was plain that

all were steeled in battle, and had faced every sort of bad weather. And

there it was, the Setch! There was the lair from whence all those men,

proud and strong as lions, issued forth! There was the spot whence

poured forth liberty and Cossacks all over the Ukraine.

(2) Enormous wooden sheds, each inhabited by a troop or kuren.

The travellers entered the great square where the council generally met.

On a huge overturned cask sat a Zaporozhetz without his shirt; he was

holding it in his hands, and slowly sewing up the holes in it. Again

their way was stopped by a whole crowd of musicians, in the midst of

whom a young Zaporozhetz was dancing, with head thrown back and arms

outstretched. He kept shouting, “Play faster, musicians! Begrudge

not, Thoma, brandy to these orthodox Christians!” And Thoma, with his

blackened eye, went on measuring out without stint, to every one who

presented himself, a huge jugful.

About the youthful Zaporozhetz four old men, moving their feet quite

briskly, leaped like a whirlwind to one side, almost upon the musicians’

heads, and, suddenly, retreating, squatted down and drummed the hard

earth vigorously with their silver heels. The earth hummed dully all

about, and afar the air resounded with national dance tunes beaten by

the clanging heels of their boots.

But one shouted more loudly than all the rest, and flew after the others

in the dance. His scalp-lock streamed in the wind, his muscular chest

was bare, his warm, winter fur jacket was hanging by the sleeves, and

the perspiration poured from him as from a pig. “Take off your jacket!”

said Taras at length: “see how he steams!”--“I can’t,” shouted the

Cossack. “Why?”--“I can’t: I have such a disposition that whatever I

take off, I drink up.” And indeed, the young fellow had not had a

cap for a long time, nor a belt to his caftan, nor an embroidered

neckerchief: all had gone the proper road. The throng increased; more

folk joined the dancer: and it was impossible to observe without emotion

how all yielded to the impulse of the dance, the freest, the wildest,

the world has ever seen, still called from its mighty originators, the

Kosachka.

“Oh, if I had no horse to hold,” exclaimed Taras, “I would join the

dance myself.”

Meanwhile there began to appear among the throng men who were respected

for their prowess throughout all the Setch--old greyheads who had been

leaders more than once. Taras soon found a number of familiar

faces. Ostap and Andrii heard nothing but greetings. “Ah, it is

you, Petcheritza! Good day, Kozolup!”--“Whence has God brought you,

Taras?”--“How did you come here, Doloto? Health to you, Kirdyaga!

Hail to you, Gustui! Did I ever think of seeing you, Remen?” And these

heroes, gathered from all the roving population of Eastern Russia,

kissed each other and began to ask questions. “But what has become of

Kasyan? Where is Borodavka? and Koloper? and Pidsuitok?” And in reply,

Taras Bulba learned that Borodavka had been hung at Tolopan, that

Koloper had been flayed alive at Kizikirmen, that Pidsuitok’s head had

been salted and sent in a cask to Constantinople. Old Bulba hung his

head and said thoughtfully, “They were good Cossacks.”

CHAPTER III

Taras Bulba and his sons had been in the Setch about a week. Ostap and

Andrii occupied themselves but little with the science of war. The Setch

was not fond of wasting time in warlike exercises. The young generation

learned these by experience alone, in the very heat of battles, which

were therefore incessant. The Cossacks thought it a nuisance to fill up

the intervals of this instruction with any kind of drill, except

perhaps shooting at a mark, and on rare occasions with horse-racing and

wild-beast hunts on the steppes and in the forests. All the rest of

the time was devoted to revelry--a sign of the wide diffusion of moral

liberty. The whole of the Setch presented an unusual scene: it was one

unbroken revel; a ball noisily begun, which had no end. Some busied

themselves with handicrafts; others kept little shops and traded;

but the majority caroused from morning till night, if the wherewithal

jingled in their pockets, and if the booty they had captured had not

already passed into the hands of the shopkeepers and spirit-sellers.

This universal revelry had something fascinating about it. It was not

an assemblage of topers, who drank to drown sorrow, but simply a wild

revelry of joy. Every one who came thither forgot everything, abandoned

everything which had hitherto interested him. He, so to speak, spat

upon his past and gave himself recklessly up to freedom and the

good-fellowship of men of the same stamp as himself--idlers having

neither relatives nor home nor family, nothing, in short, save the free

sky and the eternal revel of their souls. This gave rise to that wild

gaiety which could not have sprung from any other source. The tales and

talk current among the assembled crowd, reposing lazily on the ground,

were often so droll, and breathed such power of vivid narration, that

it required all the nonchalance of a Zaporozhetz to retain his immovable

expression, without even a twitch of the moustache--a feature which to

this day distinguishes the Southern Russian from his northern brethren.

It was drunken, noisy mirth; but there was no dark ale-house where a

man drowns thought in stupefying intoxication: it was a dense throng of

schoolboys.

The only difference as regarded the students was that, instead of

sitting under the pointer and listening to the worn-out doctrines of a

teacher, they practised racing with five thousand horses; instead of the

field where they had played ball, they had the boundless borderlands,

where at the sight of them the Tatar showed his keen face and the Turk

frowned grimly from under his green turban. The difference was that,

instead of being forced to the companionship of school, they themselves

had deserted their fathers and mothers and fled from their homes; that

here were those about whose neck a rope had already been wound, and who,

instead of pale death, had seen life, and life in all its intensity;

those who, from generous habits, could never keep a coin in their

pockets; those who had thitherto regarded a ducat as wealth, and whose

pockets, thanks to the Jew revenue-farmers, could have been turned wrong

side out without any danger of anything falling from them. Here were

students who could not endure the academic rod, and had not carried away

a single letter from the schools; but with them were also some who knew

about Horace, Cicero, and the Roman Republic. There were many leaders

who afterwards distinguished themselves in the king’s armies; and there

were numerous clever partisans who cherished a magnanimous conviction

that it was of no consequence where they fought, so long as they did

fight, since it was a disgrace to an honourable man to live without

fighting. There were many who had come to the Setch for the sake of

being able to say afterwards that they had been there and were therefore

hardened warriors. But who was not there? This strange republic was a

necessary outgrowth of the epoch. Lovers of a warlike life, of golden

beakers and rich brocades, of ducats and gold pieces, could always find

employment there. The lovers of women alone could find naught, for no

woman dared show herself even in the suburbs of the Setch.

It seemed exceedingly strange to Ostap and Andrii that, although a crowd

of people had come to the Setch with them, not a soul inquired, “Whence

come these men? who are they? and what are their names?” They had come

thither as though returning to a home whence they had departed only an

hour before. The new-comer merely presented himself to the Koschevoi, or

head chief of the Setch, who generally said, “Welcome! Do you believe in

Christ?”--“I do,” replied the new-comer. “And do you believe in the

Holy Trinity?”--“I do.”--“And do you go to church?”--“I do.” “Now cross

yourself.” The new-comer crossed himself. “Very good,” replied the

Koschevoi; “enter the kuren where you have most acquaintances.” This

concluded the ceremony. And all the Setch prayed in one church, and were

willing to defend it to their last drop of blood, although they would

not hearken to aught about fasting or abstinence. Jews, Armenians,

and Tatars, inspired by strong avarice, took the liberty of living and

trading in the suburbs; for the Zaporozhtzi never cared for bargaining,

and paid whatever money their hand chanced to grasp in their pocket.

Moreover, the lot of these gain-loving traders was pitiable in the

extreme. They resembled people settled at the foot of Vesuvius; for when

the Zaporozhtzi lacked money, these bold adventurers broke down their

booths and took everything gratis. The Setch consisted of over sixty

kurens, each of which greatly resembled a separate independent republic,

but still more a school or seminary of children, always ready for

anything. No one had any occupation; no one retained anything for

himself; everything was in the hands of the hetman of the kuren, who,

on that account, generally bore the title of “father.” In his hands were

deposited the money, clothes, all the provisions, oatmeal, grain, even

the firewood. They gave him money to take care of. Quarrels amongst the

inhabitants of the kuren were not unfrequent; and in such cases they

proceeded at once to blows. The inhabitants of the kuren swarmed into

the square, and smote each other with their fists, until one side had

finally gained the upper hand, when the revelry began. Such was the

Setch, which had such an attraction for young men.

Ostap and Andrii flung themselves into this sea of dissipation with

all the ardour of youth, forgot in a trice their father’s house, the

seminary, and all which had hitherto exercised their minds, and gave

themselves wholly up to their new life. Everything interested them--the

jovial habits of the Setch, and its chaotic morals and laws, which even

seemed to them too strict for such a free republic. If a Cossack stole

the smallest trifle, it was considered a disgrace to the whole Cossack

community. He was bound to the pillar of shame, and a club was laid

beside him, with which each passer-by was bound to deal him a blow until

in this manner he was beaten to death. He who did not pay his debts was

chained to a cannon, until some one of his comrades should decide

to ransom him by paying his debts for him. But what made the deepest

impression on Andrii was the terrible punishment decreed for murder. A

hole was dug in his presence, the murderer was lowered alive into it,

and over him was placed a coffin containing the body of the man he had

killed, after which the earth was thrown upon both. Long afterwards the

fearful ceremony of this horrible execution haunted his mind, and the

man who had been buried alive appeared to him with his terrible coffin.

Both the young Cossacks soon took a good standing among their fellows.

They often sallied out upon the steppe with comrades from their kuren,

and sometimes too with the whole kuren or with neighbouring kurens, to

shoot the innumerable steppe-birds of every sort, deer, and goats. Or

they went out upon the lakes, the river, and its tributaries allotted to

each kuren, to throw their nets and draw out rich prey for the enjoyment

of the whole kuren. Although unversed in any trade exercised by a

Cossack, they were soon remarked among the other youths for their

obstinate bravery and daring in everything. Skilfully and accurately

they fired at the mark, and swam the Dnieper against the current--a

deed for which the novice was triumphantly received into the circle of

Cossacks.

But old Taras was planning a different sphere of activity for them.

Such an idle life was not to his mind; he wanted active employment. He

reflected incessantly how to stir up the Setch to some bold enterprise,

wherein a man could revel as became a warrior. At length he went one day

to the Koschevoi, and said plainly:--

“Well, Koschevoi, it is time for the Zaporozhtzi to set out.”

“There is nowhere for them to go,” replied the Koschevoi, removing his

short pipe from his mouth and spitting to one side.

“What do you mean by nowhere? We can go to Turkey or Tatary.”

“Impossible to go either to Turkey or Tatary,” replied the Koschevoi,

putting his pipe coolly into his mouth again.

“Why impossible?”

“It is so; we have promised the Sultan peace.”

“But he is a Mussulman; and God and the Holy Scriptures command us to

slay Mussulmans.”

“We have no right. If we had not sworn by our faith, it might be done;

but now it is impossible.”

“How is it impossible? How can you say that we have no right? Here are

my two sons, both young men. Neither has been to war; and you say that

we have no right, and that there is no need for the Zaporozhtzi to set

out on an expedition.”

“Well, it is not fitting.”

“Then it must be fitting that Cossack strength should be wasted in vain,

that a man should disappear like a dog without having done a single good

deed, that he should be of no use to his country or to Christianity!

Why, then, do we live? What the deuce do we live for? just tell me that.

You are a sensible man, you were not chosen as Koschevoi without reason:

so just tell me what we live for?”

The Koschevoi made no reply to this question. He was an obstinate

Cossack. He was silent for a while, and then said, “Anyway, there will

not be war.”

“There will not be war?” Taras asked again.

“No.”

“Then it is no use thinking about it?”

“It is not to be thought of.”

“Wait, you devil’s limb!” said Taras to himself; “you shall learn to

know me!” and he at once resolved to have his revenge on the Koschevoi.

Having made an agreement with several others, he gave them liquor; and

the drunken Cossacks staggered into the square, where on a post hung

the kettledrums which were generally beaten to assemble the people. Not

finding the sticks, which were kept by the drummer, they seized a piece

of wood and began to beat. The first to respond to the drum-beat was the

drummer, a tall man with but one eye, but a frightfully sleepy one for

all that.

“Who dares to beat the drum?” he shouted.

“Hold your tongue! take your sticks, and beat when you are ordered!”

replied the drunken men.

The drummer at once took from his pocket the sticks which he had brought

with him, well knowing the result of such proceedings. The drum rattled,

and soon black swarms of Cossacks began to collect like bees in the

square. All formed in a ring; and at length, after the third summons,

the chiefs began to arrive--the Koschevoi with staff in hand, the symbol

of his office; the judge with the army-seal; the secretary with his

ink-bottle; and the osaul with his staff. The Koschevoi and the chiefs

took off their caps and bowed on all sides to the Cossacks, who stood

proudly with their arms akimbo.

“What means this assemblage? what do you wish, gentles?” said the

Koschevoi. Shouts and exclamations interrupted his speech.

“Resign your staff! resign your staff this moment, you son of Satan!

we will have you no longer!” shouted some of the Cossacks in the crowd.

Some of the sober ones appeared to wish to oppose this, but both sober

and drunken fell to blows. The shouting and uproar became universal.

The Koschevoi attempted to speak; but knowing that the self-willed

multitude, if enraged, might beat him to death, as almost always

happened in such cases, he bowed very low, laid down his staff, and hid

himself in the crowd.

“Do you command us, gentles, to resign our insignia of office?” said

the judge, the secretary, and the osaul, as they prepared to give up the

ink-horn, army-seal, and staff, upon the spot.

“No, you are to remain!” was shouted from the crowd. “We only wanted

to drive out the Koschevoi because he is a woman, and we want a man for

Koschevoi.”

“Whom do you now elect as Koschevoi?” asked the chiefs.

“We choose Kukubenko,” shouted some.

“We won’t have Kukubenko!” screamed another party: “he is too young; the

milk has not dried off his lips yet.”

“Let Schilo be hetman!” shouted some: “make Schilo our Koschevoi!”

“Away with your Schilo!” yelled the crowd; “what kind of a Cossack is he

who is as thievish as a Tatar? To the devil in a sack with your drunken

Schilo!”

“Borodaty! let us make Borodaty our Koschevoi!”

“We won’t have Borodaty! To the evil one’s mother with Borodaty!”

“Shout Kirdyanga!” whispered Taras Bulba to several.

“Kirdyanga, Kirdyanga!” shouted the crowd. “Borodaty, Borodaty!

Kirdyanga, Kirdyanga! Schilo! Away with Schilo! Kirdyanga!”

All the candidates, on hearing their names mentioned, quitted the

crowd, in order not to give any one a chance of supposing that they were

personally assisting in their election.

“Kirdyanga, Kirdyanga!” echoed more strongly than the rest.

“Borodaty!”

They proceeded to decide the matter by a show of hands, and Kirdyanga

won.

“Fetch Kirdyanga!” they shouted. Half a score of Cossacks immediately

left the crowd--some of them hardly able to keep their feet, to such an

extent had they drunk--and went directly to Kirdyanga to inform him of

his election.

Kirdyanga, a very old but wise Cossack, had been sitting for some time

in his kuren, as if he knew nothing of what was going on.

“What is it, gentles? What do you wish?” he inquired.

“Come, they have chosen you for Koschevoi.”

“Have mercy, gentles!” said Kirdyanga. “How can I be worthy of such

honour? Why should I be made Koschevoi? I have not sufficient capacity

to fill such a post. Could no better person be found in all the army?”

“Come, I say!” shouted the Zaporozhtzi. Two of them seized him by the

arms; and in spite of his planting his feet firmly they finally dragged

him to the square, accompanying his progress with shouts, blows from

behind with their fists, kicks, and exhortations. “Don’t hold back, you

son of Satan! Accept the honour, you dog, when it is given!” In this

manner Kirdyanga was conducted into the ring of Cossacks.

“How now, gentles?” announced those who had brought him, “are you agreed

that this Cossack shall be your Koschevoi?”

“We are all agreed!” shouted the throng, and the whole plain trembled

for a long time afterwards from the shout.

One of the chiefs took the staff and brought it to the newly elected

Koschevoi. Kirdyanga, in accordance with custom, immediately refused

it. The chief offered it a second time; Kirdyanga again refused it, and

then, at the third offer, accepted the staff. A cry of approbation rang

out from the crowd, and again the whole plain resounded afar with the

Cossacks’ shout. Then there stepped out from among the people the four

oldest of them all, white-bearded, white-haired Cossacks; though there

were no very old men in the Setch, for none of the Zaporozhtzi ever died

in their beds. Taking each a handful of earth, which recent rain had

converted into mud, they laid it on Kirdyanga’s head. The wet earth

trickled down from his head on to his moustache and cheeks and smeared

his whole face. But Kirdyanga stood immovable in his place, and thanked

the Cossacks for the honour shown him.

Thus ended the noisy election, concerning which we cannot say whether it

was as pleasing to the others as it was to Bulba; by means of it he had

revenged himself on the former Koschevoi. Moreover, Kirdyanga was an old

comrade, and had been with him on the same expeditions by sea and land,

sharing the toils and hardships of war. The crowd immediately dispersed

to celebrate the election, and such revelry ensued as Ostap and Andrii

had not yet beheld. The taverns were attacked and mead, corn-brandy, and

beer seized without payment, the owners being only too glad to escape

with whole skins themselves. The whole night passed amid shouts, songs,

and rejoicings; and the rising moon gazed long at troops of musicians

traversing the streets with guitars, flutes, tambourines, and the church

choir, who were kept in the Setch to sing in church and glorify the

deeds of the Zaporozhtzi. At length drunkenness and fatigue began to

overpower even these strong heads, and here and there a Cossack could

be seen to fall to the ground, embracing a comrade in fraternal fashion;

whilst maudlin, and even weeping, the latter rolled upon the earth with

him. Here a whole group would lie down in a heap; there a man would

choose the most comfortable position and stretch himself out on a log of

wood. The last, and strongest, still uttered some incoherent speeches;

finally even they, yielding to the power of intoxication, flung

themselves down and all the Setch slept.

CHAPTER IV

But next day Taras Bulba had a conference with the new Koschevoi as to

the method of exciting the Cossacks to some enterprise. The Koschevoi,

a shrewd and sensible Cossack, who knew the Zaporozhtzi thoroughly, said

at first, “Oaths cannot be violated by any means”; but after a pause

added, “No matter, it can be done. We will not violate them, but let

us devise something. Let the people assemble, not at my summons, but of

their own accord. You know how to manage that; and I will hasten to the

square with the chiefs, as though we know nothing about it.”

Not an hour had elapsed after their conversation, when the drums again

thundered. The drunken and senseless Cossacks assembled. A myriad

Cossack caps were sprinkled over the square. A murmur arose, “Why? What?

Why was the assembly beaten?” No one answered. At length, in one

quarter and another, it began to be rumoured about, “Behold, the Cossack

strength is being vainly wasted: there is no war! Behold, our leaders

have become as marmots, every one; their eyes swim in fat! Plainly,

there is no justice in the world!” The other Cossacks listened at first,

and then began themselves to say, “In truth, there is no justice in the

world!” Their leaders seemed surprised at these utterances. Finally the

Koschevoi stepped forward: “Permit me, Cossacks, to address you.”

“Do so!”

“Touching the matter in question, gentles, none know better than

yourselves that many Zaporozhtzi have run in debt to the Jew ale-house

keepers and to their brethren, so that now they have not an atom of

credit. Again, touching the matter in question, there are many young

fellows who have no idea of what war is like, although you know,

gentles, that without war a young man cannot exist. How make a

Zaporozhetz out of him if he has never killed a Mussulman?”

“He speaks well,” thought Bulba.

“Think not, however, gentles, that I speak thus in order to break the

truce; God forbid! I merely mention it. Besides, it is a shame to

see what sort of church we have for our God. Not only has the church

remained without exterior decoration during all the years which by God’s

mercy the Setch has stood, but up to this day even the holy pictures

have no adornments. No one has even thought of making them a silver

frame; they have only received what some Cossacks have left them in

their wills; and these gifts were poor, since they had drunk up nearly

all they had during their lifetime. I am making you this speech,

therefore, not in order to stir up a war against the Mussulmans; we have

promised the Sultan peace, and it would be a great sin in us to break

this promise, for we swore it on our law.”

“What is he mixing things up like that for?” said Bulba to himself.

“So you see, gentles, that war cannot be begun; honour does not permit

it. But according to my poor opinion, we might, I think, send out a few

young men in boats and let them plunder the coasts of Anatolia a little.

What do you think, gentles?”

“Lead us, lead us all!” shouted the crowd on all sides. “We are ready to

lay down our lives for our faith.”

The Koschevoi was alarmed. He by no means wished to stir up all

Zaporozhe; a breach of the truce appeared to him on this occasion

unsuitable. “Permit me, gentles, to address you further.”

“Enough!” yelled the Cossacks; “you can say nothing better.”

“If it must be so, then let it be so. I am the slave of your will. We

know, and from Scripture too, that the voice of the people is the voice

of God. It is impossible to devise anything better than the whole nation

has devised. But here lies the difficulty; you know, gentles, that

the Sultan will not permit that which delights our young men to go

unpunished. We should be prepared at such a time, and our forces should

be fresh, and then we should fear no one. But during their absence the

Tatars may assemble fresh forces; the dogs do not show themselves in

sight and dare not come while the master is at home, but they can bite

his heels from behind, and bite painfully too. And if I must tell you

the truth, we have not boats enough, nor powder ready in sufficient

quantity, for all to go. But I am ready, if you please; I am the slave

of your will.”

The cunning hetman was silent. The various groups began to discuss the

matter, and the hetmans of the kurens to take counsel together; few were

drunk fortunately, so they decided to listen to reason.

A number of men set out at once for the opposite shore of the Dnieper,

to the treasury of the army, where in strictest secrecy, under water and

among the reeds, lay concealed the army chest and a portion of the

arms captured from the enemy. Others hastened to inspect the boats and

prepare them for service. In a twinkling the whole shore was

thronged with men. Carpenters appeared with axes in their hands. Old,

weatherbeaten, broad-shouldered, strong-legged Zaporozhtzi, with black

or silvered moustaches, rolled up their trousers, waded up to their

knees in water, and dragged the boats on to the shore with stout ropes;

others brought seasoned timber and all sorts of wood. The boats were

freshly planked, turned bottom upwards, caulked and tarred, and then

bound together side by side after Cossack fashion, with long strands of

reeds, so that the swell of the waves might not sink them. Far along the

shore they built fires and heated tar in copper cauldrons to smear the

boats. The old and the experienced instructed the young. The blows and

shouts of the workers rose all over the neighbourhood; the bank shook

and moved about.

About this time a large ferry-boat began to near the shore. The mass of

people standing in it began to wave their hands from a distance. They

were Cossacks in torn, ragged gaberdines. Their disordered garments, for

many had on nothing but their shirts, with a short pipe in their mouths,

showed that they had either escaped from some disaster or had caroused

to such an extent that they had drunk up all they had on their bodies.

A short, broad-shouldered Cossack of about fifty stepped out from the

midst of them and stood in front. He shouted and waved his hand more

vigorously than any of the others; but his words could not be heard for

the cries and hammering of the workmen.

“Whence come you!” asked the Koschevoi, as the boat touched the shore.

All the workers paused in their labours, and, raising their axes and

chisels, looked on expectantly.

“From a misfortune!” shouted the short Cossack.

“From what?”

“Permit me, noble Zaporozhtzi, to address you.”

“Speak!”

“Or would you prefer to assemble a council?”

“Speak, we are all here.”

The people all pressed together in one mass.

“Have you then heard nothing of what has been going on in the hetman’s

dominions?”

“What is it?” inquired one of the kuren hetmans.

“Eh! what! Evidently the Tatars have plastered up your ears so that you

might hear nothing.”

“Tell us then; what has been going on there?”

“That is going on the like of which no man born or christened ever yet

has seen.”

“Tell us what it is, you son of a dog!” shouted one of the crowd,

apparently losing patience.

“Things have come to such a pass that our holy churches are no longer

ours.”

“How not ours?”

“They are pledged to the Jews. If the Jew is not first paid, there can

be no mass.”

“What are you saying?”

“And if the dog of a Jew does not make a sign with his unclean hand over

the holy Easter-bread, it cannot be consecrated.”

“He lies, brother gentles. It cannot be that an unclean Jew puts his

mark upon the holy Easter-bread.”

“Listen! I have not yet told all. Catholic priests are going about all

over the Ukraine in carts. The harm lies not in the carts, but in the

fact that not horses, but orthodox Christians (1), are harnessed to

them. Listen! I have not yet told all. They say that the Jewesses are

making themselves petticoats out of our popes’ vestments. Such are the

deeds that are taking place in the Ukraine, gentles! And you sit here

revelling in Zaporozhe; and evidently the Tatars have so scared you that

you have no eyes, no ears, no anything, and know nothing that is going

on in the world.”

(1) That is of the Greek Church. The Poles were Catholics.

“Stop, stop!” broke in the Koschevoi, who up to that moment had stood

with his eyes fixed upon the earth like all Zaporozhtzi, who, on

important occasions, never yielded to their first impulse, but kept

silence, and meanwhile concentrated inwardly all the power of their

indignation. “Stop! I also have a word to say. But what were you

about? When your father the devil was raging thus, what were you doing

yourselves? Had you no swords? How came you to permit such lawlessness?”

“Eh! how did we come to permit such lawlessness? You would have tried

when there were fifty thousand of the Lyakhs (2) alone; yes, and it is

a shame not to be concealed, when there are also dogs among us who have

already accepted their faith.”

(2) Lyakhs, an opprobrious name for the Poles.

“But your hetman and your leaders, what have they done?”

“God preserve any one from such deeds as our leaders performed!”

“How so?”

“Our hetman, roasted in a brazen ox, now lies in Warsaw; and the

heads and hands of our leaders are being carried to all the fairs as a

spectacle for the people. That is what our leaders did.”

The whole throng became wildly excited. At first silence reigned all

along the shore, like that which precedes a tempest; and then suddenly

voices were raised and all the shore spoke:--

“What! The Jews hold the Christian churches in pledge! Roman Catholic

priests have harnessed and beaten orthodox Christians! What! such

torture has been permitted on Russian soil by the cursed unbelievers!

And they have done such things to the leaders and the hetman? Nay, this

shall not be, it shall not be.” Such words came from all quarters. The

Zaporozhtzi were moved, and knew their power. It was not the excitement

of a giddy-minded folk. All who were thus agitated were strong, firm

characters, not easily aroused, but, once aroused, preserving their

inward heat long and obstinately. “Hang all the Jews!” rang through the

crowd. “They shall not make petticoats for their Jewesses out of popes’

vestments! They shall not place their signs upon the holy wafers! Drown

all the heathens in the Dnieper!” These words uttered by some one in

the throng flashed like lightning through all minds, and the crowd flung

themselves upon the suburb with the intention of cutting the throats of

all the Jews.

The poor sons of Israel, losing all presence of mind, and not being in

any case courageous, hid themselves in empty brandy-casks, in ovens, and

even crawled under the skirts of their Jewesses; but the Cossacks found

them wherever they were.

“Gracious nobles!” shrieked one Jew, tall and thin as a stick, thrusting

his sorry visage, distorted with terror, from among a group of his

comrades, “gracious nobles! suffer us to say a word, only one word. We

will reveal to you what you never yet have heard, a thing more important

than I can say--very important!”

“Well, say it,” said Bulba, who always liked to hear what an accused man

had to say.

“Gracious nobles,” exclaimed the Jew, “such nobles were never seen, by

heavens, never! Such good, kind, and brave men there never were in the

world before!” His voice died away and quivered with fear. “How was it

possible that we should think any evil of the Zaporozhtzi? Those men

are not of us at all, those who have taken pledges in the Ukraine. By

heavens, they are not of us! They are not Jews at all. The evil one

alone knows what they are; they are only fit to be spit upon and cast

aside. Behold, my brethren, say the same! Is it not true, Schloma? is it

not true, Schmul?”

“By heavens, it is true!” replied Schloma and Schmul, from among the

crowd, both pale as clay, in their ragged caps.

“We never yet,” continued the tall Jew, “have had any secret intercourse

with your enemies, and we will have nothing to do with Catholics;

may the evil one fly away with them! We are like own brothers to the

Zaporozhtzi.”

“What! the Zaporozhtzi are brothers to you!” exclaimed some one in

the crowd. “Don’t wait! the cursed Jews! Into the Dnieper with them,

gentles! Drown all the unbelievers!”

These words were the signal. They seized the Jews by the arms and began

to hurl them into the waves. Pitiful cries resounded on all sides; but

the stern Zaporozhtzi only laughed when they saw the Jewish legs, cased

in shoes and stockings, struggling in the air. The poor orator who had

called down destruction upon himself jumped out of the caftan, by which

they had seized him, and in his scant parti-coloured under waistcoat

clasped Bulba’s legs, and cried, in piteous tones, “Great lord! gracious

noble! I knew your brother, the late Doroscha. He was a warrior who was

an ornament to all knighthood. I gave him eight hundred sequins when he

was obliged to ransom himself from the Turks.”

“You knew my brother?” asked Taras.

“By heavens, I knew him. He was a magnificent nobleman.”

“And what is your name?”

“Yankel.”

“Good,” said Taras; and after reflecting, he turned to the Cossacks and

spoke as follows: “There will always be plenty of time to hang the Jew,

if it proves necessary; but for to-day give him to me.”

So saying, Taras led him to his waggon, beside which stood his Cossacks.

“Crawl under the waggon; lie down, and do not move. And you, brothers,

do not surrender this Jew.”

So saying, he returned to the square, for the whole crowd had long since

collected there. All had at once abandoned the shore and the preparation

of the boats; for a land-journey now awaited them, and not a sea-voyage,

and they needed horses and waggons, not ships. All, both young and old,

wanted to go on the expedition; and it was decided, on the advice of

the chiefs, the hetmans of the kurens, and the Koschevoi, and with

the approbation of the whole Zaporozhtzian army, to march straight to

Poland, to avenge the injury and disgrace to their faith and to Cossack

renown, to seize booty from the cities, to burn villages and grain, and

spread their glory far over the steppe. All at once girded and armed

themselves. The Koschevoi grew a whole foot taller. He was no longer

the timid executor of the restless wishes of a free people, but their

untrammelled master. He was a despot, who know only to command. All the

independent and pleasure-loving warriors stood in an orderly line, with

respectfully bowed heads, not venturing to raise their eyes, when the

Koschevoi gave his orders. He gave these quietly, without shouting and

without haste, but with pauses between, like an experienced man deeply

learned in Cossack affairs, and carrying into execution, not for the

first time, a wisely matured enterprise.

“Examine yourselves, look well to yourselves; examine all your

equipments thoroughly,” he said; “put your teams and your tar-boxes (3)

in order; test your weapons. Take not many clothes with you: a shirt and

a couple of pairs of trousers to each Cossack, and a pot of oatmeal

and millet apiece--let no one take any more. There will be plenty of

provisions, all that is needed, in the waggons. Let every Cossack have

two horses. And two hundred yoke of oxen must be taken, for we shall

require them at the fords and marshy places. Keep order, gentles, above

all things. I know that there are some among you whom God has made so

greedy that they would like to tear up silk and velvet for foot-cloths.

Leave off such devilish habits; reject all garments as plunder, and take

only weapons: though if valuables offer themselves, ducats or silver,

they are useful in any case. I tell you this beforehand, gentles, if any

one gets drunk on the expedition, he will have a short shrift: I will

have him dragged by the neck like a dog behind the baggage waggons, no

matter who he may be, even were he the most heroic Cossack in the whole

army; he shall be shot on the spot like a dog, and flung out, without

sepulture, to be torn by the birds of prey, for a drunkard on the march

deserves no Christian burial. Young men, obey the old men in all things!

If a ball grazes you, or a sword cuts your head or any other part,

attach no importance to such trifles. Mix a charge of powder in a cup of

brandy, quaff it heartily, and all will pass off--you will not even have

any fever; and if the wound is large, put simple earth upon it, mixing

it first with spittle in your palm, and that will dry it up. And now to

work, to work, lads, and look well to all, and without haste.”

(3) The Cossack waggons have their axles smeared with tar instead of

grease.

So spoke the Koschevoi; and no sooner had he finished his speech than

all the Cossacks at once set to work. All the Setch grew sober. Nowhere

was a single drunken man to be found, it was as though there never had

been such a thing among the Cossacks. Some attended to the tyres of the

wheels, others changed the axles of the waggons; some carried sacks of

provisions to them or leaded them with arms; others again drove up the

horses and oxen. On all sides resounded the tramp of horses’ hoofs,

test-shots from the guns, the clank of swords, the lowing of oxen,

the screech of rolling waggons, talking, sharp cries and urging-on of

cattle. Soon the Cossack force spread far over all the plain; and he who

might have undertaken to run from its van to its rear would have had

a long course. In the little wooden church the priest was offering up

prayers and sprinkling all worshippers with holy water. All kissed the

cross. When the camp broke up and the army moved out of the Setch, all

the Zaporozhtzi turned their heads back. “Farewell, our mother!” they

said almost in one breath. “May God preserve thee from all misfortune!”

As he passed through the suburb, Taras Bulba saw that his Jew, Yankel,

had already erected a sort of booth with an awning, and was selling

flint, screwdrivers, powder, and all sorts of military stores needed on

the road, even to rolls and bread. “What devils these Jews are!” thought

Taras; and riding up to him, he said, “Fool, why are you sitting here?

do you want to be shot like a crow?”

Yankel in reply approached nearer, and making a sign with both hands, as

though wishing to impart some secret, said, “Let the noble lord but

keep silence and say nothing to any one. Among the Cossack waggons is

a waggon of mine. I am carrying all sorts of needful stores for the

Cossacks, and on the journey I will furnish every sort of provisions at

a lower price than any Jew ever sold at before. ‘Tis so, by heavens! by

heavens, ‘tis so!”

Taras Bulba shrugged his shoulders in amazement at the Jewish nature,

and went on to the camp.

CHAPTER V

All South-west Poland speedily became a prey to fear. Everywhere the

rumour flew, “The Zaporozhtzi! The Zaporozhtzi have appeared!” All

who could flee did so. All rose and scattered after the manner of that

lawless, reckless age, when they built neither fortresses nor castles,

but each man erected a temporary dwelling of straw wherever he happened

to find himself. He thought, “It is useless to waste money and labour on

an izba, when the roving Tatars will carry it off in any case.” All was

in an uproar: one exchanged his plough and oxen for a horse and gun, and

joined an armed band; another, seeking concealment, drove off his cattle

and carried off all the household stuff he could. Occasionally, on the

road, some were encountered who met their visitors with arms in their

hands; but the majority fled before their arrival. All knew that it was

hard to deal with the raging and warlike throng known by the name of

the Zaporozhian army; a body which, under its independent and disorderly

exterior, concealed an organisation well calculated for times of battle.

The horsemen rode steadily on without overburdening or heating their

horses; the foot-soldiers marched only by night, resting during the day,

and selecting for this purpose desert tracts, uninhabited spots, and

forests, of which there were then plenty. Spies and scouts were sent

ahead to study the time, place, and method of attack. And lo! the

Zaporozhtzi suddenly appeared in those places where they were least

expected: then all were put to the sword; the villages were burned; and

the horses and cattle which were not driven off behind the army killed

upon the spot. They seemed to be fiercely revelling, rather than

carrying out a military expedition. Our hair would stand on end nowadays

at the horrible traits of that fierce, half-civilised age, which the

Zaporozhtzi everywhere exhibited: children killed, women’s breasts cut

open, the skin flayed from the legs up to the knees, and the victim then

set at liberty. In short, the Cossacks paid their former debts in

coin of full weight. The abbot of one monastery, on hearing of their

approach, sent two monks to say that they were not behaving as they

should; that there was an agreement between the Zaporozhtzi and the

government; that they were breaking faith with the king, and violating

all international rights. “Tell your bishop from me and from all the

Zaporozhtzi,” said the Koschevoi, “that he has nothing to fear: the

Cossacks, so far, have only lighted and smoked their pipes.” And the

magnificent abbey was soon wrapped in the devouring flames, its tall

Gothic windows showing grimly through the waves of fire as they parted.

The fleeing mass of monks, women, and Jews thronged into those towns

where any hope lay in the garrison and the civic forces. The aid sent

in season by the government, but delayed on the way, consisted of a

few troops which either were unable to enter the towns or, seized with

fright, turned their backs at the very first encounter and fled on

their swift horses. However, several of the royal commanders, who had

conquered in former battles, resolved to unite their forces and confront

the Zaporozhtzi.

And here, above all, did our young Cossacks, disgusted with pillage,

greed, and a feeble foe, and burning with the desire to distinguish

themselves in presence of their chiefs, seek to measure themselves in

single combat with the warlike and boastful Lyakhs, prancing on their

spirited horses, with the sleeves of their jackets thrown back and

streaming in the wind. This game was inspiriting; they won at it many

costly sets of horse-trappings and valuable weapons. In a month the

scarcely fledged birds attained their full growth, were completely

transformed, and became men; their features, in which hitherto a trace

of youthful softness had been visible, grew strong and grim. But it was

pleasant to old Taras to see his sons among the foremost. It seemed

as though Ostap were designed by nature for the game of war and the

difficult science of command. Never once losing his head or becoming

confused under any circumstances, he could, with a cool audacity almost

supernatural in a youth of two-and-twenty, in an instant gauge the

danger and the whole scope of the matter, could at once devise a means

of escaping, but of escaping only that he might the more surely conquer.

His movements now began to be marked by the assurance which comes from

experience, and in them could be detected the germ of the future leader.

His person strengthened, and his bearing grew majestically leonine.

“What a fine leader he will make one of these days!” said old Taras. “He

will make a splendid leader, far surpassing even his father!”

Andrii gave himself up wholly to the enchanting music of blades and

bullets. He knew not what it was to consider, or calculate, or to

measure his own as against the enemy’s strength. He gazed on battle with

mad delight and intoxication: he found something festal in the moments

when a man’s brain burns, when all things wave and flutter before his

eyes, when heads are stricken off, horses fall to the earth with a sound

of thunder, and he rides on like a drunken man, amid the whistling of

bullets and the flashing of swords, dealing blows to all, and heeding

not those aimed at himself. More than once their father marvelled too

at Andrii, seeing him, stirred only by a flash of impulse, dash at

something which a sensible man in cold blood never would have attempted,

and, by the sheer force of his mad attack, accomplish such wonders as

could not but amaze even men grown old in battle. Old Taras admired and

said, “And he too will make a good warrior if the enemy does not

capture him meanwhile. He is not Ostap, but he is a dashing warrior,

nevertheless.”

The army decided to march straight on the city of Dubno, which, rumour

said, contained much wealth and many rich inhabitants. The journey was

accomplished in a day and a half, and the Zaporozhtzi appeared before

the city. The inhabitants resolved to defend themselves to the utmost

extent of their power, and to fight to the last extremity, preferring to

die in their squares and streets, and on their thresholds, rather than

admit the enemy to their houses. A high rampart of earth surrounded the

city; and in places where it was low or weak, it was strengthened by a

wall of stone, or a house which served as a redoubt, or even an oaken

stockade. The garrison was strong and aware of the importance of their

position. The Zaporozhtzi attacked the wall fiercely, but were met with

a shower of grapeshot. The citizens and residents of the town evidently

did not wish to remain idle, but gathered on the ramparts; in their eyes

could be read desperate resistance. The women too were determined to

take part in the fray, and upon the heads of the Zaporozhians rained

down stones, casks of boiling water, and sacks of lime which blinded

them. The Zaporozhtzi were not fond of having anything to do with

fortified places: sieges were not in their line. The Koschevoi ordered

them to retreat, saying, “It is useless, brother gentles; we will

retire: but may I be a heathen Tatar, and not a Christian, if we do not

clear them out of that town! may they all perish of hunger, the dogs!”

The army retreated, surrounded the town, and, for lack of something to

do, busied themselves with devastating the surrounding country, burning

the neighbouring villages and the ricks of unthreshed grain, and turning

their droves of horses loose in the cornfields, as yet untouched by the

reaping-hook, where the plump ears waved, fruit, as luck would have it,

of an unusually good harvest which should have liberally rewarded all

tillers of the soil that season.

With horror those in the city beheld their means of subsistence

destroyed. Meanwhile the Zaporozhtzi, having formed a double ring of

their waggons around the city, disposed themselves as in the Setch in

kurens, smoked their pipes, bartered their booty for weapons, played

at leapfrog and odd-and-even, and gazed at the city with deadly

cold-bloodedness. At night they lighted their camp fires, and the cooks

boiled the porridge for each kuren in huge copper cauldrons; whilst

an alert sentinel watched all night beside the blazing fire. But the

Zaporozhtzi soon began to tire of inactivity and prolonged sobriety,

unaccompanied by any fighting. The Koschevoi even ordered the allowance

of wine to be doubled, which was sometimes done in the army when no

difficult enterprises or movements were on hand. The young men, and

Taras Bulba’s sons in particular, did not like this life. Andrii was

visibly bored. “You silly fellow!” said Taras to him, “be patient, you

will be hetman one day. He is not a good warrior who loses heart in an

important enterprise; but he who is not tired even of inactivity, who

endures all, and who even if he likes a thing can give it up.” But hot

youth cannot agree with age; the two have different natures, and look at

the same thing with different eyes.

But in the meantime Taras’s band, led by Tovkatch, arrived; with him

were also two osauls, the secretary, and other regimental officers: the

Cossacks numbered over four thousand in all. There were among them many

volunteers, who had risen of their own free will, without any summons,

as soon as they had heard what the matter was. The osauls brought to

Taras’s sons the blessing of their aged mother, and to each a picture

in a cypress-wood frame from the Mezhigorski monastery at Kief. The two

brothers hung the pictures round their necks, and involuntarily grew

pensive as they remembered their old mother. What did this blessing

prophecy? Was it a blessing for their victory over the enemy, and then

a joyous return to their home with booty and glory, to be everlastingly

commemorated in the songs of guitar-players? or was it...? But the

future is unknown, and stands before a man like autumnal fogs rising

from the swamps; birds fly foolishly up and down in it with flapping

wings, never recognising each other, the dove seeing not the vulture,

nor the vulture the dove, and no one knowing how far he may be flying

from destruction.

Ostap had long since attended to his duties and gone to the kuren.

Andrii, without knowing why, felt a kind of oppression at his heart. The

Cossacks had finished their evening meal; the wonderful July night had

completely fallen; still he did not go to the kuren, nor lie down to

sleep, but gazed unconsciously at the whole scene before him. In the sky

innumerable stars twinkled brightly. The plain was covered far and wide

with scattered waggons with swinging tar-buckets, smeared with tar, and

loaded with every description of goods and provisions captured from the

foe. Beside the waggons, under the waggons, and far beyond the waggons,

Zaporozhtzi were everywhere visible, stretched upon the grass. They

all slumbered in picturesque attitudes; one had thrust a sack under

his head, another his cap, and another simply made use of his comrade’s

side. Swords, guns, matchlocks, short pipe-stems with copper mountings,

iron awls, and a flint and steel were inseparable from every Cossack.

The heavy oxen lay with their feet doubled under them like huge whitish

masses, and at a distance looked like gray stones scattered on the

slopes of the plain. On all sides the heavy snores of sleeping warriors

began to arise from the grass, and were answered from the plain by the

ringing neighs of their steeds, chafing at their hobbled feet. Meanwhile

a certain threatening magnificence had mingled with the beauty of the

July night. It was the distant glare of the burning district afar.

In one place the flames spread quietly and grandly over the sky; in

another, suddenly bursting into a whirlwind, they hissed and flew

upwards to the very stars, and floating fragments died away in the most

distant quarter of the heavens. Here the black, burned monastery like

a grim Carthusian monk stood threatening, and displaying its dark

magnificence at every flash; there blazed the monastery garden. It

seemed as though the trees could be heard hissing as they stood wrapped

in smoke; and when the fire burst forth, it suddenly lighted up the ripe

plums with a phosphoric lilac-coloured gleam, or turned the yellowing

pears here and there to pure gold. In the midst of them hung black

against the wall of the building, or the trunk of a tree, the body of

some poor Jew or monk who had perished in the flames with the structure.

Above the distant fires hovered a flock of birds, like a cluster of

tiny black crosses upon a fiery field. The town thus laid bare seemed to

sleep; the spires and roofs, and its palisade and walls, gleamed quietly

in the glare of the distant conflagrations. Andrii went the rounds of

the Cossack ranks. The camp-fires, beside which the sentinels sat, were

ready to go out at any moment; and even the sentinels slept, having

devoured oatmeal and dumplings with true Cossack appetites. He was

astonished at such carelessness, thinking, “It is well that there is no

strong enemy at hand and nothing to fear.” Finally he went to one of

the waggons, climbed into it, and lay down upon his back, putting his

clasped hands under his head; but he could not sleep, and gazed long at

the sky. It was all open before him; the air was pure and transparent;

the dense clusters of stars in the Milky Way, crossing the sky like a

belt, were flooded with light. From time to time Andrii in some degree

lost consciousness, and a light mist of dream veiled the heavens from

him for a moment; but then he awoke, and they became visible again.

During one of these intervals it seemed to him that some strange human

figure flitted before him. Thinking it to be merely a vision which would

vanish at once, he opened his eyes, and beheld a withered, emaciated

face bending over him, and gazing straight into his own. Long coal-black

hair, unkempt, dishevelled, fell from beneath a dark veil which had

been thrown over the head; whilst the strange gleam of the eyes, and the

death-like tone of the sharp-cut features, inclined him to think that

it was an apparition. His hand involuntarily grasped his gun; and he

exclaimed almost convulsively: “Who are you? If you are an evil spirit,

avaunt! If you are a living being, you have chosen an ill time for your

jest. I will kill you with one shot.”

In answer to this, the apparition laid its finger upon its lips and

seemed to entreat silence. He dropped his hands and began to look more

attentively. He recognised it to be a woman from the long hair, the

brown neck, and the half-concealed bosom. But she was not a native

of those regions: her wide cheek-bones stood out prominently over her

hollow cheeks; her small eyes were obliquely set. The more he gazed at

her features, the more he found them familiar. Finally he could restrain

himself no longer, and said, “Tell me, who are you? It seems to me that

I know you, or have seen you somewhere.”

“Two years ago in Kief.”

“Two years ago in Kief!” repeated Andrii, endeavouring to collect in

his mind all that lingered in his memory of his former student life. He

looked intently at her once more, and suddenly exclaimed at the top of

his voice, “You are the Tatar! the servant of the lady, the Waiwode’s

daughter!”

“Sh!” cried the Tatar, clasping her hands with a supplicating glance,

trembling all over, and turning her head round in order to see whether

any one had been awakened by Andrii’s loud exclamation.

“Tell me, tell me, why are you here?” said Andrii almost breathlessly,

in a whisper, interrupted every moment by inward emotion. “Where is the

lady? is she alive?”

“She is now in the city.”

“In the city!” he exclaimed, again almost in a shriek, and feeling all

the blood suddenly rush to his heart. “Why is she in the city?”

“Because the old lord himself is in the city: he has been Waiwode of

Dubno for the last year and a half.”

“Is she married? How strange you are! Tell me about her.”

“She has eaten nothing for two days.”

“What!”

“And not one of the inhabitants has had a morsel of bread for a long

while; all have long been eating earth.”

Andrii was astounded.

“The lady saw you from the city wall, among the Zaporozhtzi. She said to

me, ‘Go tell the warrior: if he remembers me, let him come to me; and do

not forget to make him give you a bit of bread for my aged mother, for

I do not wish to see my mother die before my very eyes. Better that I

should die first, and she afterwards! Beseech him; clasp his knees, his

feet: he also has an aged mother, let him give you the bread for her

sake!’”

Many feelings awoke in the young Cossack’s breast.

“But how came you here? how did you get here?”

“By an underground passage.”

“Is there an underground passage?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“You will not betray it, warrior?”

“I swear it by the holy cross!”

“You descend into a hole, and cross the brook, yonder among the reeds.”

“And it leads into the city?”

“Straight into the monastery.”

“Let us go, let us go at once.”

“A bit of bread, in the name of Christ and of His holy mother!”

“Good, so be it. Stand here beside the waggon, or, better still, lie

down in it: no one will see you, all are asleep. I will return at once.”

And he set off for the baggage waggons, which contained the provisions

belonging to their kuren. His heart beat. All the past, all that had

been extinguished by the Cossack bivouacks, and by the stern battle of

life, flamed out at once on the surface and drowned the present in its

turn. Again, as from the dark depths of the sea, the noble lady rose

before him: again there gleamed in his memory her beautiful arms, her

eyes, her laughing mouth, her thick dark-chestnut hair, falling in curls

upon her shoulders, and the firm, well-rounded limbs of her maiden form.

No, they had not been extinguished in his breast, they had not vanished,

they had simply been laid aside, in order, for a time, to make way for

other strong emotions; but often, very often, the young Cossack’s deep

slumber had been troubled by them, and often he had lain sleepless on

his couch, without being able to explain the cause.

His heart beat more violently at the thought of seeing her again, and

his young knees shook. On reaching the baggage waggons, he had quite

forgotten what he had come for; he raised his hand to his brow and

rubbed it long, trying to recollect what he was to do. At length he

shuddered, and was filled with terror as the thought suddenly occurred

to him that she was dying of hunger. He jumped upon the waggon and

seized several large loaves of black bread; but then he thought, “Is

this not food, suited to a robust and easily satisfied Zaporozhetz, too

coarse and unfit for her delicate frame?” Then he recollected that the

Koschevoi, on the previous evening, had reproved the cooks for having

cooked up all the oatmeal into porridge at once, when there was plenty

for three times. Sure that he would find plenty of porridge in the

kettles, he drew out his father’s travelling kettle and went with it

to the cook of their kuren, who was sleeping beside two big cauldrons,

holding about ten pailfuls, under which the ashes still glowed. Glancing

into them, he was amazed to find them empty. It must have required

supernatural powers to eat it all; the more so, as their kuren numbered

fewer than the others. He looked into the cauldron of the other

kurens--nothing anywhere. Involuntarily the saying recurred to his mind,

“The Zaporozhtzi are like children: if there is little they eat it,

if there is much they leave nothing.” What was to be done? There was,

somewhere in the waggon belonging to his father’s band, a sack of

white bread, which they had found when they pillaged the bakery of

the monastery. He went straight to his father’s waggon, but it was not

there. Ostap had taken it and put it under his head; and there he lay,

stretched out on the ground, snoring so that the whole plain rang again.

Andrii seized the sack abruptly with one hand and gave it a jerk, so

that Ostap’s head fell to the ground. The elder brother sprang up in his

sleep, and, sitting there with closed eyes, shouted at the top of his

lungs, “Stop them! Stop the cursed Lyakhs! Catch the horses! catch

the horses!”--“Silence! I’ll kill you,” shouted Andrii in terror,

flourishing the sack over him. But Ostap did not continue his speech,

sank down again, and gave such a snore that the grass on which he lay

waved with his breath.

Andrii glanced timidly on all sides to see if Ostap’s talking in his

sleep had waked any of the Cossacks. Only one long-locked head was

raised in the adjoining kuren, and after glancing about, was dropped

back on the ground. After waiting a couple of minutes he set out with

his load. The Tatar woman was lying where he had left her, scarcely

breathing. “Come, rise up. Fear not, all are sleeping. Can you take one

of these loaves if I cannot carry all?” So saying, he swung the sack on

to his back, pulled out another sack of millet as he passed the waggon,

took in his hands the loaves he had wanted to give the Tatar woman to

carry, and, bending somewhat under the load, went boldly through the

ranks of sleeping Zaporozhtzi.

“Andrii,” said old Bulba, as he passed. His heart died within him. He

halted, trembling, and said softly, “What is it?”

“There’s a woman with you. When I get up I’ll give you a sound

thrashing. Women will lead you to no good.” So saying, he leaned his

hand upon his hand and gazed intently at the muffled form of the Tatar.

Andrii stood there, more dead than alive, not daring to look in his

father’s face. When he did raise his eyes and glance at him, old Bulba

was asleep, with his head still resting in the palm of his hand.

Andrii crossed himself. Fear fled from his heart even more rapidly than

it had assailed it. When he turned to look at the Tatar woman, she stood

before him, muffled in her mantle, like a dark granite statue, and the

gleam of the distant dawn lighted up only her eyes, dull as those of

a corpse. He plucked her by the sleeve, and both went on together,

glancing back continually. At length they descended the slope of a small

ravine, almost a hole, along the bottom of which a brook flowed lazily,

overgrown with sedge, and strewed with mossy boulders. Descending into

this ravine, they were completely concealed from the view of all the

plain occupied by the Zaporovian camp. At least Andrii, glancing back,

saw that the steep slope rose behind him higher than a man. On its

summit appeared a few blades of steppe-grass; and behind them, in the

sky, hung the moon, like a golden sickle. The breeze rising on the

steppe warned them that the dawn was not far off. But nowhere was

the crow of the cock heard. Neither in the city nor in the devastated

neighbourhood had there been a cock for a long time past. They crossed

the brook on a small plank, beyond which rose the opposite bank, which

appeared higher than the one behind them and rose steeply. It seemed as

though this were the strong point of the citadel upon which the besieged

could rely; at all events, the earthen wall was lower there, and no

garrison appeared behind it. But farther on rose the thick monastery

walls. The steep bank was overgrown with steppe-grass, and in the narrow

ravine between it and the brook grew tall reeds almost as high as a man.

At the summit of the bank were the remains of a wattled fence, which

had formerly surrounded some garden, and in front of it were visible

the wide leaves of the burdock, from among which rose blackthorn, and

sunflowers lifting their heads high above all the rest. Here the Tatar

flung off her slippers and went barefoot, gathering her clothes up

carefully, for the spot was marshy and full of water. Forcing their way

among the reeds, they stopped before a ruined outwork. Skirting this

outwork, they found a sort of earthen arch--an opening not much larger

than the opening of an oven. The Tatar woman bent her head and went

first. Andrii followed, bending low as he could, in order to pass with

his sacks; and both soon found themselves in total darkness.

CHAPTER VI

Andrii could hardly move in the dark and narrow earthen burrow, as he

followed the Tatar, dragging after him his sacks of bread. “It will soon

be light,” said his guide: “we are approaching the spot where I placed a

light.” And in fact the dark earthen walls began to be gradually lit up.

They reached a widening in the passage where, it seemed, there had once

been a chapel; at least, there was a small table against the wall, like

an altar, and above, the faded, almost entirely obliterated picture of a

Catholic Madonna. A small silver lamp hanging before it barely illumined

it. The Tatar stooped and picked up from the ground a copper candlestick

which she had left there, a candlestick with a tall, slender stem, and

snuffers, pin, and extinguisher hanging about it on chains. She lighted

it at the silver lamp. The light grew stronger; and as they went on, now

illumined by it, and again enveloped in pitchy shadow, they suggested a

picture by Gerard Dow.

The warrior’s fresh, handsome countenance, overflowing with health and

youth, presented a strong contrast to the pale, emaciated face of his

companion. The passage grew a little higher, so that Andrii could hold

himself erect. He gazed with curiosity at the earthen walls. Here and

there, as in the catacombs at Kief, were niches in the walls; and in

some places coffins were standing. Sometimes they came across human

bones which had become softened with the dampness and were crumbling

into dust. It was evident that pious folk had taken refuge here from the

storms, sorrows, and seductions of the world. It was extremely damp

in some places; indeed there was water under their feet at intervals.

Andrii was forced to halt frequently to allow his companion to rest, for

her fatigue kept increasing. The small piece of bread she had swallowed

only caused a pain in her stomach, of late unused to food; and she often

stood motionless for minutes together in one spot.

At length a small iron door appeared before them. “Glory be to God, we

have arrived!” said the Tatar in a faint voice, and tried to lift her

hand to knock, but had no strength to do so. Andrii knocked hard at the

door in her stead. There was an echo as though a large space lay beyond

the door; then the echo changed as if resounding through lofty arches.

In a couple of minutes, keys rattled, and steps were heard descending

some stairs. At length the door opened, and a monk, standing on the

narrow stairs with the key and a light in his hands, admitted them.

Andrii involuntarily halted at the sight of a Catholic monk--one of

those who had aroused such hate and disdain among the Cossacks that they

treated them even more inhumanly than they treated the Jews.

The monk, on his part, started back on perceiving a Zaporovian Cossack,

but a whisper from the Tatar reassured him. He lighted them in, fastened

the door behind them, and led them up the stairs. They found themselves

beneath the dark and lofty arches of the monastery church. Before one of

the altars, adorned with tall candlesticks and candles, knelt a priest

praying quietly. Near him on each side knelt two young choristers in

lilac cassocks and white lace stoles, with censers in their hands. He

prayed for the performance of a miracle, that the city might be saved;

that their souls might be strengthened; that patience might be given

them; that doubt and timid, weak-spirited mourning over earthly

misfortunes might be banished. A few women, resembling shadows, knelt

supporting themselves against the backs of the chairs and dark wooden

benches before them, and laying their exhausted heads upon them. A few

men stood sadly, leaning against the columns upon which the wide arches

rested. The stained-glass window above the altar suddenly glowed with

the rosy light of dawn; and from it, on the floor, fell circles of blue,

yellow, and other colours, illuminating the dim church. The whole altar

was lighted up; the smoke from the censers hung a cloudy rainbow in the

air. Andrii gazed from his dark corner, not without surprise, at the

wonders worked by the light. At that moment the magnificent swell of

the organ filled the whole church. It grew deeper and deeper, expanded,

swelled into heavy bursts of thunder; and then all at once, turning into

heavenly music, its ringing tones floated high among the arches, like

clear maiden voices, and again descended into a deep roar and thunder,

and then ceased. The thunderous pulsations echoed long and tremulously

among the arches; and Andrii, with half-open mouth, admired the wondrous

music.

Then he felt some one plucking the shirt of his caftan. “It is time,”

said the Tatar. They traversed the church unperceived, and emerged upon

the square in front. Dawn had long flushed the heavens; all announced

sunrise. The square was empty: in the middle of it still stood wooden

pillars, showing that, perhaps only a week before, there had been a

market here stocked with provisions. The streets, which were unpaved,

were simply a mass of dried mud. The square was surrounded by small,

one-storied stone or mud houses, in the walls of which were visible

wooden stakes and posts obliquely crossed by carved wooden beams, as was

the manner of building in those days. Specimens of it can still be

seen in some parts of Lithuania and Poland. They were all covered with

enormously high roofs, with a multitude of windows and air-holes. On

one side, close to the church, rose a building quite detached from and

taller than the rest, probably the town-hall or some official structure.

It was two stories high, and above it, on two arches, rose a belvedere

where a watchman stood; a huge clock-face was let into the roof.

The square seemed deserted, but Andrii thought he heard a feeble groan.

Looking about him, he perceived, on the farther side, a group of two

or three men lying motionless upon the ground. He fixed his eyes more

intently on them, to see whether they were asleep or dead; and, at the

same moment, stumbled over something lying at his feet. It was the dead

body of a woman, a Jewess apparently. She appeared to be young, though

it was scarcely discernible in her distorted and emaciated features.

Upon her head was a red silk kerchief; two rows of pearls or pearl beads

adorned the beads of her head-dress, from beneath which two long curls

hung down upon her shrivelled neck, with its tightly drawn veins. Beside

her lay a child, grasping convulsively at her shrunken breast, and

squeezing it with involuntary ferocity at finding no milk there. He

neither wept nor screamed, and only his gently rising and falling body

would have led one to guess that he was not dead, or at least on

the point of breathing his last. They turned into a street, and were

suddenly stopped by a madman, who, catching sight of Andrii’s precious

burden, sprang upon him like a tiger, and clutched him, yelling,

“Bread!” But his strength was not equal to his madness. Andrii repulsed

him and he fell to the ground. Moved with pity, the young Cossack flung

him a loaf, which he seized like a mad dog, gnawing and biting it; but

nevertheless he shortly expired in horrible suffering, there in the

street, from the effect of long abstinence. The ghastly victims of

hunger startled them at every step. Many, apparently unable to endure

their torments in their houses, seemed to run into the streets to see

whether some nourishing power might not possibly descend from the air.

At the gate of one house sat an old woman, and it was impossible to say

whether she was asleep or dead, or only unconscious; at all events, she

no longer saw or heard anything, and sat immovable in one spot, her head

drooping on her breast. From the roof of another house hung a worn

and wasted body in a rope noose. The poor fellow could not endure the

tortures of hunger to the last, and had preferred to hasten his end by a

voluntary death.

At the sight of such terrible proofs of famine, Andrii could not refrain

from saying to the Tatar, “Is there really nothing with which they can

prolong life? If a man is driven to extremities, he must feed on what he

has hitherto despised; he can sustain himself with creatures which are

forbidden by the law. Anything can be eaten under such circumstances.”

“They have eaten everything,” said the Tatar, “all the animals. Not a

horse, nor a dog, nor even a mouse is to be found in the whole city.

We never had any store of provisions in the town: they were all brought

from the villages.”

“But how can you, while dying such a fearful death, still dream of

defending the city?”

“Possibly the Waiwode might have surrendered; but yesterday morning the

commander of the troops at Buzhana sent a hawk into the city with a note

saying that it was not to be given up; that he was coming to its rescue

with his forces, and was only waiting for another leader, that they

might march together. And now they are expected every moment. But we

have reached the house.”

Andrii had already noticed from a distance this house, unlike the

others, and built apparently by some Italian architect. It was

constructed of thin red bricks, and had two stories. The windows of the

lower story were sheltered under lofty, projecting granite cornices.

The upper story consisted entirely of small arches, forming a gallery;

between the arches were iron gratings enriched with escutcheons; whilst

upon the gables of the house more coats-of-arms were displayed. The

broad external staircase, of tinted bricks, abutted on the square.

At the foot of it sat guards, who with one hand held their halberds

upright, and with the other supported their drooping heads, and in this

attitude more resembled apparitions than living beings. They neither

slept nor dreamed, but seemed quite insensible to everything; they even

paid no attention to who went up the stairs. At the head of the stairs,

they found a richly-dressed warrior, armed cap-a-pie, and holding a

breviary in his hand. He turned his dim eyes upon them; but the Tatar

spoke a word to him, and he dropped them again upon the open pages

of his breviary. They entered the first chamber, a large one, serving

either as a reception-room, or simply as an ante-room; it was filled

with soldiers, servants, secretaries, huntsmen, cup-bearers, and the

other servitors indispensable to the support of a Polish magnate’s

estate, all seated along the walls. The reek of extinguished candles was

perceptible; and two were still burning in two huge candlesticks, nearly

as tall as a man, standing in the middle of the room, although morning

had long since peeped through the wide grated window. Andrii wanted to

go straight on to the large oaken door adorned with a coat-of-arms and

a profusion of carved ornaments, but the Tatar pulled his sleeve and

pointed to a small door in the side wall. Through this they gained a

corridor, and then a room, which he began to examine attentively. The

light which filtered through a crack in the shutter fell upon several

objects--a crimson curtain, a gilded cornice, and a painting on the

wall. Here the Tatar motioned to Andrii to wait, and opened the door

into another room from which flashed the light of a fire. He heard a

whispering, and a soft voice which made him quiver all over. Through

the open door he saw flit rapidly past a tall female figure, with a long

thick braid of hair falling over her uplifted hands. The Tatar returned

and told him to go in.

He could never understand how he entered and how the door was shut

behind him. Two candles burned in the room and a lamp glowed before the

images: beneath the lamp stood a tall table with steps to kneel upon

during prayer, after the Catholic fashion. But his eye did not seek

this. He turned to the other side and perceived a woman, who appeared to

have been frozen or turned to stone in the midst of some quick movement.

It seemed as though her whole body had sought to spring towards him, and

had suddenly paused. And he stood in like manner amazed before her. Not

thus had he pictured to himself that he should find her. This was not

the same being he had formerly known; nothing about her resembled her

former self; but she was twice as beautiful, twice as enchanting,

now than she had been then. Then there had been something unfinished,

incomplete, about her; now here was a production to which the artist

had given the finishing stroke of his brush. That was a charming, giddy

girl; this was a woman in the full development of her charms. As

she raised her eyes, they were full of feeling, not of mere hints

of feeling. The tears were not yet dry in them, and framed them in a

shining dew which penetrated the very soul. Her bosom, neck, and arms

were moulded in the proportions which mark fully developed loveliness.

Her hair, which had in former days waved in light ringlets about her

face, had become a heavy, luxuriant mass, a part of which was caught

up, while part fell in long, slender curls upon her arms and breast. It

seemed as though her every feature had changed. In vain did he seek

to discover in them a single one of those which were engraved in his

memory--a single one. Even her great pallor did not lessen her

wonderful beauty; on the contrary, it conferred upon it an irresistible,

inexpressible charm. Andrii felt in his heart a noble timidity,

and stood motionless before her. She, too, seemed surprised at the

appearance of the Cossack, as he stood before her in all the beauty and

might of his young manhood, and in the very immovability of his limbs

personified the utmost freedom of movement. His eyes beamed with clear

decision; his velvet brows curved in a bold arch; his sunburnt cheeks

glowed with all the ardour of youthful fire; and his downy black

moustache shone like silk.

“No, I have no power to thank you, noble sir,” she said, her silvery

voice all in a tremble. “God alone can reward you, not I, a weak woman.”

She dropped her eyes, her lids fell over them in beautiful, snowy

semicircles, guarded by lashes long as arrows; her wondrous face bowed

forward, and a delicate flush overspread it from within. Andrii knew not

what to say; he wanted to say everything. He had in his mind to say it

all ardently as it glowed in his heart--and could not. He felt something

confining his mouth; voice and words were lacking; he felt that it was

not for him, bred in the seminary and in the tumult of a roaming life,

to reply fitly to such language, and was angry with his Cossack nature.

At that moment the Tatar entered the room. She had cut up the bread

which the warrior had brought into small pieces on a golden plate, which

she placed before her mistress. The lady glanced at her, at the bread,

at her again, and then turned her eyes towards Andrii. There was a great

deal in those eyes. That gentle glance, expressive of her weakness and

her inability to give words to the feeling which overpowered her, was

far more comprehensible to Andrii than any words. His heart suddenly

grew light within him, all seemed made smooth. The mental emotions and

the feelings which up to that moment he had restrained with a heavy

curb, as it were, now felt themselves released, at liberty, and anxious

to pour themselves out in a resistless torrent of words. Suddenly the

lady turned to the Tatar, and said anxiously, “But my mother? you took

her some?”

“She is asleep.”

“And my father?”

“I carried him some; he said that he would come to thank the young lord

in person.”

She took the bread and raised it to her mouth. With inexpressible

delight Andrii watched her break it with her shining fingers and eat

it; but all at once he recalled the man mad with hunger, who had expired

before his eyes on swallowing a morsel of bread. He turned pale and,

seizing her hand, cried, “Enough! eat no more! you have not eaten for

so long that too much bread will be poison to you now.” And she at once

dropped her hand, laid her bread upon the plate, and gazed into his eyes

like a submissive child. And if any words could express--But neither

chisel, nor brush, nor mighty speech is capable of expressing what is

sometimes seen in glances of maidens, nor the tender feeling which takes

possession of him who receives such maiden glances.

“My queen!” exclaimed Andrii, his heart and soul filled with emotion,

“what do you need? what do you wish? command me! Impose on me the most

impossible task in all the world: I fly to fulfil it! Tell me to do that

which it is beyond the power of man to do: I will fulfil it if I destroy

myself. I will ruin myself. And I swear by the holy cross that ruin for

your sake is as sweet--but no, it is impossible to say how sweet! I have

three farms; half my father’s droves of horses are mine; all that my

mother brought my father, and which she still conceals from him--all

this is mine! Not one of the Cossacks owns such weapons as I; for the

pommel of my sword alone they would give their best drove of horses and

three thousand sheep. And I renounce all this, I discard it, I throw it

aside, I will burn and drown it, if you will but say the word, or even

move your delicate black brows! But I know that I am talking madly and

wide of the mark; that all this is not fitting here; that it is not for

me, who have passed my life in the seminary and among the Zaporozhtzi,

to speak as they speak where kings, princes, and all the best of noble

knighthood have been. I can see that you are a different being from the

rest of us, and far above all other boyars’ wives and maiden daughters.”

With growing amazement the maiden listened, losing no single word, to

the frank, sincere language in which, as in a mirror, the young, strong

spirit reflected itself. Each simple word of this speech, uttered in a

voice which penetrated straight to the depths of her heart, was clothed

in power. She advanced her beautiful face, pushed back her troublesome

hair, opened her mouth, and gazed long, with parted lips. Then she tried

to say something and suddenly stopped, remembering that the warrior

was known by a different name; that his father, brothers, country, lay

beyond, grim avengers; that the Zaporozhtzi besieging the city were

terrible, and that the cruel death awaited all who were within its

walls, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She seized a silk

embroidered handkerchief and threw it over her face. In a moment it was

all wet; and she sat for some time with her beautiful head thrown back,

and her snowy teeth set on her lovely under-lip, as though she suddenly

felt the sting of a poisonous serpent, without removing the handkerchief

from her face, lest he should see her shaken with grief.

“Speak but one word to me,” said Andrii, and he took her satin-skinned

hand. A sparkling fire coursed through his veins at the touch, and he

pressed the hand lying motionless in his.

But she still kept silence, never taking the kerchief from her face, and

remaining motionless.

“Why are you so sad? Tell me, why are you so sad?”

She cast away the handkerchief, pushed aside the long hair which fell

over her eyes, and poured out her heart in sad speech, in a quiet voice,

like the breeze which, rising on a beautiful evening, blows through the

thick growth of reeds beside the stream. They rustle, murmur, and

give forth delicately mournful sounds, and the traveller, pausing in

inexplicable sadness, hears them, and heeds not the fading light, nor

the gay songs of the peasants which float in the air as they return from

their labours in meadow and stubble-field, nor the distant rumble of the

passing waggon.

“Am not I worthy of eternal pity? Is not the mother that bore me

unhappy? Is it not a bitter lot which has befallen me? Art not thou a

cruel executioner, fate? Thou has brought all to my feet--the highest

nobles in the land, the richest gentlemen, counts, foreign barons, all

the flower of our knighthood. All loved me, and any one of them would

have counted my love the greatest boon. I had but to beckon, and the

best of them, the handsomest, the first in beauty and birth would have

become my husband. And to none of them didst thou incline my heart, O

bitter fate; but thou didst turn it against the noblest heroes of our

land, and towards a stranger, towards our enemy. O most holy mother of

God! for what sin dost thou so pitilessly, mercilessly, persecute me?

In abundance and superfluity of luxury my days were passed, the richest

dishes and the sweetest wine were my food. And to what end was it all?

What was it all for? In order that I might at last die a death more

cruel than that of the meanest beggar in the kingdom? And it was not

enough that I should be condemned to so horrible a fate; not enough

that before my own end I should behold my father and mother perish

in intolerable torment, when I would have willingly given my own life

twenty times over to save them; all this was not enough, but before my

own death I must hear words of love such as I had never before dreamed

of. It was necessary that he should break my heart with his words; that

my bitter lot should be rendered still more bitter; that my young

life should be made yet more sad; that my death should seem even more

terrible; and that, dying, I should reproach thee still more, O cruel

fate! and thee--forgive my sin--O holy mother of God!”

As she ceased in despair, her feelings were plainly expressed in her

face. Every feature spoke of gnawing sorrow and, from the sadly bowed

brow and downcast eyes to the tears trickling down and drying on her

softly burning cheeks, seemed to say, “There is no happiness in this

face.”

“Such a thing was never heard of since the world began. It cannot be,”

said Andrii, “that the best and most beautiful of women should suffer so

bitter a fate, when she was born that all the best there is in the world

should bow before her as before a saint. No, you will not die, you shall

not die! I swear by my birth and by all there is dear to me in the

world that you shall not die. But if it must be so; if nothing, neither

strength, nor prayer, nor heroism, will avail to avert this cruel

fate--then we will die together, and I will die first. I will die before

you, at your beauteous knees, and even in death they shall not divide

us.”

“Deceive not yourself and me, noble sir,” she said, gently shaking her

beautiful head; “I know, and to my great sorrow I know but too well,

that it is impossible for you to love me. I know what your duty is, and

your faith. Your father calls you, your comrades, your country, and we

are your enemies.”

“And what are my father, my comrades, my country to me?” said Andrii,

with a quick movement of his head, and straightening up his figure like

a poplar beside the river. “Be that as it may, I have no one, no one!”

he repeated, with that movement of the hand with which the Cossack

expresses his determination to do some unheard-of deed, impossible to

any other man. “Who says that the Ukraine is my country? Who gave it to

me for my country? Our country is the one our soul longs for, the one

which is dearest of all to us. My country is--you! That is my native

land, and I bear that country in my heart. I will bear it there all my

life, and I will see whether any of the Cossacks can tear it thence. And

I will give everything, barter everything, I will destroy myself, for

that country!”

Astounded, she gazed in his eyes for a space, like a beautiful statue,

and then suddenly burst out sobbing; and with the wonderful feminine

impetuosity which only grand-souled, uncalculating women, created for

fine impulses of the heart, are capable of, threw herself upon his neck,

encircling it with her wondrous snowy arms, and wept. At that moment

indistinct shouts rang through the street, accompanied by the sound of

trumpets and kettledrums; but he heard them not. He was only conscious

of the beauteous mouth bathing him with its warm, sweet breath, of the

tears streaming down his face, and of her long, unbound perfumed hair,

veiling him completely in its dark and shining silk.

At that moment the Tatar ran in with a cry of joy. “Saved, saved!” she

cried, beside herself. “Our troops have entered the city. They have

brought corn, millet, flour, and Zaporozhtzi in chains!” But no one

heard that “our troops” had arrived in the city, or what they had

brought with them, or how they had bound the Zaporozhtzi. Filled with

feelings untasted as yet upon earth, Andrii kissed the sweet mouth which

pressed his cheek, and the sweet mouth did not remain unresponsive. In

this union of kisses they experienced that which it is given to a man to

feel but once on earth.

And the Cossack was ruined. He was lost to Cossack chivalry. Never again

will Zaporozhe, nor his father’s house, nor the Church of God, behold

him. The Ukraine will never more see the bravest of the children who

have undertaken to defend her. Old Taras may tear the grey hair from his

scalp-lock, and curse the day and hour in which such a son was born to

dishonour him.

CHAPTER VII

Noise and movement were rife in the Zaporozhian camp. At first, no one

could account for the relieving army having made its way into the city;

but it afterwards appeared that the Pereyaslavsky kuren, encamped before

the wide gate of the town, had been dead drunk. It was no wonder that

half had been killed, and the other half bound, before they knew what it

was all about. Meantime the neighbouring kurens, aroused by the tumult,

succeeded in grasping their weapons; but the relieving force had already

passed through the gate, and its rear ranks fired upon the sleepy and

only half-sober Zaporozhtzi who were pressing in disorder upon them, and

kept them back.

The Koschevoi ordered a general assembly; and when all stood in a ring

and had removed their caps and became quiet, he said: “See what happened

last night, brother gentles! See what drunkenness has led to! See what

shame the enemy has put upon us! It is evident that, if your allowances

are kindly doubled, then you are ready to stretch out at full length,

and the enemies of Christ can not only take your very trousers off you,

but sneeze in your faces without your hearing them!”

The Cossacks all stood with drooping heads, knowing that they were

guilty; only Kukubenko, the hetman of the Nezamisky kuren, answered

back. “Stop, father!” said he; “although it is not lawful to make

a retort when the Koschevoi speaks before the whole army, yet it is

necessary to say that that was not the state of the case. You have not

been quite just in your reprimand. The Cossacks would have been guilty,

and deserving of death, had they got drunk on the march, or when engaged

on heavy toilsome labour during war; but we have been sitting here

unoccupied, loitering in vain before the city. There was no fast or

other Christian restraint; how then could it be otherwise than that a

man should get drunk in idleness? There is no sin in that. But we had

better show them what it is to attack innocent people. They first beat

us well, and now we will beat them so that not half a dozen of them will

ever see home again.”

The speech of the hetman of the kuren pleased the Cossacks. They raised

their drooping heads upright and many nodded approvingly, muttering,

“Kukubenko has spoken well!” And Taras Bulba, who stood not far from the

Koschevoi, said: “How now, Koschevoi? Kukubenko has spoken truth. What

have you to say to this?”

“What have I to say? I say, Blessed be the father of such a son! It

does not need much wisdom to utter words of reproof; but much wisdom

is needed to find such words as do not embitter a man’s misfortune, but

encourage him, restore to him his spirit, put spurs to the horse of his

soul, refreshed by water. I meant myself to speak words of comfort to

you, but Kukubenko has forestalled me.”

“The Koschevoi has also spoken well!” rang through the ranks of the

Zaporozhtzi. “His words are good,” repeated others. And even the

greyheads, who stood there like dark blue doves, nodded their heads and,

twitching their grey moustaches, muttered softly, “That was well said.”

“Listen now, gentles,” continued the Koschevoi. “To take the city, by

scaling its walls, or undermining them as the foreign engineers do,

is not proper, not Cossack fashion. But, judging from appearances,

the enemy entered the city without many provisions; they had not many

waggons with them. The people in the city are hungry; they will all eat

heartily, and the horses will soon devour the hay. I don’t know whether

their saints will fling them down anything from heaven with hayforks;

God only knows that though there are a great many Catholic priests among

them. By one means or another the people will seek to leave the city.

Divide yourselves, therefore, into three divisions, and take up your

posts before the three gates; five kurens before the principal gate, and

three kurens before each of the others. Let the Dadikivsky and Korsunsky

kurens go into ambush and Taras and his men into ambush too. The

Titarevsky and Timoschevsky kurens are to guard the baggage train on

the right flank, the Scherbinovsky and Steblikivsky on the left, and to

select from their ranks the most daring young men to face the foe. The

Lyakhs are of a restless nature and cannot endure a siege, and perhaps

this very day they will sally forth from the gates. Let each hetman

inspect his kuren; those whose ranks are not full are to be recruited

from the remains of the Pereyaslavsky kuren. Inspect them all anew. Give

a loaf and a beaker to each Cossack to strengthen him. But surely every

one must be satiated from last night; for all stuffed themselves so

that, to tell the truth, I am only surprised that no one burst in the

night. And here is one further command: if any Jew spirit-seller sells a

Cossack so much as a single jug of brandy, I will nail pig’s ears to his

very forehead, the dog, and hang him up by his feet. To work, brothers,

to work!”

Thus did the Koschevoi give his orders. All bowed to their girdles, and

without putting on their caps set out for their waggons and camps. It

was only when they had gone some distance that they covered themselves.

All began to equip themselves: they tested their swords, poured powder

from the sacks into their powder-flasks, drew up and arranged the

waggons, and looked to their horses.

On his way to his band, Taras wondered what had become of Andrii; could

he have been captured and found while asleep with the others? But no,

Andrii was not the man to go alive into captivity. Yet he was not to be

seen among the slaughtered Cossacks. Taras pondered deeply and went past

his men without hearing that some one had for some time been calling

him by name. “Who wants me?” he said, finally arousing himself from

his reflections. Before him stood the Jew, Yankel. “Lord colonel! lord

colonel!” said the Jew in a hasty and broken voice, as though desirous

of revealing something not utterly useless, “I have been in the city,

lord colonel!”

Taras looked at the Jew, and wondered how he had succeeded in getting

into the city. “What enemy took you there?”

“I will tell you at once,” said Yankel. “As soon as I heard the uproar

this morning, when the Cossacks began to fire, I seized my caftan and,

without stopping to put it on, ran at the top of my speed, thrusting

my arms in on the way, because I wanted to know as soon as possible the

cause of the noise and why the Cossacks were firing at dawn. I ran to

the very gate of the city, at the moment when the last of the army was

passing through. I looked, and in command of the rearguard was Cornet

Galyandovitch. He is a man well known to me; he has owed me a hundred

ducats these three years past. I ran after him, as though to claim the

debt of him, and so entered the city with them.”

“You entered the city, and wanted him to settle the debt!” said Bulba;

“and he did not order you to be hung like a dog on the spot?”

“By heavens, he did want to hang me,” replied the Jew; “his servants had

already seized me and thrown a rope about my neck. But I besought the

noble lord, and said that I would wait for the money as long as his

lordship liked, and promised to lend him more if he would only help me

to collect my debts from the other nobles; for I can tell my lord that

the noble cornet had not a ducat in his pocket, although he has farms

and estates and four castles and steppe-land that extends clear to

Schklof; but he has not a penny, any more than a Cossack. If the Breslau

Jews had not equipped him, he would never have gone on this campaign.

That was the reason he did not go to the Diet.”

“What did you do in the city? Did you see any of our people?”

“Certainly, there are many of them there: Itzok, Rachum, Samuel,

Khaivalkh, Evrei the pawnbroker--”

“May they die, the dogs!” shouted Taras in a rage. “Why do you name your

Jewish tribe to me? I ask you about our Zaporozhtzi.”

“I saw none of our Zaporozhtzi; I saw only Lord Andrii.”

“You saw Andrii!” shouted Bulba. “What is he doing? Where did you see

him? In a dungeon? in a pit? dishonoured? bound?”

“Who would dare to bind Lord Andrii? now he is so grand a knight.

I hardly recognised him. Gold on his shoulders and his belt, gold

everywhere about him; as the sun shines in spring, when every bird

twitters and sings in the orchard, so he shines, all gold. And his

horse, which the Waiwode himself gave him, is the very best; that horse

alone is worth two hundred ducats.”

Bulba was petrified. “Why has he put on foreign garments?”

“He put them on because they were finer. And he rides about, and the

others ride about, and he teaches them, and they teach him; like the

very grandest Polish noble.”

“Who forced him to do this?”

“I should not say that he had been forced. Does not my lord know that he

went over to them of his own free will?”

“Who went over?”

“Lord Andrii.”

“Went where?”

“Went over to their side; he is now a thorough foreigner.”

“You lie, you hog’s ear!”

“How is it possible that I should lie? Am I a fool, that I should lie?

Would I lie at the risk of my head? Do not I know that Jews are hung

like dogs if they lie to nobles?”

“Then it means, according to you, he has betrayed his native land and

his faith?”

“I do not say that he has betrayed anything; I merely said that he had

gone over to the other side.”

“You lie, you imp of a Jew! Such a deed was never known in a Christian

land. You are making a mistake, dog!”

“May the grass grow upon the threshold of my house if I am mistaken!

May every one spit upon the grave of my father, my mother, my father’s

father, and my mother’s father, if I am mistaken! If my lord wished I

can even tell him why he went over to them.”

“Why?”

“The Waiwode has a beautiful daughter. Holy Father! what a beauty!”

Here the Jew tried his utmost to express beauty by extending his hands,

screwing up his eyes, and twisting his mouth to one side as though

tasting something on trial.

“Well, what of that?”

“He did it all for her, he went there for her sake. When a man is in

love, then all things are the same to him; like the sole of a shoe which

you can bend in any direction if you soak it in water.”

Bulba reflected deeply. He remembered the power of weak woman--how

she had ruined many a strong man, and that this was the weak point in

Andrii’s nature--and stood for some time in one spot, as though rooted

there. “Listen, my lord, I will tell my lord all,” said the Jew. “As

soon as I heard the uproar, and saw them going through the city gate,

I seized a string of pearls, in case of any emergency. For there

are beauties and noble-women there; ‘and if there are beauties and

noble-women,’ I said to myself, ‘they will buy pearls, even if they have

nothing to eat.’ And, as soon as ever the cornet’s servants had set me

at liberty, I hastened to the Waiwode’s residence to sell my pearls. I

asked all manner of questions of the lady’s Tatar maid; the wedding

is to take place immediately, as soon as they have driven off the

Zaporozhtzi. Lord Andrii has promised to drive off the Zaporovians.”

“And you did not kill him on the spot, you devil’s brat?” shouted Bulba.

“Why should I kill him? He went over of his own free will. What is his

crime? He liked it better there, so he went there.”

“And you saw him face to face?”

“Face to face, by heavens! such a magnificent warrior! more splendid

than all the rest. God bless him, he knew me, and when I approached him

he said at once--”

“What did he say?”

“He said--First he beckoned me with his finger, and then he said,

‘Yankel!’ Lord Andrii said, ‘Yankel, tell my father, tell my brother,

tell all the Cossacks, all the Zaporozhtzi, everybody, that my father

is no longer my father, nor my brother my brother, nor my comrades my

comrades; and that I will fight them all, all.’”

“You lie, imp of a Jew!” shouted Taras, beside himself. “You lie, dog! I

will kill you, Satan! Get away from here! if not, death awaits you!” So

saying, Taras drew his sword.

The terrified Jew set off instantly, at the full speed of his thin,

shrunken legs. He ran for a long time, without looking back, through the

Cossack camp, and then far out on the deserted plain, although Taras

did not chase him at all, reasoning that it was foolish to thus vent his

rage on the first person who presented himself.

Then he recollected that he had seen Andrii on the previous night

traversing the camp with some woman, and he bowed his grey head. Still

he would not believe that so disgraceful a thing could have happened,

and that his own son had betrayed his faith and soul.

Finally he placed his men in ambush in a wood--the only one which had

not been burned by the Cossacks--whilst the Zaporozhians, foot and

horse, set out for the three gates by three different roads. One

after another the kurens turned out: Oumansky, Popovichesky, Kanevsky,

Steblikovsky, Nezamaikovsky, Gurgazif, Titarevsky, Tomischevsky. The

Pereyaslavsky kuren alone was wanting. Its Cossacks had smoked and drank

to their destruction. Some awoke to find themselves bound in the enemy’s

hands; others never woke at all but passed in their sleep into the

damp earth; and the hetman Khlib himself, minus his trousers and

accoutrements, found himself in the camp of the Lyakhs.

The uproar among the Zaporozhtzi was heard in the city. All the besieged

hastened to the ramparts, and a lively scene was presented to the

Cossacks. The handsome Polish heroes thronged on the wall. The brazen

helmets of some shone like the sun, and were adorned with feathers white

as swans. Others wore pink and blue caps, drooping over one ear, and

caftans with the sleeves thrown back, embroidered with gold. Their

weapons were richly mounted and very costly, as were their equipments.

In the front rank the Budzhakovsky colonel stood proudly in his red cap

ornamented with gold. He was a tall, stout man, and his rich and ample

caftan hardly covered him. Near the side gate stood another colonel. He

was a dried-up little man, but his small, piercing eyes gleamed sharply

from under his thick and shaggy brows, and as he turned quickly on all

sides, motioning boldly with his thin, withered hand, and giving out his

orders, it was evident that, in spite of his little body, he understood

military science thoroughly. Not far from him stood a very tall cornet,

with thick moustaches and a highly-coloured complexion--a noble fond

of strong mead and hearty revelry. Behind them were many nobles who had

equipped themselves, some with their own ducats, some from the royal

treasury, some with money obtained from the Jews, by pawning everything

they found in their ancestral castles. Many too were parasites, whom the

senators took with them to dinners for show, and who stole silver cups

from the table and the sideboard, and when the day’s display was over

mounted some noble’s coach-box and drove his horses. There were folk of

all kinds there. Sometimes they had not enough to drink, but all were

equipped for war.

The Cossack ranks stood quietly before the walls. There was no gold

about them, save where it shone on the hilt of a sword or the mountings

of a gun. The Zaporozhtzi were not given to decking themselves out

gaily for battle: their coats-of-mail and garments were plain, and their

black-bordered red-crowned caps showed darkly in the distance.

Two men--Okhrim Nasch and Mikiga Golokopuitenko--advanced from the

Zaporozhian ranks. One was quite young, the other older; both fierce in

words, and not bad specimens of Cossacks in action. They were followed

by Demid Popovitch, a strongly built Cossack who had been hanging

about the Setch for a long time, after having been in Adrianople and

undergoing a great deal in the course of his life. He had been burned,

and had escaped to the Setch with blackened head and singed moustaches.

But Popovitch recovered, let his hair grow, raised moustaches thick

and black as pitch, and was a stout fellow, according to his own biting

speech.

“Red jackets on all the army, but I should like to know what sort of men

are under them,” he cried.

“I will show you,” shouted the stout colonel from above. “I will capture

the whole of you. Surrender your guns and horses, slaves. Did you see

how I caught your men?--Bring out a Zaporozhetz on the wall for them to

see.”

And they let out a Zaporozhetz bound with stout cords.

Before them stood Khlib, the hetman of the Pereyaslavsky kuren, without

his trousers or accoutrements, just as they had captured him in his

drunken sleep. He bowed his head in shame before the Cossacks at his

nakedness, and at having been thus taken like a dog, while asleep. His

hair had turned grey in one night.

“Grieve not, Khlib: we will rescue you,” shouted the Cossacks from

below.

“Grieve not, friend,” cried the hetman Borodaty. “It is not your fault

that they caught you naked: that misfortune might happen to any man. But

it is a disgrace to them that they should have exposed you to dishonour,

and not covered your nakedness decently.”

“You seem to be a brave army when you have people who are asleep to

fight,” remarked Golokopuitenko, glancing at the ramparts.

“Wait a bit, we’ll singe your top-knots for you!” was the reply.

“I should like to see them singe our scalp locks!” said Popovitch,

prancing about before them on his horse; and then, glancing at his

comrades, he added, “Well, perhaps the Lyakhs speak the truth: if that

fat-bellied fellow leads them, they will all find a good shelter.”

“Why do you think they will find a good shelter?” asked the Cossacks,

knowing that Popovitch was probably preparing some repartee.

“Because the whole army will hide behind him; and the devil himself

couldn’t help you to reach any one with your spear through that belly of

his!”

The Cossacks laughed, some of them shaking their heads and saying, “What

a fellow Popovitch is for a joke! but now--” But the Cossacks had not

time to explain what they meant by that “now.”

“Fall back, fall back quickly from the wall!” shouted the Koschevoi,

seeing that the Lyakhs could not endure these biting words, and that the

colonel was waving his hand.

The Cossacks had hardly retreated from the wall before the grape-shot

rained down. On the ramparts all was excitement, and the grey-haired

Waiwode himself appeared on horseback. The gates opened and the garrison

sallied forth. In the van came hussars in orderly ranks, behind them the

horsemen in armour, and then the heroes in brazen helmets; after whom

rode singly the highest nobility, each man accoutred as he pleased.

These haughty nobles would not mingle in the ranks with others, and

such of them as had no commands rode apart with their own immediate

following. Next came some more companies, and after these the cornet,

then more files of men, and the stout colonel; and in the rear of the

whole force the little colonel.

“Keep them from forming in line!” shouted the Koschevoi; “let all the

kurens attack them at once! Block the other gate! Titarevsky kuren, fall

on one flank! Dyadovsky kuren, charge on the other! Attack them in

the rear, Kukubenko and Palivod! Check them, break them!” The Cossacks

attacked on all sides, throwing the Lyakhs into confusion and getting

confused themselves. They did not even give the foe time to fire, it

came to swords and spears at once. All fought hand to hand, and each man

had an opportunity to distinguish himself.

Demid Popovitch speared three soldiers, and struck two of the highest

nobles from their saddles, saying, “Good horses! I have long wanted

just such horses.” And he drove the horses far afield, shouting to the

Cossacks standing about to catch them. Then he rushed again into the

fray, fell upon the dismounted nobles, slew one, and throwing his lasso

round the neck of the other, tied him to his saddle and dragged him over

the plain, after having taken from him his sword from its rich hilt and

removed from his girdle a whole bag of ducats.

Kobita, a good Cossack, though still very young, attacked one of the

bravest men in the Polish army, and they fought long together. They

grappled, and the Cossack mastering his foe, and throwing him down,

stabbed him in the breast with his sharp Turkish knife. But he did not

look out for himself, and a bullet struck him on the temple. The man who

struck him down was the most distinguished of the nobles, the handsomest

scion of an ancient and princely race. Like a stately poplar, he

bestrode his dun-coloured steed, and many heroic deeds did he perform.

He cut two Cossacks in twain. Fedor Korzh, the brave Cossack, he

overthrew together with his horse, shooting the steed and picking off

the rider with his spear. Many heads and hands did he hew off; and slew

Kobita by sending a bullet through his temple.

“There’s a man I should like to measure strength with!” shouted

Kukubenko, the hetman of the Nezamaikovsky kuren. Spurring his horse,

he dashed straight at the Pole’s back, shouting loudly, so that all who

stood near shuddered at the unearthly yell. The boyard tried to wheel

his horse suddenly and face him, but his horse would not obey him;

scared by the terrible cry, it bounded aside, and the Lyakh received

Kukubenko’s fire. The ball struck him in the shoulder-blade, and he

rolled from his saddle. Even then he did not surrender and strove to

deal his enemy a blow, but his hand was weak. Kukubenko, taking his

heavy sword in both hands, thrust it through his mouth. The sword,

breaking out two teeth, cut the tongue in twain, pierced the windpipe,

and penetrated deep into the earth, nailing him to the ground. His

noble blood, red as viburnum berries beside the river, welled forth in

a stream staining his yellow, gold-embroidered caftan. But Kukubenko had

already left him, and was forcing his way, with his Nezamaikovsky kuren,

towards another group.

“He has left untouched rich plunder,” said Borodaty, hetman of the

Oumansky kuren, leaving his men and going to the place where the

nobleman killed by Kukubenko lay. “I have killed seven nobles with my

own hand, but such spoil I never beheld on any one.” Prompted by greed,

Borodaty bent down to strip off the rich armour, and had already secured

the Turkish knife set with precious stones, and taken from the foe’s

belt a purse of ducats, and from his breast a silver case containing a

maiden’s curl, cherished tenderly as a love-token. But he heeded not how

the red-faced cornet, whom he had already once hurled from the saddle

and given a good blow as a remembrance, flew upon him from behind. The

cornet swung his arm with all his might, and brought his sword down upon

Borodaty’s bent neck. Greed led to no good: the head rolled off, and the

body fell headless, sprinkling the earth with blood far and wide; whilst

the Cossack soul ascended, indignant and surprised at having so soon

quitted so stout a frame. The cornet had not succeeded in seizing the

hetman’s head by its scalp-lock, and fastening it to his saddle, before

an avenger had arrived.

As a hawk floating in the sky, sweeping in great circles with his mighty

wings, suddenly remains poised in air, in one spot, and thence darts

down like an arrow upon the shrieking quail, so Taras’s son Ostap darted

suddenly upon the cornet and flung a rope about his neck with one cast.

The cornet’s red face became a still deeper purple as the cruel

noose compressed his throat, and he tried to use his pistol; but his

convulsively quivering hand could not aim straight, and the bullet flew

wild across the plain. Ostap immediately unfastened a silken cord which

the cornet carried at his saddle bow to bind prisoners, and having with

it bound him hand and foot, attached the cord to his saddle and dragged

him across the field, calling on all the Cossacks of the Oumansky kuren

to come and render the last honours to their hetman.

When the Oumantzi heard that the hetman of their kuren, Borodaty, was

no longer among the living, they deserted the field of battle, rushed to

secure his body, and consulted at once as to whom they should select as

their leader. At length they said, “But why consult? It is impossible to

find a better leader than Bulba’s son, Ostap; he is younger than all

the rest of us, it is true; but his judgment is equal to that of the

eldest.”

Ostap, taking off his cap, thanked his comrades for the honour, and did

not decline it on the ground of youth or inexperience, knowing that war

time is no fitting season for that; but instantly ordered them straight

to the fray, and soon showed them that not in vain had they chosen him

as hetman. The Lyakhs felt that the matter was growing too hot for them,

and retreated across the plain in order to form again at its other

end. But the little colonel signalled to the reserve of four hundred,

stationed at the gate, and these rained shot upon the Cossacks. To

little purpose, however, their shot only taking effect on the Cossack

oxen, which were gazing wildly upon the battle. The frightened oxen,

bellowing with fear, dashed into the camp, breaking the line of waggons

and trampling on many. But Taras, emerging from ambush at the moment

with his troops, headed off the infuriated cattle, which, startled by

his yell, swooped down upon the Polish troops, overthrew the cavalry,

and crushed and dispersed them all.

“Thank you, oxen!” cried the Zaporozhtzi; “you served us on the march,

and now you serve us in war.” And they attacked the foe with

fresh vigour killing many of the enemy. Several distinguished

themselves--Metelitza and Schilo, both of the Pisarenki, Vovtuzenko, and

many others. The Lyakhs seeing that matters were going badly for them

flung away their banners and shouted for the city gates to be opened.

With a screeching sound the iron-bound gates swung open and received the

weary and dust-covered riders, flocking like sheep into a fold. Many of

the Zaporozhtzi would have pursued them, but Ostap stopped his Oumantzi,

saying, “Farther, farther from the walls, brother gentles! it is

not well to approach them too closely.” He spoke truly; for from the

ramparts the foe rained and poured down everything which came to

hand, and many were struck. At that moment the Koschevoi came up and

congratulated him, saying, “Here is the new hetman leading the army like

an old one!” Old Bulba glanced round to see the new hetman, and beheld

Ostap sitting on his horse at the head of the Oumantzi, his cap on one

side and the hetman’s staff in his hand. “Who ever saw the like!” he

exclaimed; and the old man rejoiced, and began to thank all the Oumantzi

for the honour they had conferred upon his son.

The Cossacks retired, preparing to go into camp; but the Lyakhs showed

themselves again on the city ramparts with tattered mantles. Many rich

caftans were spotted with blood, and dust covered the brazen helmets.

“Have you bound us?” cried the Zaporozhtzi to them from below.

“We will do so!” shouted the big colonel from above, showing them a

rope. The weary, dust-covered warriors ceased not to threaten, nor the

most zealous on both sides to exchange fierce remarks.

At length all dispersed. Some, weary with battle, stretched themselves

out to rest; others sprinkled their wounds with earth, and bound them

with kerchiefs and rich stuffs captured from the enemy. Others, who were

fresher, began to inspect the corpses and to pay them the last honours.

They dug graves with swords and spears, brought earth in their caps and

the skirts of their garments, laid the Cossacks’ bodies out decently,

and covered them up in order that the ravens and eagles might not claw

out their eyes. But binding the bodies of the Lyakhs, as they came

to hand, to the tails of horses, they let these loose on the plain,

pursuing them and beating them for some time. The infuriated horses flew

over hill and hollow, through ditch and brook, dragging the bodies of

the Poles, all covered with blood and dust, along the ground.

All the kurens sat down in circles in the evening, and talked for a long

time of their deeds, and of the achievements which had fallen to the

share of each, for repetition by strangers and posterity. It was long

before they lay down to sleep; and longer still before old Taras,

meditating what it might signify that Andrii was not among the foe,

lay down. Had the Judas been ashamed to come forth against his own

countrymen? or had the Jew been deceiving him, and had he simply gone

into the city against his will? But then he recollected that there were

no bounds to a woman’s influence upon Andrii’s heart; he felt ashamed,

and swore a mighty oath to himself against the fair Pole who had

bewitched his son. And he would have kept his oath. He would not have

looked at her beauty; he would have dragged her forth by her thick and

splendid hair; he would have trailed her after him over all the plain,

among all the Cossacks. Her beautiful shoulders and bosom, white as

fresh-fallen snow upon the mountain-tops, would have been crushed to

earth and covered with blood and dust. Her lovely body would have been

torn to pieces. But Taras, who did not foresee what God prepares for

man on the morrow, began to grow drowsy, and finally fell asleep. The

Cossacks still talked among themselves; and the sober sentinel stood all

night long beside the fire without blinking and keeping a good look out

on all sides.

CHAPTER VIII

The sun had not ascended midway in the heavens when all the army

assembled in a group. News had come from the Setch that during the

Cossacks’ absence the Tatars had plundered it completely, unearthed the

treasures which were kept concealed in the ground, killed or carried

into captivity all who had remained behind, and straightway set out,

with all the flocks and droves of horses they had collected, for

Perekop. One Cossack only, Maksin Galodukha, had broken loose from the

Tatars’ hands, stabbed the Mirza, seized his bag of sequins, and on

a Tatar horse, in Tatar garments, had fled from his pursuers for

two nights and a day and a half, ridden his horse to death, obtained

another, killed that one too, and arrived at the Zaporozhian camp upon

a third, having learned upon the road that the Zaporozhtzi were before

Dubno. He could only manage to tell them that this misfortune had taken

place; but as to how it happened--whether the remaining Zaporozhtzi had

been carousing after Cossack fashion, and had been carried drunk into

captivity, and how the Tatars were aware of the spot where the treasures

of the army were concealed--he was too exhausted to say. Extremely

fatigued, his body swollen, and his face scorched and weatherbeaten, he

had fallen down, and a deep sleep had overpowered him.

In such cases it was customary for the Cossacks to pursue the robbers at

once, endeavouring to overtake them on the road; for, let the prisoners

once be got to the bazaars of Asia Minor, Smyrna, or the island of

Crete, and God knows in what places the tufted heads of Zaporozhtzi

might not be seen. This was the occasion of the Cossacks’ assembling.

They all stood to a man with their caps on; for they had not met to

listen to the commands of their hetman, but to take counsel together as

equals among equals. “Let the old men first advise,” was shouted to the

crowd. “Let the Koschevoi give his opinion,” cried others.

The Koschevoi, taking off his cap and speaking not as commander, but as

a comrade among comrades, thanked all the Cossacks for the honour, and

said, “There are among us many experienced men and much wisdom; but

since you have thought me worthy, my counsel is not to lose time in

pursuing the Tatars, for you know yourselves what the Tatar is. He will

not pause with his stolen booty to await our coming, but will vanish in

a twinkling, so that you can find no trace of him. Therefore my advice

is to go. We have had good sport here. The Lyakhs now know what Cossacks

are. We have avenged our faith to the extent of our ability; there is

not much to satisfy greed in the famished city, and so my advice is to

go.”

“To go,” rang heavily through the Zaporozhian kurens. But such words

did not suit Taras Bulba at all; and he brought his frowning, iron-grey

brows still lower down over his eyes, brows like bushes growing on dark

mountain heights, whose crowns are suddenly covered with sharp northern

frost.

“No, Koschevoi, your counsel is not good,” said he. “You cannot say

that. You have evidently forgotten that those of our men captured by the

Lyakhs will remain prisoners. You evidently wish that we should not heed

the first holy law of comradeship; that we should leave our brethren to

be flayed alive, or carried about through the towns and villages after

their Cossack bodies have been quartered, as was done with the hetman

and the bravest Russian warriors in the Ukraine. Have the enemy not

desecrated the holy things sufficiently without that? What are we? I

ask you all what sort of a Cossack is he who would desert his comrade in

misfortune, and let him perish like a dog in a foreign land? If it has

come to such a pass that no one has any confidence in Cossack honour,

permitting men to spit upon his grey moustache, and upbraid him with

offensive words, then let no one blame me; I will remain here alone.”

All the Zaporozhtzi who were there wavered.

“And have you forgotten, brave comrades,” said the Koschevoi, “that

the Tatars also have comrades of ours in their hands; that if we do not

rescue them now their lives will be sacrificed in eternal imprisonment

among the infidels, which is worse than the most cruel death? Have you

forgotten that they now hold all our treasure, won by Christian blood?”

The Cossacks reflected, not knowing what to say. None of them wished to

deserve ill repute. Then there stepped out in front of them the oldest

in years of all the Zaporozhian army, Kasyan Bovdug. He was respected by

all the Cossacks. Twice had he been chosen Koschevoi, and had also been

a stout warrior; but he had long been old, and had ceased to go upon

raids. Neither did the old man like to give advice to any one; but loved

to lie upon his side in the circle of Cossacks, listening to tales

of every occurrence on the Cossack marches. He never joined in the

conversation, but only listened, and pressed the ashes with his finger

in his short pipe, which never left his mouth; and would sit so long

with his eyes half open, that the Cossacks never knew whether he were

asleep or still listening. He always stayed at home during their raids,

but this time the old man had joined the army. He had waved his hand in

Cossack fashion, and said, “Wherever you go, I am going too; perhaps I

may be of some service to the Cossack nation.” All the Cossacks became

silent when he now stepped forward before the assembly, for it was long

since any speech from him had been heard. Every one wanted to know what

Bovdug had to say.

“It is my turn to speak a word, brother gentles,” he began: “listen,

my children, to an old man. The Koschevoi spoke well as the head of the

Cossack army; being bound to protect it, and in respect to the treasures

of the army he could say nothing wiser. That is so! Let that be my first

remark; but now listen to my second. And this is my second remark: Taras

spoke even more truly. God grant him many years, and that such leaders

may be plentiful in the Ukraine! A Cossack’s first duty and honour is to

guard comradeship. Never in all my life, brother gentles, have I heard

of any Cossack deserting or betraying any of his comrades. Both those

made captive at the Setch and these taken here are our comrades. Whether

they be few or many, it makes no difference; all are our comrades,

and all are dear to us. So this is my speech: Let those to whom the

prisoners captured by the Tatars are dear set out after the Tatars; and

let those to whom the captives of the Poles are dear, and who do

not care to desert a righteous cause, stay behind. The Koschevoi, in

accordance with his duty, will accompany one half in pursuit of the

Tatars, and the other half can choose a hetman to lead them. But if

you will heed the words of an old man, there is no man fitter to be

the commanding hetman than Taras Bulba. Not one of us is his equal in

heroism.”

Thus spoke Bovdug, and paused; and all the Cossacks rejoiced that the

old man had in this manner brought them to an agreement. All flung up

their caps and shouted, “Thanks, father! He kept silence for a long,

long time, but he has spoken at last. Not in vain did he say, when we

prepared for this expedition, that he might be useful to the Cossack

nation: even so it has come to pass!”

“Well, are you agreed upon anything?” asked the Koschevoi.

“We are all agreed!” cried the Cossacks.

“Then the council is at an end?”

“At an end!” cried the Cossacks.

“Then listen to the military command, children,” said the Koschevoi,

stepping forward, and putting on his cap; whilst all the Cossacks took

off theirs, and stood with uncovered heads, and with eyes fixed upon the

earth, as was always the custom among them when the leader prepared to

speak. “Now divide yourselves, brother gentles! Let those who wish to go

stand on the right, and those who wish to stay, on the left. Where the

majority of a kuren goes there its officers are to go: if the minority

of a kuren goes over, it must be added to another kuren.”

Then they began to take up their positions, some to the right and some

to the left. Whither the majority of a kuren went thither the hetman

went also; and the minority attached itself to another kuren. It came

out pretty even on both sides. Those who wished to remain were nearly

the whole of the Nezamaikovsky kuren, the entire Oumansky kuren, the

entire Kanevsky kuren, and the larger half of the Popovitchsky, the

Timoschevsky and the Steblikivsky kurens. All the rest preferred to go

in pursuit of the Tatars. On both sides there were many stout and brave

Cossacks. Among those who decided to follow the Tatars were Tcherevaty,

and those good old Cossacks Pokotipole, Lemisch, and Prokopovitch Koma.

Demid Popovitch also went with that party, because he could not sit long

in one place: he had tried his hand on the Lyakhs and wanted to try it

on the Tatars also. The hetmans of kurens were Nostiugan, Pokruischka,

Nevnimsky, and numerous brave and renowned Cossacks who wished to test

their swords and muscles in an encounter with the Tatars. There were

likewise many brave Cossacks among those who preferred to remain,

including the kuren hetmans, Demitrovitch, Kukubenko, Vertikhvist,

Balan, and Ostap Bulba. Besides these there were plenty of stout and

distinguished warriors: Vovtuzenko, Tcherevitchenko, Stepan Guska,

Okhrim Guska, Vikola Gonstiy, Zadorozhniy, Metelitza, Ivan Zakrutiguba,

Mosiy Pisarenko, and still another Pisarenko, and many others. They were

all great travellers; they had visited the shores of Anatolia, the salt

marshes and steppes of the Crimea, all the rivers great and small which

empty into the Dnieper, and all the fords and islands of the Dnieper;

they had been in Moldavia, Wallachia, and Turkey; they had sailed all

over the Black Sea, in their double-ruddered Cossack boats; they had

attacked with fifty skiffs in line the tallest and richest ships; they

had sunk many a Turkish galley, and had burnt much, very much powder in

their day; more than once they had made foot-bandages from velvets and

rich stuffs; more than once they had beaten buckles for their girdles

out of sequins. Every one of them had drunk and revelled away what would

have sufficed any other for a whole lifetime, and had nothing to show

for it. They spent it all, like Cossacks, in treating all the world, and

in hiring music that every one might be merry. Even now few of them

had amassed any property: some caskets, cups, and bracelets were hidden

beneath the reeds on the islands of the Dnieper in order that the Tatars

might not find them if by mishap they should succeed in falling suddenly

on the Setch; but it would have been difficult for the Tatars to find

them, for the owners themselves had forgotten where they had buried

them. Such were the Cossacks who wished to remain and take vengeance on

the Lyakhs for their trusty comrades and the faith of Christ. The old

Cossack Bovdug wished also to remain with them, saying, “I am not of

an age to pursue the Tatars, but this is a place to meet a good Cossack

death. I have long prayed God that when my life was to end I might end

it in battle for a holy and Christian cause. And so it has come to

pass. There can be no more glorious end in any other place for the aged

Cossack.”

When they had all separated, and were ranged in two lines on opposite

sides, the Koschevoi passed through the ranks, and said, “Well, brother

gentles, are the two parties satisfied with each other?”

“All satisfied, father!” replied the Cossacks.

“Then kiss each other, and bid each other farewell; for God knows

whether you will ever see each other alive again. Obey your hetman,

but you know yourselves what you have to do: you know yourselves what

Cossack honour requires.”

And all the Cossacks kissed each other. The hetmans first began it.

Stroking down their grey moustaches, they kissed each other, making the

sign of the cross, and then, grasping hands firmly, wanted to ask of

each other, “Well, brother, shall we see one another again or not?” But

they did not ask the question: they kept silence, and both grey-heads

were lost in thought. Then the Cossacks took leave of each other to the

last man, knowing that there was a great deal of work before them all.

Yet they were not obliged to part at once: they would have to wait until

night in order not to let the Lyakhs perceive the diminution in the

Cossack army. Then all went off, by kurens, to dine.

After dinner, all who had the prospect of the journey before them lay

down to rest, and fell into a deep and long sleep, as though foreseeing

that it was the last sleep they should enjoy in such security. They

slept even until sunset; and when the sun had gone down and it had grown

somewhat dusky, began to tar the waggons. All being in readiness, they

sent the waggons ahead, and having pulled off their caps once more to

their comrades, quietly followed the baggage train. The cavalry,

without shouts or whistles to the horses, tramped lightly after the

foot-soldiers, and all soon vanished in the darkness. The only sound was

the dull thud of horses’ hoofs, or the squeak of some wheel which had

not got into working order, or had not been properly tarred amid the

darkness.

Their comrades stood for some time waving their hands, though nothing

was visible. But when they returned to their camping places and saw by

the light of the gleaming stars that half the waggons were gone,

and many of their comrades, each man’s heart grew sad; all became

involuntarily pensive, and drooped their heads towards the earth.

Taras saw how troubled were the Cossack ranks, and that sadness,

unsuited to brave men, had begun to quietly master the Cossack hearts;

but he remained silent. He wished to give them time to become accustomed

to the melancholy caused by their parting from their comrades; but,

meanwhile, he was preparing to rouse them at one blow, by a loud

battle-cry in Cossack fashion, in order that good cheer might return

to the soul of each with greater strength than before. Of this only the

Slav nature, a broad, powerful nature, which is to others what the sea

is to small rivulets, is capable. In stormy times it roars and thunders,

raging, and raising such waves as weak rivers cannot throw up; but

when it is windless and quiet, it spreads its boundless glassy surface,

clearer than any river, a constant delight to the eye.

Taras ordered his servants to unload one of the waggons which stood

apart. It was larger and stronger than any other in the Cossack camp;

two stout tires encircled its mighty wheels. It was heavily laden,

covered with horsecloths and strong wolf-skins, and firmly bound with

tightly drawn tarred ropes. In the waggon were flasks and casks of

good old wine, which had long lain in Taras’s cellar. He had brought it

along, in case a moment should arrive when some deed awaited them worthy

of being handed down to posterity, so that each Cossack, to the very

last man, might quaff it, and be inspired with sentiments fitting to the

occasion. On receiving his command, the servants hastened to the waggon,

hewed asunder the stout ropes with their swords, removed the thick

wolf-skins and horsecloths, and drew forth the flasks and casks.

“Take them all,” said Bulba, “all there are; take them, that every one

may be supplied. Take jugs, or the pails for watering the horses; take

sleeve or cap; but if you have nothing else, then hold your two hands

under.”

All the Cossacks seized something: one took a jug, another a pail,

another a sleeve, another a cap, and another held both hands. Taras’s

servants, making their way among the ranks, poured out for all from the

casks and flasks. But Taras ordered them not to drink until he should

give the signal for all to drink together. It was evident that he wished

to say something. He knew that however good in itself the wine might be

and however fitted to strengthen the spirit of man, yet, if a suitable

speech were linked with it, then the strength of the wine and of the

spirit would be doubled.

“I treat you, brother gentles,” thus spoke Bulba, “not in honour of

your having made me hetman, however great such an honour may be, nor in

honour of our parting from our comrades. To do both would be fitting at

a fitting time; but the moment before us is not such a time. The

work before us is great both in labour and in glory for the Cossacks.

Therefore let us drink all together, let us drink before all else to the

holy orthodox faith, that the day may finally come when it may be spread

over all the world, and that everywhere there may be but one faith,

and that all Mussulmans may become Christians. And let us also drink

together to the Setch, that it may stand long for the ruin of the

Mussulmans, and that every year there may issue forth from it young men,

each better, each handsomer than the other. And let us drink to our own

glory, that our grandsons and their sons may say that there were once

men who were not ashamed of comradeship, and who never betrayed each

other. Now to the faith, brother gentles, to the faith!”

“To the faith!” cried those standing in the ranks hard by, with thick

voices. “To the faith!” those more distant took up the cry; and all,

both young and old, drank to the faith.

“To the Setch!” said Taras, raising his hand high above his head.

“To the Setch!” echoed the foremost ranks. “To the Setch!” said the

old men, softly, twitching their grey moustaches; and eagerly as young

hawks, the youths repeated, “To the Setch!” And the distant plain heard

how the Cossacks mentioned their Setch.

“Now a last draught, comrades, to the glory of all Christians now living

in the world!”

And every Cossack drank a last draught to the glory of all Christians in

the world. And among all the ranks in the kurens they long repeated, “To

all the Christians in the world!”

The pails were empty, but the Cossacks still stood with their hands

uplifted. Although the eyes of all gleamed brightly with the wine,

they were thinking deeply. Not of greed or the spoils of war were they

thinking now, nor of who would be lucky enough to get ducats, fine

weapons, embroidered caftans, and Tcherkessian horses; but they

meditated like eagles perched upon the rocky crests of mountains, from

which the distant sea is visible, dotted, as with tiny birds, with

galleys, ships, and every sort of vessel, bounded only by the scarcely

visible lines of shore, with their ports like gnats and their forests

like fine grass. Like eagles they gazed out on all the plain, with their

fate darkling in the distance. All the plain, with its slopes and roads,

will be covered with their white projecting bones, lavishly washed with

their Cossack blood, and strewn with shattered waggons and with broken

swords and spears; the eagles will swoop down and tear out their Cossack

eyes. But there is one grand advantage: not a single noble deed will be

lost, and the Cossack glory will not vanish like the tiniest grain of

powder from a gun-barrel. The guitar-player with grey beard falling upon

his breast, and perhaps a white-headed old man still full of ripe, manly

strength will come, and will speak his low, strong words of them. And

their glory will resound through all the world, and all who are born

thereafter will speak of them; for the word of power is carried afar,

ringing like a booming brazen bell, in which the maker has mingled much

rich, pure silver, that is beautiful sound may be borne far and wide

through the cities, villages, huts, and palaces, summoning all betimes

to holy prayer.

CHAPTER IX

In the city, no one knew that one-half of the Cossacks had gone in

pursuit of the Tatars. From the tower of the town hall the sentinel only

perceived that a part of the waggons had been dragged into the forest;

but it was thought that the Cossacks were preparing an ambush--a view

taken by the French engineer also. Meanwhile, the Koschevoi’s words

proved not unfounded, for a scarcity of provisions arose in the city.

According to a custom of past centuries, the army did not separate as

much as was necessary. They tried to make a sortie; but half of those

who did so were instantly killed by the Cossacks, and the other

half driven back into the city with no results. But the Jews availed

themselves of the opportunity to find out everything; whither and

why the Zaporozhtzi had departed, and with what leaders, and which

particular kurens, and their number, and how many had remained on the

spot, and what they intended to do; in short, within a few minutes all

was known in the city.

The besieged took courage, and prepared to offer battle. Taras had

already divined it from the noise and movement in the city, and hastened

about, making his arrangements, forming his men, and giving orders and

instructions. He ranged the kurens in three camps, surrounding them

with the waggons as bulwarks--a formation in which the Zaporozhtzi were

invincible--ordered two kurens into ambush, and drove sharp stakes,

broken guns, and fragments of spears into a part of the plain, with a

view to forcing the enemy’s cavalry upon it if an opportunity should

present itself. When all was done which was necessary, he made a speech

to the Cossacks, not for the purpose of encouraging and freshening up

their spirits--he knew their souls were strong without that--but simply

because he wished to tell them all he had upon his heart.

“I want to tell you, brother gentles, what our brotherhood is. You have

heard from your fathers and grandfathers in what honour our land has

always been held by all. We made ourselves known to the Greeks, and we

took gold from Constantinople, and our cities were luxurious, and we

had, too, our temples, and our princes--the princes of the Russian

people, our own princes, not Catholic unbelievers. But the Mussulmans

took all; all vanished, and we remained defenceless; yea, like a widow

after the death of a powerful husband: defenceless was our land as well

as ourselves! Such was the time, comrades, when we joined hands in a

brotherhood: that is what our fellowship consists in. There is no more

sacred brotherhood. The father loves his children, the mother loves her

children, the children love their father and mother; but this is not

like that, brothers. The wild beast also loves its young. But a man can

be related only by similarity of mind and not of blood. There have been

brotherhoods in other lands, but never any such brotherhoods as on our

Russian soil. It has happened to many of you to be in foreign lands. You

look: there are people there also, God’s creatures, too; and you talk

with them as with the men of your own country. But when it comes to

saying a hearty word--you will see. No! they are sensible people,

but not the same; the same kind of people, and yet not the same! No,

brothers, to love as the Russian soul loves, is to love not with the

mind or anything else, but with all that God has given, all that is

within you. Ah!” said Taras, and waved his hand, and wiped his grey

head, and twitched his moustache, and then went on: “No, no one else

can love in that way! I know that baseness has now made its way into

our land. Men care only to have their ricks of grain and hay, and their

droves of horses, and that their mead may be safe in their cellars;

they adopt, the devil only knows what Mussulman customs. They speak

scornfully with their tongues. They care not to speak their real

thoughts with their own countrymen. They sell their own things to their

own comrades, like soulless creatures in the market-place. The favour

of a foreign king, and not even a king, but the poor favour of a Polish

magnate, who beats them on the mouth with his yellow shoe, is dearer

to them than all brotherhood. But the very meanest of these vile men,

whoever he may be, given over though he be to vileness and slavishness,

even he, brothers, has some grains of Russian feeling; and they will

assert themselves some day. And then the wretched man will beat his

breast with his hands; and will tear his hair, cursing his vile life

loudly, and ready to expiate his disgraceful deeds with torture. Let

them know what brotherhood means on Russian soil! And if it has come to

the point that a man must die for his brotherhood, it is not fit that

any of them should die so. No! none of them. It is not a fit thing for

their mouse-like natures.”

Thus spoke the hetman; and after he had finished his speech he still

continued to shake his head, which had grown grey in Cossack service.

All who stood there were deeply affected by his speech, which went to

their very hearts. The oldest in the ranks stood motionless, their grey

heads drooping. Tears trickled quietly from their aged eyes; they

wiped them slowly away with their sleeves, and then all, as if with

one consent, waved their hands in the air at the same moment, and shook

their experienced heads. For it was evident that old Taras recalled to

them many of the best-known and finest traits of the heart in a man

who has become wise through suffering, toil, daring, and every earthly

misfortune, or, though unknown to them, of many things felt by young,

pure spirits, to the eternal joy of the parents who bore them.

But the army of the enemy was already marching out of the city, sounding

drums and trumpets; and the nobles, with their arms akimbo, were riding

forth too, surrounded by innumerable servants. The stout colonel gave

his orders, and they began to advance briskly on the Cossack camps,

pointing their matchlocks threateningly. Their eyes flashed, and they

were brilliant with brass armour. As soon as the Cossacks saw that they

had come within gunshot, their matchlocks thundered all together, and

they continued to fire without cessation.

The detonations resounded through the distant fields and meadows,

merging into one continuous roar. The whole plain was shrouded in smoke,

but the Zaporozhtzi continued to fire without drawing breath--the rear

ranks doing nothing but loading the guns and handing them to those in

front, thus creating amazement among the enemy, who could not understand

how the Cossacks fired without reloading. Amid the dense smoke which

enveloped both armies, it could not be seen how first one and then

another dropped: but the Lyakhs felt that the balls flew thickly, and

that the affair was growing hot; and when they retreated to escape from

the smoke and see how matters stood, many were missing from their ranks,

but only two or three out of a hundred were killed on the Cossack

side. Still the Cossacks went on firing off their matchlocks without a

moment’s intermission. Even the foreign engineers were amazed at tactics

heretofore unknown to them, and said then and there, in the presence of

all, “These Zaporozhtzi are brave fellows. That is the way men in other

lands ought to fight.” And they advised that the cannons should at once

be turned on the camps. Heavily roared the iron cannons with their wide

throats; the earth hummed and trembled far and wide, and the smoke lay

twice as heavy over the plain. They smelt the reek of the powder among

the squares and streets in the most distant as well as the nearest

quarters of the city. But those who laid the cannons pointed them too

high, and the shot describing too wide a curve flew over the heads

of the camps, and buried themselves deep in the earth at a distance,

tearing the ground, and throwing the black soil high in the air. At

the sight of such lack of skill the French engineer tore his hair, and

undertook to lay the cannons himself, heeding not the Cossack bullets

which showered round him.

Taras saw from afar that destruction menaced the whole Nezamaikovsky

and Steblikivsky kurens, and gave a ringing shout, “Get away from the

waggons instantly, and mount your horses!” But the Cossacks would not

have succeeded in effecting both these movements if Ostap had not

dashed into the middle of the foe and wrenched the linstocks from six

cannoneers. But he could not wrench them from the other four, for the

Lyakhs drove him back. Meanwhile the foreign captain had taken the lunt

in his own hand to fire the largest cannon, such a cannon as none of the

Cossacks had ever beheld before. It looked horrible with its wide mouth,

and a thousand deaths poured forth from it. And as it thundered,

the three others followed, shaking in fourfold earthquake the dully

responsive earth. Much woe did they cause. For more than one Cossack

wailed the aged mother, beating with bony hands her feeble breast;

more than one widow was left in Glukhof, Nemirof, Chernigof, and other

cities. The loving woman will hasten forth every day to the bazaar,

grasping at all passers-by, scanning the face of each to see if there

be not among them one dearer than all; but though many an army will

pass through the city, never among them will a single one of all their

dearest be.

Half the Nezamaikovsky kuren was as if it had never been. As the hail

suddenly beats down a field where every ear of grain shines like purest

gold, so were they beaten down.

How the Cossacks hastened thither! How they all started up! How raged

Kukubenko, the hetman, when he saw that the best half of his kuren was

no more! He fought his way with his remaining Nezamaikovtzi to the very

midst of the fray, cut down in his wrath, like a cabbage, the first man

he met, hurled many a rider from his steed, piercing both horse and man

with his lance; and making his way to the gunners, captured some of

the cannons. Here he found the hetman of the Oumansky kuren, and Stepan

Guska, hard at work, having already seized the largest cannon. He left

those Cossacks there, and plunged with his own into another mass of the

foe, making a lane through it. Where the Nezamaikovtzi passed there was

a street; where they turned about there was a square as where streets

meet. The foemen’s ranks were visibly thinning, and the Lyakhs

falling in sheaves. Beside the waggons stood Vovtuzenko, and in front

Tcherevitchenko, and by the more distant ones Degtyarenko; and behind

them the kuren hetman, Vertikhvist. Degtyarenko had pierced two Lyakhs

with his spear, and now attacked a third, a stout antagonist. Agile and

strong was the Lyakh, with glittering arms, and accompanied by fifty

followers. He fell fiercely upon Degtyarenko, struck him to the earth,

and, flourishing his sword above him, cried, “There is not one of you

Cossack dogs who has dared to oppose me.”

“Here is one,” said Mosiy Schilo, and stepped forward. He was a

muscular Cossack, who had often commanded at sea, and undergone many

vicissitudes. The Turks had once seized him and his men at Trebizond,

and borne them captives to the galleys, where they bound them hand and

foot with iron chains, gave them no food for a week at a time, and made

them drink sea-water. The poor prisoners endured and suffered all, but

would not renounce their orthodox faith. Their hetman, Mosiy Schilo,

could not bear it: he trampled the Holy Scriptures under foot, wound the

vile turban about his sinful head, and became the favourite of a pasha,

steward of a ship, and ruler over all the galley slaves. The poor slaves

sorrowed greatly thereat, for they knew that if he had renounced his

faith he would be a tyrant, and his hand would be the more heavy and

severe upon them. So it turned out. Mosiy Schilo had them put in new

chains, three to an oar. The cruel fetters cut to the very bone; and

he beat them upon the back. But when the Turks, rejoicing at having

obtained such a servant, began to carouse, and, forgetful of their

law, got all drunk, he distributed all the sixty-four keys among the

prisoners, in order that they might free themselves, fling their chains

and manacles into the sea, and, seizing their swords, in turn kill the

Turks. Then the Cossacks collected great booty, and returned with glory

to their country; and the guitar-players celebrated Mosiy Schilo’s

exploits for a long time. They would have elected him Koschevoi, but

he was a very eccentric Cossack. At one time he would perform some feat

which the most sagacious would never have dreamed of. At another, folly

simply took possession of him, and he drank and squandered everything

away, was in debt to every one in the Setch, and, in addition to that,

stole like a street thief. He carried off a whole Cossack equipment from

a strange kuren by night and pawned it to the tavern-keeper. For this

dishonourable act they bound him to a post in the bazaar, and laid a

club beside him, in order that every one who passed should, according

to the measure of his strength, deal him a blow. But there was not one

Zaporozhetz out of them all to be found who would raise the club against

him, remembering his former services. Such was the Cossack, Mosiy

Schilo.

“Here is one who will kill you, dog!” he said, springing upon the Lyakh.

How they hacked away! their shoulder-plates and breast-plates bent

under their blows. The hostile Lyakh cut through Schilo’s shirt of mail,

reaching the body itself with his blade. The Cossack’s shirt was dyed

purple: but Schilo heeded it not. He brandished his brawny hand, heavy

indeed was that mighty fist, and brought the pommel of his sword down

unexpectedly upon his foeman’s head. The brazen helmet flew into pieces

and the Lyakh staggered and fell; but Schilo went on hacking and cutting

gashes in the body of the stunned man. Kill not utterly thine enemy,

Cossack: look back rather! The Cossack did not turn, and one of the dead

man’s servants plunged a knife into his neck. Schilo turned and tried to

seize him, but he disappeared amid the smoke of the powder. On all sides

rose the roar of matchlocks. Schilo knew that his wound was mortal. He

fell with his hand upon his wound, and said, turning to his comrades,

“Farewell, brother gentles, my comrades! may the holy Russian land stand

forever, and may it be eternally honoured!” And as he closed his failing

eyes, the Cossack soul fled from his grim body. Then Zadorozhniy came

forward with his men, Vertikhvist issued from the ranks, and Balaban

stepped forth.

“What now, gentles?” said Taras, calling to the hetmans by name: “there

is yet powder in the powder-flasks? The Cossack force is not weakened?

the Cossacks do not yield?”

“There is yet powder in the flasks, father; the Cossack force is not

weakened yet: the Cossacks yield not!”

And the Cossacks pressed vigorously on: the foemen’s ranks were

disordered. The short colonel beat the assembly, and ordered eight

painted standards to be displayed to collect his men, who were scattered

over all the plain. All the Lyakhs hastened to the standards. But they

had not yet succeeded in ranging themselves in order, when the hetman

Kukubenko attacked their centre again with his Nezamaikovtzi and fell

straight upon the stout colonel. The colonel could not resist the

attack, and, wheeling his horse about, set out at a gallop; but

Kukubenko pursued him for a considerable distance cross the plain and

prevented him from joining his regiment.

Perceiving this from the kuren on the flank, Stepan Guska set out

after him, lasso in hand, bending his head to his horse’s neck. Taking

advantage of an opportunity, he cast his lasso about his neck at the

first attempt. The colonel turned purple in the face, grasped the cord

with both hands, and tried to break it; but with a powerful thrust

Stepan drove his lance through his body, and there he remained pinned to

the earth. But Guska did not escape his fate. The Cossacks had but time

to look round when they beheld Stepan Guska elevated on four spears. All

the poor fellow succeeded in saying was, “May all our enemies perish,

and may the Russian land rejoice forever!” and then he yielded up his

soul.

The Cossacks glanced around, and there was Metelitza on one side,

entertaining the Lyakhs by dealing blows on the head to one and another;

on the other side, the hetman Nevelitchkiy was attacking with his men;

and Zakrutibuga was repulsing and slaying the enemy by the waggons.

The third Pisarenko had repulsed a whole squadron from the more distant

waggons; and they were still fighting and killing amongst the other

waggons, and even upon them.

“How now, gentles?” cried Taras, stepping forward before them all: “is

there still powder in your flasks? Is the Cossack force still strong? do

the Cossacks yield?”

“There is still powder in the flasks, father; the Cossack force is still

strong: the Cossacks yield not!”

But Bovdug had already fallen from the waggons; a bullet had struck him

just below the heart. The old man collected all his strength, and said,

“I sorrow not to part from the world. God grant every man such an end!

May the Russian land be forever glorious!” And Bovdug’s spirit flew

above, to tell the old men who had gone on long before that men still

knew how to fight on Russian soil, and better still, that they knew how

to die for it and the holy faith.

Balaban, hetman of a kuren, soon after fell to the ground also from a

waggon. Three mortal wounds had he received from a lance, a bullet,

and a sword. He had been one of the very best of Cossacks, and had

accomplished a great deal as a commander on naval expeditions; but more

glorious than all the rest was his raid on the shores of Anatolia. They

collected many sequins, much valuable Turkish plunder, caftans, and

adornments of every description. But misfortune awaited them on their

way back. They came across the Turkish fleet, and were fired on by the

ships. Half the boats were crushed and overturned, drowning more than

one; but the bundles of reeds bound to the sides, Cossack fashion, saved

the boats from completely sinking. Balaban rowed off at full speed,

and steered straight in the face of the sun, thus rendering himself

invisible to the Turkish ships. All the following night they spent in

baling out the water with pails and their caps, and in repairing the

damaged places. They made sails out of their Cossack trousers, and,

sailing off, escaped from the fastest Turkish vessels. And not only did

they arrive unharmed at the Setch, but they brought a gold-embroidered

vesture for the archimandrite at the Mezhigorsky Monastery in Kief,

and an ikon frame of pure silver for the church in honour of

the Intercession of the Virgin Mary, which is in Zaporozhe. The

guitar-players celebrated the daring of Balaban and his Cossacks for

a long time afterwards. Now he bowed his head, feeling the pains which

precede death, and said quietly, “I am permitted, brother gentles, to

die a fine death. Seven have I hewn in pieces, nine have I pierced with

my lance, many have I trampled upon with my horse’s hoofs; and I no

longer remember how many my bullets have slain. May our Russian land

flourish forever!” and his spirit fled.

Cossacks, Cossacks! abandon not the flower of your army. Already

was Kukubenko surrounded, and seven men only remained of all the

Nezamaikovsky kuren, exhausted and with garments already stained with

their blood. Taras himself, perceiving their straits, hastened to

their rescue; but the Cossacks arrived too late. Before the enemies

who surrounded him could be driven off, a spear was buried just below

Kukubenko’s heart. He sank into the arms of the Cossacks who caught him,

and his young blood flowed in a stream, like precious wine brought from

the cellar in a glass vessel by careless servants, who, stumbling at the

entrance, break the rich flask. The wine streams over the ground, and

the master, hastening up, tears his hair, having reserved it, in order

that if God should grant him, in his old age, to meet again the comrade

of his youth, they might over it recall together former days, when a man

enjoyed himself otherwise and better than now. Kukubenko cast his eyes

around, and said, “I thank God that it has been my lot to die before

your eyes, comrades. May they live better who come after us than we have

lived; and may our Russian land, beloved by Christ, flourish forever!”

and his young spirit fled. The angels took it in their arms and bore it

to heaven: it will be well with him there. “Sit down at my right hand,

Kukubenko,” Christ will say to him: “you never betrayed your comrades,

you never committed a dishonourable act, you never sold a man into

misery, you preserved and defended my church.” The death of Kukubenko

saddened them all. The Cossack ranks were terribly thinned. Many brave

men were missing, but the Cossacks still stood their ground.

“How now, gentles,” cried Taras to the remaining kurens: “is there still

powder in your flasks? Are your swords blunted? Are the Cossack forces

wearied? Have the Cossacks given way?”

“There is still an abundance of powder; our swords are still sharp; the

Cossack forces are not wearied, and the Cossacks have not yet yielded.”

And the Cossacks again strained every nerve, as though they had suffered

no loss. Only three kuren hetmans still remained alive. Red blood flowed

in streams everywhere; heaps of their bodies and of those of the enemy

were piled high. Taras looked up to heaven, and there already hovered a

flock of vultures. Well, there would be prey for some one. And there the

foe were raising Metelitza on their lances, and the head of the second

Pisarenko was dizzily opening and shutting its eyes; and the mangled

body of Okhrim Guska fell upon the ground. “Now,” said Taras, and waved

a cloth on high. Ostap understood this signal and springing quickly

from his ambush attacked sharply. The Lyakhs could not withstand this

onslaught; and he drove them back, and chased them straight to the spot

where the stakes and fragments of spears were driven into the earth. The

horses began to stumble and fall and the Lyakhs to fly over their heads.

At that moment the Korsuntzi, who had stood till the last by the baggage

waggons, perceived that they still had some bullets left, and suddenly

fired a volley from their matchlocks. The Lyakhs became confused, and

lost their presence of mind; and the Cossacks took courage. “The victory

is ours!” rang Cossack voices on all sides; the trumpets sounded and the

banner of victory was unfurled. The beaten Lyakhs ran in all directions

and hid themselves. “No, the victory is not yet complete,” said Taras,

glancing at the city gate; and he was right.

The gates opened, and out dashed a hussar band, the flower of all the

cavalry. Every rider was mounted on a matched brown horse from the

Kabardei; and in front rode the handsomest, the most heroic of them all.

His black hair streamed from beneath his brazen helmet; and from his

arm floated a rich scarf, embroidered by the hands of a peerless beauty.

Taras sprang back in horror when he saw that it was Andrii. And the

latter meanwhile, enveloped in the dust and heat of battle, eager to

deserve the scarf which had been bound as a gift upon his arm, flew on

like a greyhound; the handsomest, most agile, and youngest of all the

band. The experienced huntsman urges on the greyhound, and he springs

forward, tossing up the snow, and a score of times outrunning the hare,

in the ardour of his course. And so it was with Andrii. Old Taras paused

and observed how he cleared a path before him, hewing away and dealing

blows to the right and the left. Taras could not restrain himself, but

shouted: “Your comrades! your comrades! you devil’s brat, would you kill

your own comrades?” But Andrii distinguished not who stood before him,

comrades or strangers; he saw nothing. Curls, long curls, were what

he saw; and a bosom like that of a river swan, and a snowy neck and

shoulders, and all that is created for rapturous kisses.

“Hey there, lads! only draw him to the forest, entice him to the forest

for me!” shouted Taras. Instantly thirty of the smartest Cossacks

volunteered to entice him thither; and setting their tall caps firmly

spurred their horses straight at a gap in the hussars. They attacked the

front ranks in flank, beat them down, cut them off from the rear ranks,

and slew many of them. Golopuitenko struck Andrii on the back with his

sword, and immediately set out to ride away at the top of his speed.

How Andrii flew after him! How his young blood coursed through all his

veins! Driving his sharp spurs into his horse’s flanks, he tore along

after the Cossacks, never glancing back, and not perceiving that only

twenty men at the most were following him. The Cossacks fled at full

gallop, and directed their course straight for the forest. Andrii

overtook them, and was on the point of catching Golopuitenko, when a

powerful hand seized his horse’s bridle. Andrii looked; before him stood

Taras! He trembled all over, and turned suddenly pale, like a student

who, receiving a blow on the forehead with a ruler, flushes up like

fire, springs in wrath from his seat to chase his comrade, and suddenly

encounters his teacher entering the classroom; in the instant his

wrathful impulse calms down and his futile anger vanishes. In this wise,

in an instant, Andrii’s wrath was as if it had never existed. And he

beheld before him only his terrible father.

“Well, what are we going to do now?” said Taras, looking him straight

in the eyes. But Andrii could make no reply to this, and stood with his

eyes fixed on the ground.

“Well, son; did your Lyakhs help you?”

Andrii made no answer.

“To think that you should be such a traitor! that you should betray your

faith! betray your comrades! Dismount from your horse!”

Obedient as a child, he dismounted, and stood before Taras more dead

than alive.

“Stand still, do not move! I gave you life, I will also kill you!” said

Taras, and, retreating a step backwards, he brought his gun up to his

shoulder. Andrii was white as a sheet; his lips moved gently, and he

uttered a name; but it was not the name of his native land, nor of his

mother, nor his brother; it was the name of the beautiful Pole. Taras

fired.

Like the ear of corn cut down by the reaping-hook, like the young lamb

when it feels the deadly steel in its heart, he hung his head and rolled

upon the grass without uttering a word.

The murderer of his son stood still, and gazed long upon the lifeless

body. Even in death he was very handsome; his manly face, so short a

time ago filled with power, and with an irresistible charm for every

woman, still had a marvellous beauty; his black brows, like sombre

velvet, set off his pale features.

“Is he not a true Cossack?” said Taras; “he is tall of stature, and

black-browed, his face is that of a noble, and his hand was strong in

battle! He is fallen! fallen without glory, like a vile dog!”

“Father, what have you done? Was it you who killed him?” said Ostap,

coming up at this moment.

Taras nodded.

Ostap gazed intently at the dead man. He was sorry for his brother, and

said at once: “Let us give him honourable burial, father, that the foe

may not dishonour his body, nor the birds of prey rend it.”

“They will bury him without our help,” said Taras; “there will be plenty

of mourners and rejoicers for him.”

And he reflected for a couple of minutes, whether he should fling him to

the wolves for prey, or respect in him the bravery which every brave man

is bound to honour in another, no matter whom? Then he saw Golopuitenko

galloping towards them and crying: “Woe, hetman, the Lyakhs have been

reinforced, a fresh force has come to their rescue!” Golopuitenko had

not finished speaking when Vovtuzenko galloped up: “Woe, hetman! a fresh

force is bearing down upon us.”

Vovtuzenko had not finished speaking when Pisarenko rushed up without

his horse: “Where are you, father? The Cossacks are seeking for

you. Hetman Nevelitchkiy is killed, Zadorozhniy is killed, and

Tcherevitchenko: but the Cossacks stand their ground; they will not die

without looking in your eyes; they want you to gaze upon them once more

before the hour of death arrives.”

“To horse, Ostap!” said Taras, and hastened to find his Cossacks, to

look once more upon them, and let them behold their hetman once more

before the hour of death. But before they could emerge from the wood,

the enemy’s force had already surrounded it on all sides, and horsemen

armed with swords and spears appeared everywhere between the trees.

“Ostap, Ostap! don’t yield!” shouted Taras, and grasping his sword he

began to cut down all he encountered on every side. But six suddenly

sprang upon Ostap. They did it in an unpropitious hour: the head of one

flew off, another turned to flee, a spear pierced the ribs of a third;

a fourth, more bold, bent his head to escape the bullet, and the bullet

striking his horse’s breast, the maddened animal reared, fell back upon

the earth, and crushed his rider under him. “Well done, son! Well done,

Ostap!” cried Taras: “I am following you.” And he drove off those

who attacked him. Taras hewed and fought, dealing blows at one after

another, but still keeping his eye upon Ostap ahead. He saw that eight

more were falling upon his son. “Ostap, Ostap! don’t yield!” But they

had already overpowered Ostap; one had flung his lasso about his neck,

and they had bound him, and were carrying him away. “Hey, Ostap, Ostap!”

shouted Taras, forcing his way towards him, and cutting men down like

cabbages to right and left. “Hey, Ostap, Ostap!” But something at that

moment struck him like a heavy stone. All grew dim and confused before

his eyes. In one moment there flashed confusedly before him heads,

spears, smoke, the gleam of fire, tree-trunks, and leaves; and then he

sank heavily to the earth like a felled oak, and darkness covered his

eyes.

CHAPTER X

“I have slept a long while!” said Taras, coming to his senses, as if

after a heavy drunken sleep, and trying to distinguish the objects about

him. A terrible weakness overpowered his limbs. The walls and corners

of a strange room were dimly visible before him. At length he perceived

that Tovkatch was seated beside him, apparently listening to his every

breath.

“Yes,” thought Tovkatch, “you might have slept forever.” But he said

nothing, only shook his finger, and motioned him to be silent.

“But tell me where I am now?” asked Taras, straining his mind, and

trying to recollect what had taken place.

“Be silent!” cried his companion sternly. “Why should you want to

know? Don’t you see that you are all hacked to pieces? Here I have been

galloping with you for two weeks without taking a breath; and you have

been burnt up with fever and talking nonsense. This is the first time

you have slept quietly. Be silent if you don’t wish to do yourself an

injury.”

But Taras still tried to collect his thoughts and to recall what had

passed. “Well, the Lyakhs must have surrounded and captured me. I had no

chance of fighting my way clear from the throng.”

“Be silent, I tell you, you devil’s brat!” cried Tovkatch angrily, as a

nurse, driven beyond her patience, cries out at her unruly charge. “What

good will it do you to know how you got away? It is enough that you did

get away. Some people were found who would not abandon you; let that

be enough for you. It is something for me to have ridden all night

with you. You think that you passed for a common Cossack? No, they have

offered a reward of two thousand ducats for your head.”

“And Ostap!” cried Taras suddenly, and tried to rise; for all at once he

recollected that Ostap had been seized and bound before his very eyes,

and that he was now in the hands of the Lyakhs. Grief overpowered him.

He pulled off and tore in pieces the bandages from his wounds, and threw

them far from him; he tried to say something, but only articulated some

incoherent words. Fever and delirium seized upon him afresh, and he

uttered wild and incoherent speeches. Meanwhile his faithful comrade

stood beside him, scolding and showering harsh, reproachful words upon

him without stint. Finally, he seized him by the arms and legs, wrapped

him up like a child, arranged all his bandages, rolled him in an

ox-hide, bound him with bast, and, fastening him with ropes to his

saddle, rode with him again at full speed along the road.

“I’ll get you there, even if it be not alive! I will not abandon your

body for the Lyakhs to make merry over you, and cut your body in twain

and fling it into the water. Let the eagle tear out your eyes if it must

be so; but let it be our eagle of the steppe and not a Polish eagle, not

one which has flown hither from Polish soil. I will bring you, though it

be a corpse, to the Ukraine!”

Thus spoke his faithful companion. He rode without drawing rein, day

and night, and brought Taras still insensible into the Zaporozhian Setch

itself. There he undertook to cure him, with unswerving care, by the aid

of herbs and liniments. He sought out a skilled Jewess, who made Taras

drink various potions for a whole month, and at length he improved.

Whether it was owing to the medicine or to his iron constitution gaining

the upper hand, at all events, in six weeks he was on his feet. His

wounds had closed, and only the scars of the sabre-cuts showed how

deeply injured the old Cossack had been. But he was markedly sad and

morose. Three deep wrinkles engraved themselves upon his brow and never

more departed thence. Then he looked around him. All was new in the

Setch; all his old companions were dead. Not one was left of those who

had stood up for the right, for faith and brotherhood. And those who had

gone forth with the Koschevoi in pursuit of the Tatars, they also had

long since disappeared. All had perished. One had lost his head in

battle; another had died for lack of food, amid the salt marshes of the

Crimea; another had fallen in captivity and been unable to survive the

disgrace. Their former Koschevoi was no longer living, nor any of his

old companions, and the grass was growing over those once alert with

power. He felt as one who had given a feast, a great noisy feast. All

the dishes had been smashed in pieces; not a drop of wine was left

anywhere; the guests and servants had all stolen valuable cups and

platters; and he, like the master of the house, stood sadly thinking

that it would have been no feast. In vain did they try to cheer Taras

and to divert his mind; in vain did the long-bearded, grey-haired

guitar-players come by twos and threes to glorify his Cossack deeds. He

gazed grimly and indifferently at everything, with inappeasable grief

printed on his stolid face; and said softly, as he drooped his head, “My

son, my Ostap!”

The Zaporozhtzi assembled for a raid by sea. Two hundred boats were

launched on the Dnieper, and Asia Minor saw those who manned them, with

their shaven heads and long scalp-locks, devote her thriving shores to

fire and sword; she saw the turbans of her Mahometan inhabitants strewn,

like her innumerable flowers, over the blood-sprinkled fields, and

floating along her river banks; she saw many tarry Zaporozhian trousers,

and strong hands with black hunting-whips. The Zaporozhtzi ate up and

laid waste all the vineyards. In the mosques they left heaps of dung.

They used rich Persian shawls for sashes, and girded their dirty

gaberdines with them. Long afterwards, short Zaporozhian pipes were

found in those regions. They sailed merrily back. A ten-gun Turkish ship

pursued them and scattered their skiffs, like birds, with a volley from

its guns. A third part of them sank in the depths of the sea; but the

rest again assembled, and gained the mouth of the Dnieper with twelve

kegs full of sequins. But all this did not interest Taras. He went off

upon the steppe as though to hunt; but the charge remained in his gun,

and, laying down the weapon, he would seat himself sadly on the shores

of the sea. He sat there long with drooping head, repeating continually,

“My Ostap, my Ostap!” Before him spread the gleaming Black Sea; in

the distant reeds the sea-gull screamed. His grey moustache turned to

silver, and the tears fell one by one upon it.

At last Taras could endure it no longer. “Whatever happens, I must go

and find out what he is doing. Is he alive, or in the grave? I will

know, cost what it may!” Within a week he found himself in the city

of Ouman, fully armed, and mounted, with lance, sword, canteen, pot of

oatmeal, powder horn, cord to hobble his horse, and other equipments.

He went straight to a dirty, ill-kept little house, the small windows

of which were almost invisible, blackened as they were with some unknown

dirt. The chimney was wrapped in rags; and the roof, which was full

of holes, was covered with sparrows. A heap of all sorts of refuse lay

before the very door. From the window peered the head of a Jewess, in a

head-dress with discoloured pearls.

“Is your husband at home?” said Bulba, dismounting, and fastening his

horse’s bridle to an iron hook beside the door.

“He is at home,” said the Jewess, and hastened out at once with a

measure of corn for the horse, and a stoup of beer for the rider.

“Where is your Jew?”

“He is in the other room at prayer,” replied the Jewess, bowing and

wishing Bulba good health as he raised the cup to his lips.

“Remain here, feed and water my horse, whilst I go speak with him alone.

I have business with him.”

This Jew was the well-known Yankel. He was there as revenue-farmer and

tavern-keeper. He had gradually got nearly all the neighbouring noblemen

and gentlemen into his hands, had slowly sucked away most of their

money, and had strongly impressed his presence on that locality. For a

distance of three miles in all directions, not a single farm remained in

a proper state. All were falling in ruins; all had been drunk away,

and poverty and rags alone remained. The whole neighbourhood was

depopulated, as if after a fire or an epidemic; and if Yankel had lived

there ten years, he would probably have depopulated the Waiwode’s whole

domains.

Taras entered the room. The Jew was praying, enveloped in his dirty

shroud, and was turning to spit for the last time, according to the

forms of his creed, when his eye suddenly lighted on Taras standing

behind him. The first thing that crossed Yankel’s mind was the two

thousand ducats offered for his visitor’s head; but he was ashamed of

his avarice, and tried to stifle within him the eternal thought of gold,

which twines, like a snake, about the soul of a Jew.

“Listen, Yankel,” said Taras to the Jew, who began to bow low before

him, and as he spoke he shut the door so that they might not be seen,

“I saved your life: the Zaporozhtzi would have torn you to pieces like a

dog. Now it is your turn to do me a service.”

The Jew’s face clouded over a little.

“What service? If it is a service I can render, why should I not render

it?”

“Ask no questions. Take me to Warsaw.”

“To Warsaw? Why to Warsaw?” said the Jew, and his brows and shoulders

rose in amazement.

“Ask me nothing. Take me to Warsaw. I must see him once more at any

cost, and say one word to him.”

“Say a word to whom?”

“To him--to Ostap--to my son.”

“Has not my lord heard that already--”

“I know, I know all. They offer two thousand ducats for my head. They

know its value, fools! I will give you five thousand. Here are two

thousand on the spot,” and Bulba poured out two thousand ducats from a

leather purse, “and the rest when I return.”

The Jew instantly seized a towel and concealed the ducats under it. “Ai,

glorious money! ai, good money!” he said, twirling one gold piece in his

hand and testing it with his teeth. “I don’t believe the man from

whom my lord took these fine gold pieces remained in the world an hour

longer; he went straight to the river and drowned himself, after the

loss of such magnificent gold pieces.”

“I should not have asked you, I might possibly have found my own way

to Warsaw; but some one might recognise me, and then the cursed Lyakhs

would capture me, for I am not clever at inventions; whilst that is just

what you Jews are created for. You would deceive the very devil. You

know every trick: that is why I have come to you; and, besides, I could

do nothing of myself in Warsaw. Harness the horse to your waggon at once

and take me.”

“And my lord thinks that I can take the nag at once, and harness him,

and say ‘Get up, Dapple!’ My lord thinks that I can take him just as he

is, without concealing him?”

“Well, hide me, hide me as you like: in an empty cask?”

“Ai, ai! and my lord thinks he can be concealed in an empty cask? Does

not my lord know that every man thinks that every cast he sees contains

brandy?”

“Well, let them think it is brandy.”

“Let them think it is brandy?” said the Jew, and grasped his ear-locks

with both hands, and then raised them both on high.

“Well, why are you so frightened?”

“And does not my lord know that God has made brandy expressly for every

one to sip? They are all gluttons and fond of dainties there: a nobleman

will run five versts after a cask; he will make a hole in it, and as

soon as he sees that nothing runs out, he will say, ‘A Jew does not

carry empty casks; there is certainly something wrong. Seize the Jew,

bind the Jew, take away all the Jew’s money, put the Jew in prison!’

Then all the vile people will fall upon the Jew, for every one takes a

Jew for a dog; and they think he is not a man, but only a Jew.”

“Then put me in the waggon with some fish over me.”

“I cannot, my lord, by heaven, I cannot: all over Poland the people are

as hungry as dogs now. They will steal the fish, and feel my lord.”

“Then take me in the fiend’s way, only take me.”

“Listen, listen, my lord!” said the Jew, turning up the ends of his

sleeves, and approaching him with extended arms. “This is what we

will do. They are building fortresses and castles everywhere: French

engineers have come from Germany, and so a great deal of brick and stone

is being carried over the roads. Let my lord lie down in the bottom of

the waggon, and over him I will pile bricks. My lord is strong and well,

apparently, so he will not mind if it is a little heavy; and I will make

a hole in the bottom of the waggon in order to feed my lord.”

“Do what you will, only take me!”

In an hour, a waggon-load of bricks left Ouman, drawn by two sorry nags.

On one of them sat tall Yankel, his long, curling ear-locks flowing

from beneath his Jewish cap, as he bounced about on the horse, like a

verst-mark planted by the roadside.

CHAPTER XI

At the time when these things took place, there were as yet on the

frontiers neither custom-house officials nor guards--those bugbears

of enterprising people--so that any one could bring across anything he

fancied. If any one made a search or inspection, he did it chiefly

for his own pleasure, especially if there happened to be in the waggon

objects attractive to his eye, and if his own hand possessed a certain

weight and power. But the bricks found no admirers, and they entered the

principal gate unmolested. Bulba, in his narrow cage, could only hear

the noise, the shouts of the driver, and nothing more. Yankel, bouncing

up and down on his dust-covered nag, turned, after making several

detours, into a dark, narrow street bearing the names of the Muddy and

also of the Jews’ street, because Jews from nearly every part of Warsaw

were to be found here. This street greatly resembled a back-yard turned

wrong side out. The sun never seemed to shine into it. The black wooden

houses, with numerous poles projecting from the windows, still further

increased the darkness. Rarely did a brick wall gleam red among them;

for these too, in many places, had turned quite black. Here and there,

high up, a bit of stuccoed wall illumined by the sun glistened with

intolerable whiteness. Pipes, rags, shells, broken and discarded tubs:

every one flung whatever was useless to him into the street, thus

affording the passer-by an opportunity of exercising all his five senses

with the rubbish. A man on horseback could almost touch with his hand

the poles thrown across the street from one house to another, upon which

hung Jewish stockings, short trousers, and smoked geese. Sometimes a

pretty little Hebrew face, adorned with discoloured pearls, peeped out

of an old window. A group of little Jews, with torn and dirty garments

and curly hair, screamed and rolled about in the dirt. A red-haired Jew,

with freckles all over his face which made him look like a sparrow’s

egg, gazed from a window. He addressed Yankel at once in his gibberish,

and Yankel at once drove into a court-yard. Another Jew came along,

halted, and entered into conversation. When Bulba finally emerged from

beneath the bricks, he beheld three Jews talking with great warmth.

Yankel turned to him and said that everything possible would be done;

that his Ostap was in the city jail, and that although it would be

difficult to persuade the jailer, yet he hoped to arrange a meeting.

Bulba entered the room with the three Jews.

The Jews again began to talk among themselves in their incomprehensible

tongue. Taras looked hard at each of them. Something seemed to have

moved him deeply; over his rough and stolid countenance a flame of hope

spread, of hope such as sometimes visits a man in the last depths of his

despair; his aged heart began to beat violently as though he had been a

youth.

“Listen, Jews!” said he, and there was a triumphant ring in his words.

“You can do anything in the world, even extract things from the bottom

of the sea; and it has long been a proverb, that a Jew will steal from

himself if he takes a fancy to steal. Set my Ostap at liberty! give him

a chance to escape from their diabolical hands. I promised this man five

thousand ducats; I will add another five thousand: all that I have, rich

cups, buried gold, houses, all, even to my last garment, I will part

with; and I will enter into a contract with you for my whole life, to

give you half of all the booty I may gain in war.”

“Oh, impossible, dear lord, it is impossible!” said Yankel with a sigh.

“Impossible,” said another Jew.

All three Jews looked at each other.

“We might try,” said the third, glancing timidly at the other two. “God

may favour us.”

All three Jews discussed the matter in German. Bulba, in spite of

his straining ears, could make nothing of it; he only caught the word

“Mardokhai” often repeated.

“Listen, my lord!” said Yankel. “We must consult with a man such as

there never was before in the world... ugh, ugh! as wise as Solomon; and

if he will do nothing, then no one in the world can. Sit here: this is

the key; admit no one.” The Jews went out into the street.

Taras locked the door, and looked out from the little window upon the

dirty Jewish street. The three Jews halted in the middle of the street

and began to talk with a good deal of warmth: a fourth soon joined them,

and finally a fifth. Again he heard repeated, “Mardokhai, Mardokhai!”

The Jews glanced incessantly towards one side of the street; at length

from a dirty house near the end of it emerged a foot in a Jewish shoe

and the skirts of a caftan. “Ah! Mardokhai, Mardokhai!” shouted the Jews

in one voice. A thin Jew somewhat shorter than Yankel, but even more

wrinkled, and with a huge upper lip, approached the impatient group; and

all the Jews made haste to talk to him, interrupting each other. During

the recital, Mardokhai glanced several times towards the little window,

and Taras divined that the conversation concerned him.

Mardokhai waved his hands, listened, interrupted, spat frequently to one

side, and, pulling up the skirts of his caftan, thrust his hand into his

pocket and drew out some jingling thing, showing very dirty trousers in

the operation. Finally all the Jews set up such a shouting that the

Jew who was standing guard was forced to make a signal for silence, and

Taras began to fear for his safety; but when he remembered that Jews can

only consult in the street, and that the demon himself cannot understand

their language, he regained his composure.

Two minutes later the Jews all entered the room together. Mardokhai

approached Taras, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “When we set to

work it will be all right.” Taras looked at this Solomon whom the world

had never known and conceived some hope: indeed, his face might well

inspire confidence. His upper lip was simply an object of horror; its

thickness being doubtless increased by adventitious circumstances. This

Solomon’s beard consisted only of about fifteen hairs, and they were on

the left side. Solomon’s face bore so many scars of battle, received for

his daring, that he had doubtless lost count of them long before, and

had grown accustomed to consider them as birthmarks.

Mardokhai departed, accompanied by his comrades, who were filled with

admiration at his wisdom. Bulba remained alone. He was in a strange,

unaccustomed situation for the first time in his life; he felt uneasy.

His mind was in a state of fever. He was no longer unbending, immovable,

strong as an oak, as he had formerly been: but felt timid and weak. He

trembled at every sound, at every fresh Jewish face which showed itself

at the end of the street. In this condition he passed the whole day.

He neither ate nor drank, and his eye never for a moment left the small

window looking on the street. Finally, late at night, Mardokhai and

Yankel made their appearance. Taras’s heart died within him.

“What news? have you been successful?” he asked with the impatience of a

wild horse.

But before the Jews had recovered breath to answer, Taras perceived that

Mardokhai no longer had the locks, which had formerly fallen in greasy

curls from under his felt cap. It was evident that he wished to say

something, but he uttered only nonsense which Taras could make nothing

of. Yankel himself put his hand very often to his mouth as though

suffering from a cold.

“Oh, dearest lord!” said Yankel: “it is quite impossible now! by

heaven, impossible! Such vile people that they deserve to be spit upon!

Mardokhai here says the same. Mardokhai has done what no man in the

world ever did, but God did not will that it should be so. Three

thousand soldiers are in garrison here, and to-morrow the prisoners are

all to be executed.”

Taras looked the Jew straight in the face, but no longer with impatience

or anger.

“But if my lord wishes to see his son, then it must be early to-morrow

morning, before the sun has risen. The sentinels have consented, and one

gaoler has promised. But may he have no happiness in the world, woe

is me! What greedy people! There are none such among us: I gave fifty

ducats to each sentinel and to the gaoler.”

“Good. Take me to him!” exclaimed Taras, with decision, and with all

his firmness of mind restored. He agreed to Yankel’s proposition that he

should disguise himself as a foreign count, just arrived from Germany,

for which purpose the prudent Jew had already provided a costume. It

was already night. The master of the house, the red-haired Jew with

freckles, pulled out a mattress covered with some kind of rug, and

spread it on a bench for Bulba. Yankel lay upon the floor on a similar

mattress. The red-haired Jew drank a small cup of brandy, took off his

caftan, and betook himself--looking, in his shoes and stockings, very

like a lean chicken--with his wife, to something resembling a cupboard.

Two little Jews lay down on the floor beside the cupboard, like a couple

of dogs. But Taras did not sleep; he sat motionless, drumming on the

table with his fingers. He kept his pipe in his mouth, and puffed out

smoke, which made the Jew sneeze in his sleep and pull his coverlet over

his nose. Scarcely was the sky touched with the first faint gleams of

dawn than he pushed Yankel with his foot, saying: “Rise, Jew, and give

me your count’s dress!”

In a moment he was dressed. He blackened his moustache and eyebrows, put

on his head a small dark cap; even the Cossacks who knew him best would

not have recognised him. Apparently he was not more than thirty-five.

A healthy colour glowed on his cheeks, and his scars lent him an air of

command. The gold-embroidered dress became him extremely well.

The streets were still asleep. Not a single one of the market folk as

yet showed himself in the city, with his basket on his arm. Yankel and

Bulba made their way to a building which presented the appearance of a

crouching stork. It was large, low, wide, and black; and on one side a

long slender tower like a stork’s neck projected above the roof. This

building served for a variety of purposes; it was a barrack, a jail, and

the criminal court. The visitors entered the gate and found themselves

in a vast room, or covered courtyard. About a thousand men were sleeping

here. Straight before them was a small door, in front of which sat two

sentries playing at some game which consisted in one striking the palm

of the other’s hand with two fingers. They paid little heed to the new

arrivals, and only turned their heads when Yankel said, “It is we, sirs;

do you hear? it is we.”

“Go in!” said one of them, opening the door with one hand, and holding

out the other to his comrade to receive his blows.

They entered a low and dark corridor, which led them to a similar room

with small windows overhead. “Who goes there?” shouted several voices,

and Taras beheld a number of warriors in full armour. “We have been

ordered to admit no one.”

“It is we!” cried Yankel; “we, by heavens, noble sirs!” But no one

would listen to him. Fortunately, at that moment a fat man came up, who

appeared to be a commanding officer, for he swore louder than all the

others.

“My lord, it is we! you know us, and the lord count will thank you.”

“Admit them, a hundred fiends, and mother of fiends! Admit no one else.

And no one is to draw his sword, nor quarrel.”

The conclusion of this order the visitors did not hear. “It is we, it is

I, it is your friends!” Yankel said to every one they met.

“Well, can it be managed now?” he inquired of one of the guards, when

they at length reached the end of the corridor.

“It is possible, but I don’t know whether you will be able to gain

admission to the prison itself. Yana is not here now; another man is

keeping watch in his place,” replied the guard.

“Ai, ai!” cried the Jew softly: “this is bad, my dear lord!”

“Go on!” said Taras, firmly, and the Jew obeyed.

At the arched entrance of the vaults stood a heyduke, with a moustache

trimmed in three layers: the upper layer was trained backwards, the

second straight forward, and the third downwards, which made him greatly

resemble a cat.

The Jew shrank into nothing and approached him almost sideways: “Your

high excellency! High and illustrious lord!”

“Are you speaking to me, Jew?”

“To you, illustrious lord.”

“Hm, but I am merely a heyduke,” said the merry-eyed man with the

triple-tiered moustache.

“And I thought it was the Waiwode himself, by heavens! Ai, ai, ai!”

Thereupon the Jew twisted his head about and spread out his fingers.

“Ai, what a fine figure! Another finger’s-breadth and he would be

a colonel. The lord no doubt rides a horse as fleet as the wind and

commands the troops!”

The heyduke twirled the lower tier of his moustache, and his eyes

beamed.

“What a warlike people!” continued the Jew. “Ah, woe is me, what a

fine race! Golden cords and trappings that shine like the sun; and the

maidens, wherever they see warriors--Ai, ai!” Again the Jew wagged his

head.

The heyduke twirled his upper moustache and uttered a sound somewhat

resembling the neighing of a horse.

“I pray my lord to do us a service!” exclaimed the Jew: “this prince

has come hither from a foreign land, and wants to get a look at the

Cossacks. He never, in all his life, has seen what sort of people the

Cossacks are.”

The advent of foreign counts and barons was common enough in Poland:

they were often drawn thither by curiosity to view this half-Asiatic

corner of Europe. They regarded Moscow and the Ukraine as situated in

Asia. So the heyduke bowed low, and thought fit to add a few words of

his own.

“I do not know, your excellency,” said he, “why you should desire to

see them. They are dogs, not men; and their faith is such as no one

respects.”

“You lie, you son of Satan!” exclaimed Bulba. “You are a dog yourself!

How dare you say that our faith is not respected? It is your heretical

faith which is not respected.”

“Oho!” said the heyduke. “I can guess who you are, my friend; you are

one of the breed of those under my charge. So just wait while I summon

our men.”

Taras realised his indiscretion, but vexation and obstinacy hindered

him from devising a means of remedying it. Fortunately Yankel managed to

interpose at this moment:--

“Most noble lord, how is it possible that the count can be a Cossack? If

he were a Cossack, where could have he obtained such a dress, and such a

count-like mien?”

“Explain that yourself.” And the heyduke opened his wide mouth to shout.

“Your royal highness, silence, silence, for heaven’s sake!” cried

Yankel. “Silence! we will pay you for it in a way you never dreamed of:

we will give you two golden ducats.”

“Oho! two ducats! I can’t do anything with two ducats. I give my barber

two ducats for only shaving the half of my beard. Give me a hundred

ducats, Jew.” Here the heyduke twirled his upper moustache. “If you

don’t, I will shout at once.”

“Why so much?” said the Jew, sadly, turning pale, and undoing his

leather purse; but it was lucky that he had no more in it, and that the

heyduke could not count over a hundred.

“My lord, my lord, let us depart quickly! Look at the evil-minded

fellow!” said Yankel to Taras, perceiving that the heyduke was turning

the money over in his hand as though regretting that he had not demanded

more.

“What do you mean, you devil of a heyduke?” said Bulba. “What do you

mean by taking our money and not letting us see the Cossacks? No, you

must let us see them. Since you have taken the money, you have no right

to refuse.”

“Go, go to the devil! If you won’t, I’ll give the alarm this moment.

Take yourselves off quickly, I say!”

“My lord, my lord, let us go! in God’s name let us go! Curse him! May he

dream such things that he will have to spit,” cried poor Yankel.

Bulba turned slowly, with drooping head, and retraced his steps,

followed by the complaints of Yankel who was sorrowing at the thought of

the wasted ducats.

“Why be angry? Let the dog curse. That race cannot help cursing. Oh, woe

is me, what luck God sends to some people! A hundred ducats merely for

driving us off! And our brother: they have torn off his ear-locks, and

they made wounds on his face that you cannot bear to look at, and yet no

one will give him a hundred gold pieces. O heavens! Merciful God!”

But this failure made a much deeper impression on Bulba, expressed by a

devouring flame in his eyes.

“Let us go,” he said, suddenly, as if arousing himself; “let us go to

the square. I want to see how they will torture him.”

“Oh, my lord! why go? That will do us no good now.”

“Let us go,” said Bulba, obstinately; and the Jew followed him, sighing

like a nurse.

The square on which the execution was to take place was not hard to

find: for the people were thronging thither from all quarters. In

that savage age such a thing constituted one of the most noteworthy

spectacles, not only for the common people, but among the higher

classes. A number of the most pious old men, a throng of young girls,

and the most cowardly women, who dreamed the whole night afterwards of

their bloody corpses, and shrieked as loudly in their sleep as a

drunken hussar, missed, nevertheless, no opportunity of gratifying their

curiosity. “Ah, what tortures!” many of them would cry, hysterically,

covering their eyes and turning away; but they stood their ground for a

good while, all the same. Many a one, with gaping mouth and outstretched

hands, would have liked to jump upon other folk’s heads, to get a

better view. Above the crowd towered a bulky butcher, admiring the whole

process with the air of a connoisseur, and exchanging brief remarks with

a gunsmith, whom he addressed as “Gossip,” because he got drunk in the

same alehouse with him on holidays. Some entered into warm discussions,

others even laid wagers. But the majority were of the species who, all

the world over, look on at the world and at everything that goes on

in it and merely scratch their noses. In the front ranks, close to the

bearded civic-guards, stood a young noble, in warlike array, who had

certainly put his whole wardrobe on his back, leaving only his torn

shirt and old shoes at his quarters. Two chains, one above the other,

hung around his neck. He stood beside his mistress, Usisya, and glanced

about incessantly to see that no one soiled her silk gown. He explained

everything to her so perfectly that no one could have added a word. “All

these people whom you see, my dear Usisya,” he said, “have come to see

the criminals executed; and that man, my love, yonder, holding the

axe and other instruments in his hands, is the executioner, who will

despatch them. When he begins to break them on the wheel, and torture

them in other ways, the criminals will still be alive; but when he cuts

off their heads, then, my love, they will die at once. Before that, they

will cry and move; but as soon as their heads are cut off, it will be

impossible for them to cry, or to eat or drink, because, my dear, they

will no longer have any head.” Usisya listened to all this with terror

and curiosity.

The upper stories of the houses were filled with people. From the

windows in the roof peered strange faces with beards and something

resembling caps. Upon the balconies, beneath shady awnings, sat the

aristocracy. The hands of smiling young ladies, brilliant as white

sugar, rested on the railings. Portly nobles looked on with dignity.

Servants in rich garb, with flowing sleeves, handed round various

refreshments. Sometimes a black-eyed young rogue would take her cake or

fruit and fling it among the crowd with her own noble little hand. The

crowd of hungry gentles held up their caps to receive it; and some tall

noble, whose head rose amid the throng, with his faded red jacket and

discoloured gold braid, and who was the first to catch it with the

aid of his long arms, would kiss his booty, press it to his heart, and

finally put it in his mouth. The hawk, suspended beneath the balcony in

a golden cage, was also a spectator; with beak inclined to one side,

and with one foot raised, he, too, watched the people attentively. But

suddenly a murmur ran through the crowd, and a rumour spread, “They are

coming! they are coming! the Cossacks!”

They were bare-headed, with their long locks floating in the air. Their

beards had grown, and their once handsome garments were worn out, and

hung about them in tatters. They walked neither timidly nor surlily, but

with a certain pride, neither looking at nor bowing to the people. At

the head of all came Ostap.

What were old Taras’s feelings when thus he beheld his Ostap? What

filled his heart then? He gazed at him from amid the crowd, and lost

not a single movement of his. They reached the place of execution. Ostap

stopped. He was to be the first to drink the bitter cup. He glanced at

his comrades, raised his hand, and said in a loud voice: “God grant

that none of the heretics who stand here may hear, the unclean dogs, how

Christians suffer! Let none of us utter a single word.” After this he

ascended the scaffold.

“Well done, son! well done!” said Bulba, softly, and bent his grey head.

The executioner tore off his old rags; they fastened his hands and feet

in stocks prepared expressly, and--We will not pain the reader with a

picture of the hellish tortures which would make his hair rise upright

on his head. They were the outcome of that coarse, wild age, when men

still led a life of warfare which hardened their souls until no sense of

humanity was left in them. In vain did some, not many, in that age make

a stand against such terrible measures. In vain did the king and many

nobles, enlightened in mind and spirit, demonstrate that such severity

of punishment could but fan the flame of vengeance in the Cossack

nation. But the power of the king, and the opinion of the wise, was as

nothing before the savage will of the magnates of the kingdom, who, by

their thoughtlessness and unconquerable lack of all far-sighted policy,

their childish self-love and miserable pride, converted the Diet into

the mockery of a government. Ostap endured the torture like a giant. Not

a cry, not a groan, was heard. Even when they began to break the bones

in his hands and feet, when, amid the death-like stillness of the crowd,

the horrible cracking was audible to the most distant spectators;

when even his tormentors turned aside their eyes, nothing like a groan

escaped his lips, nor did his face quiver. Taras stood in the crowd

with bowed head; and, raising his eyes proudly at that moment, he said,

approvingly, “Well done, boy! well done!”

But when they took him to the last deadly tortures, it seemed as though

his strength were failing. He cast his eyes around.

O God! all strangers, all unknown faces! If only some of his relatives

had been present at his death! He would not have cared to hear the sobs

and anguish of his poor, weak mother, nor the unreasoning cries of a

wife, tearing her hair and beating her white breast; but he would have

liked to see a strong man who might refresh him with a word of wisdom,

and cheer his end. And his strength failed him, and he cried in the

weakness of his soul, “Father! where are you? do you hear?”

“I hear!” rang through the universal silence, and those thousands of

people shuddered in concert. A detachment of cavalry hastened to search

through the throng of people. Yankel turned pale as death, and when the

horsemen had got within a short distance of him, turned round in terror

to look for Taras; but Taras was no longer beside him; every trace of

him was lost.

CHAPTER XII

They soon found traces of Taras. An army of a hundred and twenty

thousand Cossacks appeared on the frontier of the Ukraine. This was no

small detachment sallying forth for plunder or in pursuit of the Tatars.

No: the whole nation had risen, for the measure of the people’s patience

was over-full; they had risen to avenge the disregard of their rights,

the dishonourable humiliation of themselves, the insults to the faith of

their fathers and their sacred customs, the outrages upon their church,

the excesses of the foreign nobles, the disgraceful domination of the

Jews on Christian soil, and all that had aroused and deepened the stern

hatred of the Cossacks for a long time past. Hetman Ostranitza, young,

but firm in mind, led the vast Cossack force. Beside him was seen his

old and experienced friend and counsellor, Gunya. Eight leaders led

bands of twelve thousand men each. Two osauls and a bunchuzhniy assisted

the hetman. A cornet-general carried the chief standard, whilst many

other banners and standards floated in the air; and the comrades of the

staff bore the golden staff of the hetman, the symbol of his office.

There were also many other officials belonging to the different bands,

the baggage train and the main force with detachments of infantry and

cavalry. There were almost as many free Cossacks and volunteers as there

were registered Cossacks. The Cossacks had risen everywhere. They came

from Tchigirin, from Pereyaslaf, from Baturin, from Glukhof, from the

regions of the lower Dnieper, and from all its upper shores and islands.

An uninterrupted stream of horses and herds of cattle stretched across

the plain. And among all these Cossacks, among all these bands, one was

the choicest; and that was the band led by Taras Bulba. All contributed

to give him an influence over the others: his advanced years, his

experience and skill in directing an army, and his bitter hatred of the

foe. His unsparing fierceness and cruelty seemed exaggerated even to the

Cossacks. His grey head dreamed of naught save fire and sword, and his

utterances at the councils of war breathed only annihilation.

It is useless to describe all the battles in which the Cossacks

distinguished themselves, or the gradual courses of the campaign. All

this is set down in the chronicles. It is well known what an army raised

on Russian soil, for the orthodox faith, is like. There is no power

stronger than faith. It is threatening and invincible like a rock, and

rising amidst the stormy, ever-changing sea. From the very bottom of the

sea it rears to heaven its jagged sides of firm, impenetrable stone. It

is visible from everywhere, and looks the waves straight in the face

as they roll past. And woe to the ship which is dashed against it! Its

frame flies into splinters, everything in it is split and crushed, and

the startled air re-echoes the piteous cries of the drowning.

In the pages of the chronicles there is a minute description of how the

Polish garrisons fled from the freed cities; how the unscrupulous Jewish

tavern-keepers were hung; how powerless was the royal hetman, Nikolai

Pototzky, with his numerous army, against this invincible force; how,

routed and pursued, he lost the best of his troops by drowning in a

small stream; how the fierce Cossack regiments besieged him in the

little town of Polon; and how, reduced to extremities, he promised,

under oath, on the part of the king and the government, its full

satisfaction to all, and the restoration of all their rights and

privileges. But the Cossacks were not men to give way for this. They

already knew well what a Polish oath was worth. And Pototzky would never

more have pranced on his six-thousand ducat horse from the Kabardei,

attracting the glances of distinguished ladies and the envy of the

nobility; he would never more have made a figure in the Diet, by giving

costly feasts to the senators--if the Russian priests who were in the

little town had not saved him. When all the popes, in their brilliant

gold vestments, went out to meet the Cossacks, bearing the holy pictures

and the cross, with the bishop himself at their head, crosier in hand

and mitre on his head, the Cossacks all bowed their heads and took off

their caps. To no one lower than the king himself would they have shown

respect at such an hour; but their daring fell before the Church of

Christ, and they honoured their priesthood. The hetman and leaders

agreed to release Pototzky, after having extracted from him a solemn

oath to leave all the Christian churches unmolested, to forswear the

ancient enmity, and to do no harm to the Cossack forces. One leader

alone would not consent to such a peace. It was Taras. He tore a handful

of hair from his head, and cried:

“Hetman and leaders! Commit no such womanish deed. Trust not the Lyakhs;

slay the dogs!”

When the secretary presented the agreement, and the hetman put his hand

to it, Taras drew a genuine Damascene blade, a costly Turkish sabre

of the finest steel, broke it in twain like a reed, and threw the two

pieces far away on each side, saying, “Farewell! As the two pieces of

this sword will never reunite and form one sword again, so we, comrades,

shall nevermore behold each other in this world. Remember my parting

words.” As he spoke his voice grew stronger, rose higher, and acquired a

hitherto unknown power; and his prophetic utterances troubled them all.

“Before the death hour you will remember me! Do you think that you have

purchased peace and quiet? do you think that you will make a great show?

You will make a great show, but after another fashion. They will flay

the skin from your head, hetman, they will stuff it with bran, and

long will it be exhibited at fairs. Neither will you retain your heads,

gentles. You will be thrown into damp dungeons, walled about with stone,

if they do not boil you alive in cauldrons like sheep. And you, men,” he

continued, turning to his followers, “which of you wants to die his true

death? not through sorrows and the ale-house; but an honourable Cossack

death, all in one bed, like bride and groom? But, perhaps, you would

like to return home, and turn infidels, and carry Polish priests on your

backs?”

“We will follow you, noble leader, we will follow you!” shouted all his

band, and many others joined them.

“If it is to be so, then follow me,” said Taras, pulling his cap farther

over his brows. Looking menacingly at the others, he went to his

horse, and cried to his men, “Let no one reproach us with any insulting

speeches. Now, hey there, men! we’ll call on the Catholics.” And then

he struck his horse, and there followed him a camp of a hundred waggons,

and with them many Cossack cavalry and infantry; and, turning, he

threatened with a glance all who remained behind, and wrath was in his

eye. The band departed in full view of all the army, and Taras continued

long to turn and glower.

The hetman and leaders were uneasy; all became thoughtful, and remained

silent, as though oppressed by some heavy foreboding. Not in vain had

Taras prophesied: all came to pass as he had foretold. A little later,

after the treacherous attack at Kaneva, the hetman’s head was mounted on

a stake, together with those of many of his officers.

And what of Taras? Taras made raids all over Poland with his band,

burned eighteen towns and nearly forty churches, and reached Cracow.

He killed many nobles, and plundered some of the richest and finest

castles. The Cossacks emptied on the ground the century-old mead and

wine, carefully hoarded up in lordly cellars; they cut and burned the

rich garments and equipments which they found in the wardrobes.

“Spare nothing,” was the order of Taras. The Cossacks spared not the

black-browed gentlewomen, the brilliant, white-bosomed maidens: these

could not save themselves even at the altar, for Taras burned them with

the altar itself. Snowy hands were raised to heaven from amid fiery

flames, with piteous shrieks which would have moved the damp earth

itself to pity and caused the steppe-grass to bend with compassion

at their fate. But the cruel Cossacks paid no heed; and, raising the

children in the streets upon the points of their lances, they cast them

also into the flames.

“This is a mass for the soul of Ostap, you heathen Lyakhs,” was all

that Taras said. And such masses for Ostap he had sung in every village,

until the Polish Government perceived that Taras’s raids were more than

ordinary expeditions for plunder; and Pototzky was given five regiments,

and ordered to capture him without fail.

Six days did the Cossacks retreat along the by-roads before their

pursuers; their horses were almost equal to this unchecked flight, and

nearly saved them. But this time Pototzky was also equal to the task

intrusted to him; unweariedly he followed them, and overtook them on the

bank of the Dniester, where Taras had taken possession of an abandoned

and ruined castle for the purpose of resting.

On the very brink of the Dniester it stood, with its shattered ramparts

and the ruined remnants of its walls. The summit of the cliff was strewn

with ragged stones and broken bricks, ready at any moment to detach

themselves. The royal hetman, Pototzky, surrounded it on the two sides

which faced the plain. Four days did the Cossacks fight, tearing down

bricks and stones for missiles. But their stones and their strength

were at length exhausted, and Taras resolved to cut his way through the

beleaguering forces. And the Cossacks would have cut their way through,

and their swift steeds might again have served them faithfully, had not

Taras halted suddenly in the very midst of their flight, and shouted,

“Halt! my pipe has dropped with its tobacco: I won’t let those heathen

Lyakhs have my pipe!” And the old hetman stooped down, and felt in the

grass for his pipe full of tobacco, his inseparable companion on all his

expeditions by sea and land and at home.

But in the meantime a band of Lyakhs suddenly rushed up, and seized him

by the shoulders. He struggled with all might; but he could not scatter

on the earth, as he had been wont to do, the heydukes who had seized

him. “Oh, old age, old age!” he exclaimed: and the stout old Cossack

wept. But his age was not to blame: nearly thirty men were clinging to

his arms and legs.

“The raven is caught!” yelled the Lyakhs. “We must think how we can show

him the most honour, the dog!” They decided, with the permission of the

hetman, to burn him alive in the sight of all. There stood hard by a

leafless tree, the summit of which had been struck by lightning. They

fastened him with iron chains and nails driven through his hands high up

on the trunk of the tree, so that he might be seen from all sides; and

began at once to place fagots at its foot. But Taras did not look at

the wood, nor did he think of the fire with which they were preparing to

roast him: he gazed anxiously in the direction whence his Cossacks were

firing. From his high point of observation he could see everything as in

the palm of his hand.

“Take possession, men,” he shouted, “of the hillock behind the wood:

they cannot climb it!” But the wind did not carry his words to them.

“They are lost, lost!” he said in despair, and glanced down to where

the water of the Dniester glittered. Joy gleamed in his eyes. He saw the

sterns of four boats peeping out from behind some bushes; exerted all

the power of his lungs, and shouted in a ringing tone, “To the bank, to

the bank, men! descend the path to the left, under the cliff. There are

boats on the bank; take all, that they may not catch you.”

This time the breeze blew from the other side, and his words were

audible to the Cossacks. But for this counsel he received a blow on the

head with the back of an axe, which made everything dance before his

eyes.

The Cossacks descended the cliff path at full speed, but their pursuers

were at their heels. They looked: the path wound and twisted, and made

many detours to one side. “Comrades, we are trapped!” said they. All

halted for an instant, raised their whips, whistled, and their Tatar

horses rose from the ground, clove the air like serpents, flew over

the precipice, and plunged straight into the Dniester. Two only did not

alight in the river, but thundered down from the height upon the stones,

and perished there with their horses without uttering a cry. But the

Cossacks had already swum shoreward from their horses, and unfastened

the boats, when the Lyakhs halted on the brink of the precipice,

astounded by this wonderful feat, and thinking, “Shall we jump down to

them, or not?”

One young colonel, a lively, hot-blooded soldier, own brother to the

beautiful Pole who had seduced poor Andrii, did not reflect long, but

leaped with his horse after the Cossacks. He made three turns in the air

with his steed, and fell heavily on the rocks. The sharp stones tore him

in pieces; and his brains, mingled with blood, bespattered the shrubs

growing on the uneven walls of the precipice.

When Taras Bulba recovered from the blow, and glanced towards the

Dniester, the Cossacks were already in the skiffs and rowing away. Balls

were showered upon them from above but did not reach them. And the old

hetman’s eyes sparkled with joy.

“Farewell, comrades!” he shouted to them from above; “remember me, and

come hither again next spring and make merry in the same fashion! What!

cursed Lyakhs, have ye caught me? Think ye there is anything in the

world that a Cossack fears? Wait; the time will come when ye shall learn

what the orthodox Russian faith is! Already the people scent it far and

near. A czar shall arise from Russian soil, and there shall not be a

power in the world which shall not submit to him!” But fire had already

risen from the fagots; it lapped his feet, and the flame spread to the

tree.... But can any fire, flames, or power be found on earth which are

capable of overpowering Russian strength?

Broad is the river Dniester, and in it are many deep pools, dense

reed-beds, clear shallows and little bays; its watery mirror gleams,

filled with the melodious plaint of the swan, the proud wild goose

glides swiftly over it; and snipe, red-throated ruffs, and other birds

are to be found among the reeds and along the banks. The Cossacks rowed

swiftly on in the narrow double-ruddered boats--rowed stoutly, carefully

shunning the sand bars, and cleaving the ranks of the birds, which took

wing--rowed, and talked of their hetman.

ST. JOHN’S EVE

A STORY TOLD BY THE SACRISTAN OF THE DIKANKA CHURCH

Thoma Grigorovitch had one very strange eccentricity: to the day of

his death he never liked to tell the same thing twice. There were times

when, if you asked him to relate a thing afresh, he would interpolate

new matter, or alter it so that it was impossible to recognise it. Once

upon a time, one of those gentlemen who, like the usurers at our yearly

fairs, clutch and beg and steal every sort of frippery, and issue mean

little volumes, no thicker than an A B C book, every month, or even

every week, wormed this same story out of Thoma Grigorovitch, and the

latter completely forgot about it. But that same young gentleman, in the

pea-green caftan, came from Poltava, bringing with him a little book,

and, opening it in the middle, showed it to us. Thoma Grigorovitch

was on the point of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but

recollected that he had forgotten to wind thread about them and stick

them together with wax, so he passed it over to me. As I understand

nothing about reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I

undertook to read it. I had not turned two leaves when all at once he

caught me by the hand and stopped me.

“Stop! tell me first what you are reading.”

I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.

“What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovitch? Why, your own words.”

“Who told you that they were my words?”

“Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: ‘Related by such and

such a sacristan.’”

“Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a

Moscow pedlar! Did I say that? ‘’Twas just the same as though one hadn’t

his wits about him!’ Listen. I’ll tell the tale to you on the spot.”

We moved up to the table, and he began.

*****

My grandfather (the kingdom of heaven be his! may he eat only wheaten

rolls and poppy-seed cakes with honey in the other world!) could tell a

story wonderfully well. When he used to begin a tale you could not

stir from the spot all day, but kept on listening. He was not like the

story-teller of the present day, when he begins to lie, with a tongue as

though he had had nothing to eat for three days, so that you snatch your

cap and flee from the house. I remember my old mother was alive then,

and in the long winter evenings when the frost was crackling out of

doors, and had sealed up hermetically the narrow panes of our cottage,

she used to sit at her wheel, drawing out a long thread in her hand,

rocking the cradle with her foot, and humming a song, which I seem to

hear even now.

The lamp, quivering and flaring up as though in fear of something,

lighted up our cottage; the spindle hummed; and all of us children,

collected in a cluster, listened to grandfather, who had not crawled

off the stove for more than five years, owing to his great age. But the

wondrous tales of the incursions of the Zaporozhian Cossacks and the

Poles, the bold deeds of Podkova, of Poltar-Kozhukh, and Sagaidatchnii,

did not interest us so much as the stories about some deed of old which

always sent a shiver through our frames and made our hair rise upright

on our heads. Sometimes such terror took possession of us in consequence

of them, that, from that evening forward, Heaven knows how wonderful

everything seemed to us. If one chanced to go out of the cottage after

nightfall for anything, one fancied that a visitor from the other world

had lain down to sleep in one’s bed; and I have often taken my own

smock, at a distance, as it lay at the head of the bed, for the Evil One

rolled up into a ball! But the chief thing about grandfather’s stories

was, that he never lied in all his life; and whatever he said was so,

was so.

I will now tell you one of his wonderful tales. I know that there are a

great many wise people who copy in the courts, and can even read

civil documents, but who, if you were to put into their hand a simple

prayer-book, could not make out the first letter in it, and would show

all their teeth in derision. These people laugh at everything you tell

them. Along comes one of them--and doesn’t believe in witches! Yes,

glory to God that I have lived so long in the world! I have seen

heretics to whom it would be easier to lie in confession than it would

be to our brothers and equals to take snuff, and these folk would deny

the existence of witches! But let them just dream about something, and

they won’t even tell what it was! There, it is no use talking about

them!

No one could have recognised the village of ours a little over a hundred

years ago; it was a hamlet, the poorest kind of a hamlet. Half a score

of miserable farmhouses, unplastered and badly thatched, were scattered

here and there about the fields. There was not a yard or a decent shed

to shelter animals or waggons. That was the way the wealthy lived:

and if you had looked for our brothers, the poor--why, a hole in the

ground--that was a cabin for you! Only by the smoke could you tell that

a God-created man lived there. You ask why they lived so? It was not

entirely through poverty: almost every one led a raiding Cossack life,

and gathered not a little plunder in foreign lands; it was rather

because it was little use building up a good wooden house. Many

folk were engaged in raids all over the country--Crimeans, Poles,

Lithuanians! It was quite possible that their own countrymen might make

a descent and plunder everything. Anything was possible.

In this hamlet a man, or rather a devil in human form, often made his

appearance. Why he came, and whence, no one knew. He prowled about, got

drunk, and suddenly disappeared as if into the air, leaving no trace

of his existence. Then, behold, he seemed to have dropped from the sky

again, and went flying about the street of the village, of which no

trace now remains, and which was not more than a hundred paces from

Dikanka. He would collect together all the Cossacks he met; then

there were songs, laughter, and cash in plenty, and vodka flowed like

water.... He would address the pretty girls, and give them ribbons,

earrings, strings of beads--more than they knew what to do with. It

is true that the pretty girls rather hesitated about accepting his

presents: God knows, perhaps, what unclean hands they had passed

through. My grandfather’s aunt, who kept at that time a tavern, in which

Basavriuk (as they called this devil-man) often caroused, said that no

consideration on the earth would have induced her to accept a gift from

him. But then, again, how to avoid accepting? Fear seized on every one when

he knit his shaggy brows, and gave a sidelong glance which might send

your feet God knows whither: whilst if you did accept, then the next

night some fiend from the swamp, with horns on his head, came and began

to squeeze your neck, if there was a string of beads upon it; or bite

your finger, if there was a ring upon it; or drag you by the hair, if

ribbons were braided in it. God have mercy, then, on those who held

such gifts! But here was the difficulty: it was impossible to get rid of

them; if you threw them into the water, the diabolical ring or necklace

would skim along the surface and into your hand.

There was a church in the village--St. Pantelei, if I remember rightly.

There lived there a priest, Father Athanasii of blessed memory.

Observing that Basavriuk did not come to church, even at Easter, he

determined to reprove him and impose penance upon him. Well, he hardly

escaped with his life. “Hark ye, sir!” he thundered in reply, “learn

to mind your own business instead of meddling in other people’s, if you

don’t want that throat of yours stuck with boiling kutya (1).” What was

to be done with this unrepentant man? Father Athanasii contented

himself with announcing that any one who should make the acquaintance

of Basavriuk would be counted a Catholic, an enemy of Christ’s orthodox

church, not a member of the human race.

(1) A dish of rice or wheat flour, with honey and raisins, which is

brought to the church on the celebration of memorial masses.

In this village there was a Cossack named Korzh, who had a labourer whom

people called Peter the Orphan--perhaps because no one remembered either

his father or mother. The church elder, it is true, said that they had

died of the pest in his second year; but my grandfather’s aunt would not

hear of that, and tried with all her might to furnish him with parents,

although poor Peter needed them about as much as we need last year’s

snow. She said that his father had been in Zaporozhe, and had been taken

prisoner by the Turks, amongst whom he underwent God only knows what

tortures, until having, by some miracle, disguised himself as a eunuch,

he made his escape. Little cared the black-browed youths and maidens

about Peter’s parents. They merely remarked, that if he only had a new

coat, a red sash, a black lambskin cap with a smart blue crown on his

head, a Turkish sabre by his side, a whip in one hand and a pipe with

handsome mountings in the other, he would surpass all the young men. But

the pity was, that the only thing poor Peter had was a grey gaberdine

with more holes in it than there are gold pieces in a Jew’s pocket. But

that was not the worst of it. Korzh had a daughter, such a beauty as I

think you can hardly have chanced to see. My grandfather’s aunt used

to say--and you know that it is easier for a woman to kiss the Evil One

than to call any one else a beauty--that this Cossack maiden’s cheeks

were as plump and fresh as the pinkest poppy when, bathed in God’s dew,

it unfolds its petals, and coquets with the rising sun; that her brows

were evenly arched over her bright eyes like black cords, such as our

maidens buy nowadays, for their crosses and ducats, off the Moscow

pedlars who visit the villages with their baskets; that her little

mouth, at sight of which the youths smacked their lips, seemed made to

warble the songs of nightingales; that her hair, black as the raven’s

wing, and soft as young flax, fell in curls over her shoulders, for

our maidens did not then plait their hair in pigtails interwoven with

pretty, bright-hued ribbons. Eh! may I never intone another alleluia in

the choir, if I would not have kissed her, in spite of the grey which is

making its way through the old wool which covers my pate, and of the old

woman beside me, like a thorn in my side! Well, you know what happens

when young men and maidens live side by side. In the twilight the heels

of red boots were always visible in the place where Pidorka chatted with

her Peter. But Korzh would never have suspected anything out of the

way, only one day--it is evident that none but the Evil One could have

inspired him--Peter took into his head to kiss the maiden’s rosy lips

with all his heart, without first looking well about him; and that same

Evil One--may the son of a dog dream of the holy cross!--caused the old

grey-beard, like a fool, to open the cottage door at that same moment.

Korzh was petrified, dropped his jaw, and clutched at the door for

support. Those unlucky kisses completely stunned him.

Recovering himself, he took his grandfather’s hunting whip from the

wall, and was about to belabour Peter’s back with it, when Pidorka’s

little six-year-old brother Ivas rushed up from somewhere or other, and,

grasping his father’s legs with his little hands, screamed out, “Daddy,

daddy! don’t beat Peter!” What was to be done? A father’s heart is not

made of stone. Hanging the whip again on the wall, he led Peter quietly

from the house. “If you ever show yourself in my cottage again, or even

under the windows, look out, Peter, for, by heaven, your black moustache

will disappear; and your black locks, though wound twice about your

ears, will take leave of your pate, or my name is not Terentiy Korzh.”

So saying, he gave him such a taste of his fist in the nape of his neck,

that all grew dark before Peter, and he flew headlong out of the place.

So there was an end of their kissing. Sorrow fell upon our turtle

doves; and a rumour grew rife in the village that a certain Pole,

all embroidered with gold, with moustaches, sabre, spurs, and pockets

jingling like the bells of the bag with which our sacristan Taras goes

through the church every day, had begun to frequent Korzh’s house. Now,

it is well known why a father has visitors when there is a black-browed

daughter about. So, one day, Pidorka burst into tears, and caught the

hand of her brother Ivas. “Ivas, my dear! Ivas, my love! fly to Peter,

my child of gold, like an arrow from a bow. Tell him all: I would have

loved his brown eyes, I would have kissed his fair face, but my fate

decrees otherwise. More than one handkerchief have I wet with burning

tears. I am sad and heavy at heart. And my own father is my enemy. I

will not marry the Pole, whom I do not love. Tell him they are making

ready for a wedding, but there will be no music at our wedding:

priests will sing instead of pipes and viols. I shall not dance with my

bridegroom: they will carry me out. Dark, dark will be my dwelling of

maple wood; and, instead of chimneys, a cross will stand upon the roof.”

Peter stood petrified, without moving from the spot, when the innocent

child lisped out Pidorka’s words to him. “And I, wretched man, had

thought to go to the Crimea and Turkey, to win gold and return to thee,

my beauty! But it may not be. We have been overlooked by the evil eye. I

too shall have a wedding, dear one; but no ecclesiastics will be present

at that wedding. The black crow instead of the pope will caw over me;

the bare plain will be my dwelling; the dark blue cloud my roof-tree.

The eagle will claw out my brown eyes: the rain will wash my Cossack

bones, and the whirlwinds dry them. But what am I? Of what should I

complain? ‘Tis clear God willed it so. If I am to be lost, then so be

it!” and he went straight to the tavern.

My late grandfather’s aunt was somewhat surprised at seeing Peter at the

tavern, at an hour when good men go to morning mass; and stared at him

as though in a dream when he called for a jug of brandy, about half a

pailful. But the poor fellow tried in vain to drown his woe. The vodka

stung his tongue like nettles, and tasted more bitter than wormwood. He

flung the jug from him upon the ground.

“You have sorrowed enough, Cossack,” growled a bass voice behind him.

He looked round--it was Basavriuk! Ugh, what a face! His hair was like

a brush, his eyes like those of a bull. “I know what you lack: here it

is.” As he spoke he jingled a leather purse which hung from his girdle

and smiled diabolically. Peter shuddered. “Ha, ha, ha! how it shines!”

he roared, shaking out ducats into his hands: “ha, ha, ha! how it

jingles! And I only ask one thing for a whole pile of such shiners.”

“It is the Evil One!” exclaimed Peter. “Give me them! I’m ready for

anything!”

They struck hands upon it, and Basavriuk said, “You are just in time,

Peter: to-morrow is St. John the Baptist’s day. Only on this one night

in the year does the fern blossom. I will await you at midnight in the

Bear’s ravine.”

I do not believe that chickens await the hour when the housewife brings

their corn with as much anxiety as Peter awaited the evening. He kept

looking to see whether the shadows of the trees were not lengthening,

whether the sun was not turning red towards setting; and, the longer he

watched, the more impatient he grew. How long it was! Evidently, God’s

day had lost its end somewhere. But now the sun has set. The sky is red

only on one side, and it is already growing dark. It grows colder in the

fields. It gets gloomier and gloomier, and at last quite dark. At last!

With heart almost bursting from his bosom, he set out and cautiously

made his way down through the thick woods into the deep hollow called

the Bear’s ravine. Basavriuk was already waiting there. It was so dark

that you could not see a yard before you. Hand in hand they entered

the ravine, pushing through the luxuriant thorn-bushes and stumbling at

almost every step. At last they reached an open spot. Peter looked about

him: he had never chanced to come there before. Here Basavriuk halted.

“Do you see before you three hillocks? There are a great many kinds of

flowers upon them. May some power keep you from plucking even one of

them. But as soon as the fern blossoms, seize it, and look not round, no

matter what may seem to be going on behind thee.”

Peter wanted to ask some questions, but behold Basavriuk was no longer

there. He approached the three hillocks--where were the flowers? He saw

none. The wild steppe-grass grew all around, and hid everything in its

luxuriance. But the lightning flashed; and before him was a whole bed of

flowers, all wonderful, all strange: whilst amongst them there were

also the simple fronds of fern. Peter doubted his senses, and stood

thoughtfully before them, arms akimbo.

“What manner of prodigy is this? why, one can see these weeds ten times

a day. What is there marvellous about them? Devil’s face must be mocking

me!”

But behold! the tiny flower-bud of the fern reddened and moved as though

alive. It was a marvel in truth. It grew larger and larger, and glowed

like a burning coal. The tiny stars of light flashed up, something burst

softly, and the flower opened before his eyes like a flame, lighting the

others about it.

“Now is the time,” thought Peter, and extended his hand. He saw hundreds

of hairy hands reach also for the flower from behind him, and there was

a sound of scampering in his rear. He half closed his eyes, and plucked

sharply at the stalk, and the flower remained in his hand.

All became still.

Upon a stump sat Basavriuk, quite blue like a corpse. He did not move so

much as a finger. Hi eyes were immovably fixed on something visible

to him alone; his mouth was half open and speechless. Nothing stirred

around. Ugh! it was horrible! But then a whistle was heard which made

Peter’s heart grow cold within him; and it seemed to him that the grass

whispered, and the flowers began to talk among themselves in delicate

voices, like little silver bells, while the trees rustled in murmuring

contention;--Basavriuk’s face suddenly became full of life, and his eyes

sparkled. “The witch has just returned,” he muttered between his

teeth. “Hearken, Peter: a charmer will stand before you in a moment; do

whatever she commands; if not--you are lost forever.”

Then he parted the thorn-bushes with a knotty stick and before him

stood a tiny farmhouse. Basavriuk smote it with his fist, and the wall

trembled. A large black dog ran out to meet them, and with a whine

transformed itself into a cat and flew straight at his eyes.

“Don’t be angry, don’t be angry, you old Satan!” said Basavriuk,

employing such words as would have made a good man stop his ears.

Behold, instead of a cat, an old woman all bent into a bow, with a

face wrinkled like a baked apple, and a nose and chin like a pair of

nutcrackers.

“A fine charmer!” thought Peter; and cold chills ran down his back. The

witch tore the flower from his hand, stooped and muttered over it for a

long time, sprinkling it with some kind of water. Sparks flew from her

mouth, and foam appeared on her lips.

“Throw it away,” she said, giving it back to Peter.

Peter threw it, but what wonder was this? The flower did not fall

straight to the earth, but for a long while twinkled like a fiery ball

through the darkness, and swam through the air like a boat. At last

it began to sink lower and lower, and fell so far away that the little

star, hardly larger than a poppy-seed, was barely visible. “There!”

croaked the old woman, in a dull voice: and Basavriuk, giving him a

spade, said, “Dig here, Peter: you will find more gold than you or Korzh

ever dreamed of.”

Peter spat on his hands, seized the spade, pressed his foot on it, and

turned up the earth, a second, a third, a fourth time. The spade clinked

against something hard, and would go no further. Then his eyes began to

distinguish a small, iron-bound coffer. He tried to seize it; but the

chest began to sink into the earth, deeper, farther, and deeper still:

whilst behind him he heard a laugh like a serpent’s hiss.

“No, you shall not have the gold until you shed human blood,” said the

witch, and she led up to him a child of six, covered with a white sheet,

and indicated by a sign that he was to cut off his head.

Peter was stunned. A trifle, indeed, to cut off a man’s, or even an

innocent child’s, head for no reason whatever! In wrath he tore off the

sheet enveloping the victim’s head, and behold! before him stood Ivas.

The poor child crossed his little hands, and hung his head. Peter flew

at the witch with the knife like a madman, and was on the point of

laying hands on her.

“What did you promise for the girl?” thundered Basavriuk; and like

a shot he was on his back. The witch stamped her foot: a blue flame

flashed from the earth and illumined all within it. The earth became

transparent as if moulded of crystal; and all that was within it became

visible, as if in the palm of the hand. Ducats, precious stones in

chests and pots, were piled in heaps beneath the very spot they stood

on. Peter’s eyes flashed, his mind grew troubled.... He grasped the

knife like a madman, and the innocent blood spurted into his eyes.

Diabolical laughter resounded on all sides. Misshapen monsters flew past

him in flocks. The witch, fastening her hands in the headless trunk,

like a wolf, drank its blood. His head whirled. Collecting all his

strength, he set out to run. Everything grew red before him. The trees

seemed steeped in blood, and burned and groaned. The sky glowed and

threatened. Burning points, like lightning, flickered before his eyes.

Utterly exhausted, he rushed into his miserable hovel and fell to the

ground like a log. A death-like sleep overpowered him.

Two days and two nights did Peter sleep, without once awakening. When he

came to himself, on the third day, he looked long at all the corners of

his hut, but in vain did he endeavour to recollect what had taken place;

his memory was like a miser’s pocket, from which you cannot entice a

quarter of a kopek. Stretching himself, he heard something clash at

his feet. He looked, there were two bags of gold. Then only, as if in

a dream, he recollected that he had been seeking for treasure, and that

something had frightened him in the woods.

Korzh saw the sacks--and was mollified. “A fine fellow, Peter, quite

unequalled! yes, and did I not love him? Was he not to me as my own

son?” And the old fellow repeated this fiction until he wept over it

himself. Pidorka began to tell Peter how some passing gipsies had stolen

Ivas; but he could not even recall him--to such a degree had the Devil’s

influence darkened his mind! There was no reason for delay. The Pole was

dismissed, and the wedding-feast prepared; rolls were baked, towels and

handkerchiefs embroidered; the young people were seated at table;

the wedding-loaf was cut; guitars, cymbals, pipes, viols sounded, and

pleasure was rife.

A wedding in the olden times was not like one of the present day. My

grandfather’s aunt used to tell how the maidens--in festive head-dresses

of yellow, blue, and pink ribbons, above which they bound gold braid; in

thin chemisettes embroidered on all the seams with red silk, and strewn

with tiny silver flowers; in morocco shoes, with high iron heels--danced

the gorlitza as swimmingly as peacocks, and as wildly as the whirlwind;

how the youths--with their ship-shaped caps upon their heads, the crowns

of gold brocade, and two horns projecting, one in front and another

behind, of the very finest black lambskin; in tunics of the finest blue

silk with red borders--stepped forward one by one, their arms akimbo

in stately form, and executed the gopak; how the lads--in tall Cossack

caps, and light cloth gaberdines, girt with silver embroidered belts,

their short pipes in their teeth--skipped before them and talked

nonsense. Even Korzh as he gazed at the young people could not help

getting gay in his old age. Guitar in hand, alternately puffing at his

pipe and singing, a brandy-glass upon his head, the greybeard began the

national dance amid loud shouts from the merry-makers.

What will not people devise in merry mood? They even began to disguise

their faces till they did not look like human beings. On such occasions

one would dress himself as a Jew, another as the Devil: they would begin

by kissing each other, and end by seizing each other by the hair. God be

with them! you laughed till you held your sides. They dressed

themselves in Turkish and Tatar garments. All upon them glowed like a

conflagration, and then they began to joke and play pranks....

An amusing thing happened to my grandfather’s aunt, who was at this

wedding. She was wearing an ample Tatar robe, and, wine-glass in hand,

was entertaining the company. The Evil One instigated one man to pour

vodka over her from behind. Another, at the same moment, evidently not

by accident, struck a light, and held it to her. The flame flashed up,

and poor aunt, in terror, flung her dress off, before them all. Screams,

laughter, jests, arose as if at a fair. In a word, the old folks could

not recall so merry a wedding.

Pidorka and Peter began to live like a gentleman and lady. There was

plenty of everything and everything was fine.... But honest folk shook

their heads when they marked their way of living. “From the Devil

no good can come,” they unanimously agreed. “Whence, except from the

tempter of orthodox people, came this wealth? Where else could he have

got such a lot of gold from? Why, on the very day that he got rich, did

Basavriuk vanish as if into thin air?”

Say, if you can, that people only imagine things! A month had not

passed, and no one would have recognised Peter. He sat in one spot,

saying no word to any one; but continually thinking and seemingly trying

to recall something. When Pidorka succeeded in getting him to speak, he

appeared to forget himself, and would carry on a conversation, and even

grow cheerful; but if he inadvertently glanced at the sacks, “Stop,

stop! I have forgotten,” he would cry, and again plunge into reverie and

strive to recall something. Sometimes when he sat still a long time in

one place, it seemed to him as though it were coming, just coming back

to mind, but again all would fade away. It seemed as if he was sitting

in the tavern: they brought him vodka; vodka stung him; vodka was

repulsive to him. Some one came along and struck him on the shoulder;

but beyond that everything was veiled in darkness before him. The

perspiration would stream down his face, and he would sit exhausted in

the same place.

What did not Pirdorka do? She consulted the sorceresses; and they poured

out fear, and brewed stomach ache (2)--but all to no avail. And so the

summer passed. Many a Cossack had mowed and reaped; many a Cossack, more

enterprising than the rest, had set off upon an expedition. Flocks of

ducks were already crowding the marshes, but there was not even a hint

of improvement.

(2) “To pour out fear” refers to a practice resorted to in case of

fear. When it is desired to know what caused this, melted lead or

wax is poured into water, and the object whose form it assumes is

the one which frightened the sick person; after this, the fear

departs. Sonyashnitza is brewed for giddiness and pain in the

bowels. To this end, a bit of stump is burned, thrown into a jug,

and turned upside down into a bowl filled with water, which is

placed on the patient’s stomach: after an incantation, he is given

a spoonful of this water to drink.

It was red upon the steppes. Ricks of grain, like Cossack’s caps, dotted

the fields here and there. On the highway were to be encountered waggons

loaded with brushwood and logs. The ground had become more solid, and

in places was touched with frost. Already had the snow begun to fall

and the branches of the trees were covered with rime like rabbit-skin.

Already on frosty days the robin redbreast hopped about on the

snow-heaps like a foppish Polish nobleman, and picked out grains of

corn; and children, with huge sticks, played hockey upon the ice; while

their fathers lay quietly on the stove, issuing forth at intervals

with lighted pipes in their lips, to growl, in regular fashion, at the

orthodox frost, or to take the air, and thresh the grain spread out in

the barn. At last the snow began to melt, and the ice slipped away: but

Peter remained the same; and, the more time went on, the more morose he

grew. He sat in the cottage as though nailed to the spot, with the sacks

of gold at his feet. He grew averse to companionship, his hair grew

long, he became terrible to look at; and still he thought of but

one thing, still he tried to recall something, and got angry and

ill-tempered because he could not. Often, rising wildly from his seat,

he gesticulated violently and fixed his eyes on something as though

desirous of catching it: his lips moving as though desirous of uttering

some long-forgotten word, but remaining speechless. Fury would take

possession of him: he would gnaw and bite his hands like a man half

crazy, and in his vexation would tear out his hair by the handful,

until, calming down, he would relapse into forgetfulness, as it were,

and then would again strive to recall the past and be again seized with

fury and fresh tortures. What visitation of God was this?

Pidorka was neither dead not alive. At first it was horrible for her to

remain alone with him in the cottage; but, in course of time, the poor

woman grew accustomed to her sorrow. But it was impossible to recognise

the Pidorka of former days. No blushes, no smiles: she was thin and worn

with grief, and had wept her bright eyes away. Once some one who took

pity on her advised her to go to the witch who dwelt in the Bear’s

ravine, and enjoyed the reputation of being able to cure every disease

in the world. She determined to try that last remedy: and finally

persuaded the old woman to come to her. This was on St. John’s Eve, as

it chanced. Peter lay insensible on the bench, and did not observe the

newcomer. Slowly he rose, and looked about him. Suddenly he trembled in

every limb, as though he were on the scaffold: his hair rose upon his

head, and he laughed a laugh that filled Pidorka’s heart with fear.

“I have remembered, remembered!” he cried, in terrible joy; and,

swinging a hatchet round his head, he struck at the old woman with all

his might. The hatchet penetrated the oaken door nearly four inches. The

old woman disappeared; and a child of seven, covered in a white sheet,

stood in the middle of the cottage.... The sheet flew off. “Ivas!” cried

Pidorka, and ran to him; but the apparition became covered from head to

foot with blood, and illumined the whole room with red light....

She ran into the passage in her terror, but, on recovering herself a

little, wished to help Peter. In vain! the door had slammed to behind

her, so that she could not open it. People ran up, and began to knock:

they broke in the door, as though there were but one mind among them.

The whole cottage was full of smoke; and just in the middle, where Peter

had stood, was a heap of ashes whence smoke was still rising. They flung

themselves upon the sacks: only broken potsherds lay there instead of

ducats. The Cossacks stood with staring eyes and open mouths, as if

rooted to the earth, not daring to move a hair, such terror did this

wonder inspire in them.

I do not remember what happened next. Pidorka made a vow to go upon a

pilgrimage, collected the property left her by her father, and in a few

days it was as if she had never been in the village. Whither she had

gone, no one could tell. Officious old women would have despatched

her to the same place whither Peter had gone; but a Cossack from Kief

reported that he had seen, in a cloister, a nun withered to a mere

skeleton who prayed unceasingly. Her fellow-villagers recognised her as

Pidorka by the tokens--that no one heard her utter a word; and that

she had come on foot, and had brought a frame for the picture of God’s

mother, set with such brilliant stones that all were dazzled at the

sight.

But this was not the end, if you please. On the same day that the Evil

One made away with Peter, Basavriuk appeared again; but all fled from

him. They knew what sort of a being he was--none else than Satan,

who had assumed human form in order to unearth treasures; and, since

treasures do not yield to unclean hands, he seduced the young. That same

year, all deserted their earthen huts and collected in a village; but

even there there was no peace on account of that accursed Basavriuk.

My late grandfather’s aunt said that he was particularly angry with

her because she had abandoned her former tavern, and tried with all

his might to revenge himself upon her. Once the village elders were

assembled in the tavern, and, as the saying goes, were arranging the

precedence at the table, in the middle of which was placed a small

roasted lamb, shame to say. They chattered about this, that, and the

other--among the rest about various marvels and strange things. Well,

they saw something; it would have been nothing if only one had seen it,

but all saw it, and it was this: the sheep raised his head, his goggling

eyes became alive and sparkled; and the black, bristling moustache,

which appeared for one instant, made a significant gesture at those

present. All at once recognised Basavriuk’s countenance in the sheep’s

head; my grandfather’s aunt thought it was on the point of asking for

vodka. The worthy elders seized their hats and hastened home.

Another time, the church elder himself, who was fond of an occasional

private interview with my grandfather’s brandy-glass, had not succeeded

in getting to the bottom twice, when he beheld the glass bowing very

low to him. “Satan take you, let us make the sign of the cross over

you!”--And the same marvel happened to his better half. She had just

begun to mix the dough in a huge kneading-trough when suddenly the

trough sprang up. “Stop, stop! where are you going?” Putting its arms

akimbo, with dignity, it went skipping all about the cottage--you may

laugh, but it was no laughing matter to our grandfathers. And in vain

did Father Athanasii go through all the village with holy water,

and chase the Devil through all the streets with his brush. My late

grandfather’s aunt long complained that, as soon as it was dark, some

one came knocking at her door and scratching at the wall.

Well! All appears to be quiet now in the place where our village stands;

but it was not so very long ago--my father was still alive--that

I remember how a good man could not pass the ruined tavern which

a dishonest race had long managed for their own interest. From the

smoke-blackened chimneys smoke poured out in a pillar, and rising high

in the air, rolled off like a cap, scattering burning coals over the

steppe; and Satan (the son of a dog should not be mentioned) sobbed so

pitifully in his lair that the startled ravens rose in flocks from the

neighbouring oak-wood and flew through the air with wild cries.

THE CLOAK

In the department of--but it is better not to mention the department.

There is nothing more irritable than departments, regiments, courts of

justice, and, in a word, every branch of public service. Each individual

attached to them nowadays thinks all society insulted in his person.

Quite recently a complaint was received from a justice of the peace, in

which he plainly demonstrated that all the imperial institutions were

going to the dogs, and that the Czar’s sacred name was being taken in

vain; and in proof he appended to the complaint a romance in which the

justice of the peace is made to appear about once every ten lines,

and sometimes in a drunken condition. Therefore, in order to avoid all

unpleasantness, it will be better to describe the department in question

only as a certain department.

So, in a certain department there was a certain official--not a very

high one, it must be allowed--short of stature, somewhat pock-marked,

red-haired, and short-sighted, with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks,

and a complexion of the kind known as sanguine. The St. Petersburg

climate was responsible for this. As for his official status, he was

what is called a perpetual titular councillor, over which, as is well

known, some writers make merry, and crack their jokes, obeying the

praiseworthy custom of attacking those who cannot bite back.

His family name was Bashmatchkin. This name is evidently derived from

“bashmak” (shoe); but when, at what time, and in what manner, is not

known. His father and grandfather, and all the Bashmatchkins, always

wore boots, which only had new heels two or three times a year. His name

was Akakiy Akakievitch. It may strike the reader as rather singular

and far-fetched, but he may rest assured that it was by no means

far-fetched, and that the circumstances were such that it would have

been impossible to give him any other.

This is how it came about.

Akakiy Akakievitch was born, if my memory fails me not, in the evening

of the 23rd of March. His mother, the wife of a Government official

and a very fine woman, made all due arrangements for having the child

baptised. She was lying on the bed opposite the door; on her right

stood the godfather, Ivan Ivanovitch Eroshkin, a most estimable man,

who served as presiding officer of the senate, while the godmother, Anna

Semenovna Byelobrushkova, the wife of an officer of the quarter, and

a woman of rare virtues. They offered the mother her choice of three

names, Mokiya, Sossiya, or that the child should be called after the

martyr Khozdazat. “No,” said the good woman, “all those names are poor.”

In order to please her they opened the calendar to another place;

three more names appeared, Triphiliy, Dula, and Varakhasiy. “This is

a judgment,” said the old woman. “What names! I truly never heard the

like. Varada or Varukh might have been borne, but not Triphiliy and

Varakhasiy!” They turned to another page and found Pavsikakhiy and

Vakhtisiy. “Now I see,” said the old woman, “that it is plainly fate.

And since such is the case, it will be better to name him after his

father. His father’s name was Akakiy, so let his son’s be Akakiy too.”

In this manner he became Akakiy Akakievitch. They christened the child,

whereat he wept and made a grimace, as though he foresaw that he was to

be a titular councillor.

In this manner did it all come about. We have mentioned it in order that

the reader might see for himself that it was a case of necessity, and

that it was utterly impossible to give him any other name. When and how

he entered the department, and who appointed him, no one could remember.

However much the directors and chiefs of all kinds were changed, he

was always to be seen in the same place, the same attitude, the same

occupation; so that it was afterwards affirmed that he had been born

in undress uniform with a bald head. No respect was shown him in the

department. The porter not only did not rise from his seat when he

passed, but never even glanced at him, any more than if a fly had flown

through the reception-room. His superiors treated him in coolly despotic

fashion. Some sub-chief would thrust a paper under his nose without

so much as saying, “Copy,” or “Here’s a nice interesting affair,” or

anything else agreeable, as is customary amongst well-bred officials.

And he took it, looking only at the paper and not observing who handed

it to him, or whether he had the right to do so; simply took it, and set

about copying it.

The young officials laughed at and made fun of him, so far as their

official wit permitted; told in his presence various stories concocted

about him, and about his landlady, an old woman of seventy; declared

that she beat him; asked when the wedding was to be; and strewed bits of

paper over his head, calling them snow. But Akakiy Akakievitch answered

not a word, any more than if there had been no one there besides

himself. It even had no effect upon his work: amid all these annoyances

he never made a single mistake in a letter. But if the joking became

wholly unbearable, as when they jogged his hand and prevented his

attending to his work, he would exclaim, “Leave me alone! Why do you

insult me?” And there was something strange in the words and the voice

in which they were uttered. There was in it something which moved to

pity; so much that one young man, a new-comer, who, taking pattern by

the others, had permitted himself to make sport of Akakiy, suddenly

stopped short, as though all about him had undergone a transformation,

and presented itself in a different aspect. Some unseen force repelled

him from the comrades whose acquaintance he had made, on the supposition

that they were well-bred and polite men. Long afterwards, in his gayest

moments, there recurred to his mind the little official with the bald

forehead, with his heart-rending words, “Leave me alone! Why do you

insult me?” In these moving words, other words resounded--“I am thy

brother.” And the young man covered his face with his hand; and many a

time afterwards, in the course of his life, shuddered at seeing how

much inhumanity there is in man, how much savage coarseness is concealed

beneath delicate, refined worldliness, and even, O God! in that man whom

the world acknowledges as honourable and noble.

It would be difficult to find another man who lived so entirely for his

duties. It is not enough to say that Akakiy laboured with zeal: no,

he laboured with love. In his copying, he found a varied and agreeable

employment. Enjoyment was written on his face: some letters were even

favourites with him; and when he encountered these, he smiled, winked,

and worked with his lips, till it seemed as though each letter might

be read in his face, as his pen traced it. If his pay had been in

proportion to his zeal, he would, perhaps, to his great surprise, have

been made even a councillor of state. But he worked, as his companions,

the wits, put it, like a horse in a mill.

Moreover, it is impossible to say that no attention was paid to him. One

director being a kindly man, and desirous of rewarding him for his long

service, ordered him to be given something more important than mere

copying. So he was ordered to make a report of an already concluded

affair to another department: the duty consisting simply in changing

the heading and altering a few words from the first to the third person.

This caused him so much toil that he broke into a perspiration, rubbed

his forehead, and finally said, “No, give me rather something to copy.”

After that they let him copy on forever.

Outside this copying, it appeared that nothing existed for him. He gave

no thought to his clothes: his undress uniform was not green, but a sort

of rusty-meal colour. The collar was low, so that his neck, in spite of

the fact that it was not long, seemed inordinately so as it emerged from

it, like the necks of those plaster cats which wag their heads, and are

carried about upon the heads of scores of image sellers. And something

was always sticking to his uniform, either a bit of hay or some trifle.

Moreover, he had a peculiar knack, as he walked along the street, of

arriving beneath a window just as all sorts of rubbish were being flung

out of it: hence he always bore about on his hat scraps of melon rinds

and other such articles. Never once in his life did he give heed to what

was going on every day in the street; while it is well known that his

young brother officials train the range of their glances till they

can see when any one’s trouser straps come undone upon the opposite

sidewalk, which always brings a malicious smile to their faces. But

Akakiy Akakievitch saw in all things the clean, even strokes of his

written lines; and only when a horse thrust his nose, from some unknown

quarter, over his shoulder, and sent a whole gust of wind down his neck

from his nostrils, did he observe that he was not in the middle of a

page, but in the middle of the street.

On reaching home, he sat down at once at the table, supped his cabbage

soup up quickly, and swallowed a bit of beef with onions, never noticing

their taste, and gulping down everything with flies and anything else

which the Lord happened to send at the moment. His stomach filled, he

rose from the table, and copied papers which he had brought home. If

there happened to be none, he took copies for himself, for his own

gratification, especially if the document was noteworthy, not on account

of its style, but of its being addressed to some distinguished person.

Even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had quite dispersed,

and all the official world had eaten or dined, each as he could, in

accordance with the salary he received and his own fancy; when all were

resting from the departmental jar of pens, running to and fro from their

own and other people’s indispensable occupations, and from all the work

that an uneasy man makes willingly for himself, rather than what is

necessary; when officials hasten to dedicate to pleasure the time which

is left to them, one bolder than the rest going to the theatre; another,

into the street looking under all the bonnets; another wasting his

evening in compliments to some pretty girl, the star of a small official

circle; another--and this is the common case of all--visiting his

comrades on the fourth or third floor, in two small rooms with an

ante-room or kitchen, and some pretensions to fashion, such as a lamp or

some other trifle which has cost many a sacrifice of dinner or pleasure

trip; in a word, at the hour when all officials disperse among the

contracted quarters of their friends, to play whist, as they sip their

tea from glasses with a kopek’s worth of sugar, smoke long pipes, relate

at times some bits of gossip which a Russian man can never, under any

circumstances, refrain from, and, when there is nothing else to talk of,

repeat eternal anecdotes about the commandant to whom they had sent word

that the tails of the horses on the Falconet Monument had been cut off,

when all strive to divert themselves, Akakiy Akakievitch indulged in

no kind of diversion. No one could ever say that he had seen him at any

kind of evening party. Having written to his heart’s content, he lay

down to sleep, smiling at the thought of the coming day--of what God

might send him to copy on the morrow.

Thus flowed on the peaceful life of the man, who, with a salary of four

hundred rubles, understood how to be content with his lot; and thus it

would have continued to flow on, perhaps, to extreme old age, were

it not that there are various ills strewn along the path of life for

titular councillors as well as for private, actual, court, and every

other species of councillor, even for those who never give any advice or

take any themselves.

There exists in St. Petersburg a powerful foe of all who receive a

salary of four hundred rubles a year, or thereabouts. This foe is no

other than the Northern cold, although it is said to be very healthy.

At nine o’clock in the morning, at the very hour when the streets are

filled with men bound for the various official departments, it begins to

bestow such powerful and piercing nips on all noses impartially that the

poor officials really do not know what to do with them. At an hour when

the foreheads of even those who occupy exalted positions ache with the

cold, and tears start to their eyes, the poor titular councillors are

sometimes quite unprotected. Their only salvation lies in traversing as

quickly as possible, in their thin little cloaks, five or six streets,

and then warming their feet in the porter’s room, and so thawing all

their talents and qualifications for official service, which had become

frozen on the way.

Akakiy Akakievitch had felt for some time that his back and shoulders

suffered with peculiar poignancy, in spite of the fact that he tried

to traverse the distance with all possible speed. He began finally

to wonder whether the fault did not lie in his cloak. He examined it

thoroughly at home, and discovered that in two places, namely, on the

back and shoulders, it had become thin as gauze: the cloth was worn to

such a degree that he could see through it, and the lining had fallen

into pieces. You must know that Akakiy Akakievitch’s cloak served as an

object of ridicule to the officials: they even refused it the noble name

of cloak, and called it a cape. In fact, it was of singular make: its

collar diminishing year by year, but serving to patch its other parts.

The patching did not exhibit great skill on the part of the tailor,

and was, in fact, baggy and ugly. Seeing how the matter stood, Akakiy

Akakievitch decided that it would be necessary to take the cloak to

Petrovitch, the tailor, who lived somewhere on the fourth floor up

a dark stair-case, and who, in spite of his having but one eye, and

pock-marks all over his face, busied himself with considerable success

in repairing the trousers and coats of officials and others; that is to

say, when he was sober and not nursing some other scheme in his head.

It is not necessary to say much about this tailor; but, as it is the

custom to have the character of each personage in a novel clearly

defined, there is no help for it, so here is Petrovitch the tailor. At

first he was called only Grigoriy, and was some gentleman’s serf; he

commenced calling himself Petrovitch from the time when he received

his free papers, and further began to drink heavily on all holidays,

at first on the great ones, and then on all church festivities without

discrimination, wherever a cross stood in the calendar. On this point he

was faithful to ancestral custom; and when quarrelling with his wife, he

called her a low female and a German. As we have mentioned his wife, it

will be necessary to say a word or two about her. Unfortunately, little

is known of her beyond the fact that Petrovitch has a wife, who wears

a cap and a dress; but cannot lay claim to beauty, at least, no one but

the soldiers of the guard even looked under her cap when they met her.

Ascending the staircase which led to Petrovitch’s room--which staircase

was all soaked with dish-water, and reeked with the smell of spirits

which affects the eyes, and is an inevitable adjunct to all dark

stairways in St. Petersburg houses--ascending the stairs, Akakiy

Akakievitch pondered how much Petrovitch would ask, and mentally

resolved not to give more than two rubles. The door was open; for the

mistress, in cooking some fish, had raised such a smoke in the kitchen

that not even the beetles were visible. Akakiy Akakievitch passed

through the kitchen unperceived, even by the housewife, and at length

reached a room where he beheld Petrovitch seated on a large unpainted

table, with his legs tucked under him like a Turkish pasha. His feet

were bare, after the fashion of tailors who sit at work; and the first

thing which caught the eye was his thumb, with a deformed nail thick and

strong as a turtle’s shell. About Petrovitch’s neck hung a skein of silk

and thread, and upon his knees lay some old garment. He had been trying

unsuccessfully for three minutes to thread his needle, and was enraged

at the darkness and even at the thread, growling in a low voice, “It

won’t go through, the barbarian! you pricked me, you rascal!”

Akakiy Akakievitch was vexed at arriving at the precise moment when

Petrovitch was angry; he liked to order something of Petrovitch when the

latter was a little downhearted, or, as his wife expressed it, “when

he had settled himself with brandy, the one-eyed devil!” Under such

circumstances, Petrovitch generally came down in his price very readily,

and even bowed and returned thanks. Afterwards, to be sure, his wife

would come, complaining that her husband was drunk, and so had fixed

the price too low; but, if only a ten-kopek piece were added, then the

matter was settled. But now it appeared that Petrovitch was in a sober

condition, and therefore rough, taciturn, and inclined to demand, Satan

only knows what price. Akakiy Akakievitch felt this, and would gladly

have beat a retreat; but he was in for it. Petrovitch screwed up his

one eye very intently at him, and Akakiy Akakievitch involuntarily said:

“How do you do, Petrovitch?”

“I wish you a good morning, sir,” said Petrovitch, squinting at Akakiy

Akakievitch’s hands, to see what sort of booty he had brought.

“Ah! I--to you, Petrovitch, this--” It must be known that Akakiy

Akakievitch expressed himself chiefly by prepositions, adverbs, and

scraps of phrases which had no meaning whatever. If the matter was a

very difficult one, he had a habit of never completing his sentences; so

that frequently, having begun a phrase with the words, “This, in fact,

is quite--” he forgot to go on, thinking that he had already finished

it.

“What is it?” asked Petrovitch, and with his one eye scanned

Akakievitch’s whole uniform from the collar down to the cuffs, the back,

the tails and the button-holes, all of which were well known to him,

since they were his own handiwork. Such is the habit of tailors; it is

the first thing they do on meeting one.

“But I, here, this--Petrovitch--a cloak, cloth--here you see,

everywhere, in different places, it is quite strong--it is a little

dusty, and looks old, but it is new, only here in one place it is a

little--on the back, and here on one of the shoulders, it is a little

worn, yes, here on this shoulder it is a little--do you see? that is

all. And a little work--”

Petrovitch took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, on the

table, looked hard at it, shook his head, reached out his hand to

the window-sill for his snuff-box, adorned with the portrait of some

general, though what general is unknown, for the place where the face

should have been had been rubbed through by the finger, and a square

bit of paper had been pasted over it. Having taken a pinch of snuff,

Petrovitch held up the cloak, and inspected it against the light,

and again shook his head once more. After which he again lifted the

general-adorned lid with its bit of pasted paper, and having stuffed his

nose with snuff, closed and put away the snuff-box, and said finally,

“No, it is impossible to mend it; it’s a wretched garment!”

Akakiy Akakievitch’s heart sank at these words.

“Why is it impossible, Petrovitch?” he said, almost in the pleading

voice of a child; “all that ails it is, that it is worn on the

shoulders. You must have some pieces--”

“Yes, patches could be found, patches are easily found,” said

Petrovitch, “but there’s nothing to sew them to. The thing is completely

rotten; if you put a needle to it--see, it will give way.”

“Let it give way, and you can put on another patch at once.”

“But there is nothing to put the patches on to; there’s no use in

strengthening it; it is too far gone. It’s lucky that it’s cloth; for,

if the wind were to blow, it would fly away.”

“Well, strengthen it again. How will this, in fact--”

“No,” said Petrovitch decisively, “there is nothing to be done with it.

It’s a thoroughly bad job. You’d better, when the cold winter weather

comes on, make yourself some gaiters out of it, because stockings

are not warm. The Germans invented them in order to make more money.”

Petrovitch loved, on all occasions, to have a fling at the Germans. “But

it is plain you must have a new cloak.”

At the word “new,” all grew dark before Akakiy Akakievitch’s eyes,

and everything in the room began to whirl round. The only thing he saw

clearly was the general with the paper face on the lid of Petrovitch’s

snuff-box. “A new one?” said he, as if still in a dream: “why, I have no

money for that.”

“Yes, a new one,” said Petrovitch, with barbarous composure.

“Well, if it came to a new one, how would it--?”

“You mean how much would it cost?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty or more,” said

Petrovitch, and pursed up his lips significantly. He liked to produce

powerful effects, liked to stun utterly and suddenly, and then to glance

sideways to see what face the stunned person would put on the matter.

“A hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak!” shrieked poor Akakiy

Akakievitch, perhaps for the first time in his life, for his voice had

always been distinguished for softness.

“Yes, sir,” said Petrovitch, “for any kind of cloak. If you have a

marten fur on the collar, or a silk-lined hood, it will mount up to two

hundred.”

“Petrovitch, please,” said Akakiy Akakievitch in a beseeching tone, not

hearing, and not trying to hear, Petrovitch’s words, and disregarding

all his “effects,” “some repairs, in order that it may wear yet a little

longer.”

“No, it would only be a waste of time and money,” said Petrovitch; and

Akakiy Akakievitch went away after these words, utterly discouraged. But

Petrovitch stood for some time after his departure, with significantly

compressed lips, and without betaking himself to his work, satisfied

that he would not be dropped, and an artistic tailor employed.

Akakiy Akakievitch went out into the street as if in a dream. “Such an

affair!” he said to himself: “I did not think it had come to--” and then

after a pause, he added, “Well, so it is! see what it has come to

at last! and I never imagined that it was so!” Then followed a

long silence, after which he exclaimed, “Well, so it is! see what

already--nothing unexpected that--it would be nothing--what a strange

circumstance!” So saying, instead of going home, he went in exactly

the opposite direction without himself suspecting it. On the way, a

chimney-sweep bumped up against him, and blackened his shoulder, and a

whole hatful of rubbish landed on him from the top of a house which was

building. He did not notice it; and only when he ran against a watchman,

who, having planted his halberd beside him, was shaking some snuff from

his box into his horny hand, did he recover himself a little, and that

because the watchman said, “Why are you poking yourself into a man’s

very face? Haven’t you the pavement?” This caused him to look about him,

and turn towards home.

There only, he finally began to collect his thoughts, and to survey

his position in its clear and actual light, and to argue with himself,

sensibly and frankly, as with a reasonable friend with whom one can

discuss private and personal matters. “No,” said Akakiy Akakievitch, “it

is impossible to reason with Petrovitch now; he is that--evidently his

wife has been beating him. I’d better go to him on Sunday morning; after

Saturday night he will be a little cross-eyed and sleepy, for he will

want to get drunk, and his wife won’t give him any money; and at such

a time, a ten-kopek piece in his hand will--he will become more fit

to reason with, and then the cloak, and that--” Thus argued Akakiy

Akakievitch with himself, regained his courage, and waited until the

first Sunday, when, seeing from afar that Petrovitch’s wife had left the

house, he went straight to him.

Petrovitch’s eye was, indeed, very much askew after Saturday: his head

drooped, and he was very sleepy; but for all that, as soon as he knew

what it was a question of, it seemed as though Satan jogged his memory.

“Impossible,” said he: “please to order a new one.” Thereupon Akakiy

Akakievitch handed over the ten-kopek piece. “Thank you, sir; I will

drink your good health,” said Petrovitch: “but as for the cloak, don’t

trouble yourself about it; it is good for nothing. I will make you a

capital new one, so let us settle about it now.”

Akakiy Akakievitch was still for mending it; but Petrovitch would not

hear of it, and said, “I shall certainly have to make you a new one, and

you may depend upon it that I shall do my best. It may even be, as the

fashion goes, that the collar can be fastened by silver hooks under a

flap.”

Then Akakiy Akakievitch saw that it was impossible to get along without

a new cloak, and his spirit sank utterly. How, in fact, was it to be

done? Where was the money to come from? He might, to be sure, depend,

in part, upon his present at Christmas; but that money had long been

allotted beforehand. He must have some new trousers, and pay a debt of

long standing to the shoemaker for putting new tops to his old boots,

and he must order three shirts from the seamstress, and a couple of

pieces of linen. In short, all his money must be spent; and even if the

director should be so kind as to order him to receive forty-five rubles

instead of forty, or even fifty, it would be a mere nothing, a mere drop

in the ocean towards the funds necessary for a cloak: although he

knew that Petrovitch was often wrong-headed enough to blurt out some

outrageous price, so that even his own wife could not refrain from

exclaiming, “Have you lost your senses, you fool?” At one time he would

not work at any price, and now it was quite likely that he had named a

higher sum than the cloak would cost.

But although he knew that Petrovitch would undertake to make a cloak

for eighty rubles, still, where was he to get the eighty rubles from? He

might possibly manage half, yes, half might be procured, but where was

the other half to come from? But the reader must first be told where

the first half came from. Akakiy Akakievitch had a habit of putting, for

every ruble he spent, a groschen into a small box, fastened with a lock

and key, and with a slit in the top for the reception of money. At the

end of every half-year he counted over the heap of coppers, and changed

it for silver. This he had done for a long time, and in the course of

years, the sum had mounted up to over forty rubles. Thus he had one half

on hand; but where was he to find the other half? where was he to get

another forty rubles from? Akakiy Akakievitch thought and thought, and

decided that it would be necessary to curtail his ordinary expenses, for

the space of one year at least, to dispense with tea in the evening; to

burn no candles, and, if there was anything which he must do, to go

into his landlady’s room, and work by her light. When he went into the

street, he must walk as lightly as he could, and as cautiously, upon the

stones, almost upon tiptoe, in order not to wear his heels down in too

short a time; he must give the laundress as little to wash as possible;

and, in order not to wear out his clothes, he must take them off, as

soon as he got home, and wear only his cotton dressing-gown, which had

been long and carefully saved.

To tell the truth, it was a little hard for him at first to accustom

himself to these deprivations; but he got used to them at length, after

a fashion, and all went smoothly. He even got used to being hungry in

the evening, but he made up for it by treating himself, so to say, in

spirit, by bearing ever in mind the idea of his future cloak. From that

time forth his existence seemed to become, in some way, fuller, as if he

were married, or as if some other man lived in him, as if, in fact, he

were not alone, and some pleasant friend had consented to travel along

life’s path with him, the friend being no other than the cloak, with

thick wadding and a strong lining incapable of wearing out. He became

more lively, and even his character grew firmer, like that of a man who

has made up his mind, and set himself a goal. From his face and gait,

doubt and indecision, all hesitating and wavering traits disappeared of

themselves. Fire gleamed in his eyes, and occasionally the boldest and

most daring ideas flitted through his mind; why not, for instance,

have marten fur on the collar? The thought of this almost made him

absent-minded. Once, in copying a letter, he nearly made a mistake, so

that he exclaimed almost aloud, “Ugh!” and crossed himself. Once, in

the course of every month, he had a conference with Petrovitch on the

subject of the cloak, where it would be better to buy the cloth, and

the colour, and the price. He always returned home satisfied, though

troubled, reflecting that the time would come at last when it could all

be bought, and then the cloak made.

The affair progressed more briskly than he had expected. Far beyond all

his hopes, the director awarded neither forty nor forty-five rubles for

Akakiy Akakievitch’s share, but sixty. Whether he suspected that Akakiy

Akakievitch needed a cloak, or whether it was merely chance, at

all events, twenty extra rubles were by this means provided. This

circumstance hastened matters. Two or three months more of hunger and

Akakiy Akakievitch had accumulated about eighty rubles. His heart,

generally so quiet, began to throb. On the first possible day, he went

shopping in company with Petrovitch. They bought some very good cloth,

and at a reasonable rate too, for they had been considering the matter

for six months, and rarely let a month pass without their visiting the

shops to inquire prices. Petrovitch himself said that no better cloth

could be had. For lining, they selected a cotton stuff, but so firm

and thick that Petrovitch declared it to be better than silk, and even

prettier and more glossy. They did not buy the marten fur, because it

was, in fact, dear, but in its stead, they picked out the very best of

cat-skin which could be found in the shop, and which might, indeed, be

taken for marten at a distance.

Petrovitch worked at the cloak two whole weeks, for there was a great

deal of quilting: otherwise it would have been finished sooner. He

charged twelve rubles for the job, it could not possibly have been

done for less. It was all sewed with silk, in small, double seams; and

Petrovitch went over each seam afterwards with his own teeth, stamping

in various patterns.

It was--it is difficult to say precisely on what day, but probably

the most glorious one in Akakiy Akakievitch’s life, when Petrovitch at

length brought home the cloak. He brought it in the morning, before

the hour when it was necessary to start for the department. Never did a

cloak arrive so exactly in the nick of time; for the severe cold had set

in, and it seemed to threaten to increase. Petrovitch brought the cloak

himself as befits a good tailor. On his countenance was a significant

expression, such as Akakiy Akakievitch had never beheld there. He

seemed fully sensible that he had done no small deed, and crossed a gulf

separating tailors who only put in linings, and execute repairs,

from those who make new things. He took the cloak out of the pocket

handkerchief in which he had brought it. The handkerchief was fresh

from the laundress, and he put it in his pocket for use. Taking out the

cloak, he gazed proudly at it, held it up with both hands, and flung it

skilfully over the shoulders of Akakiy Akakievitch. Then he pulled it

and fitted it down behind with his hand, and he draped it around

Akakiy Akakievitch without buttoning it. Akakiy Akakievitch, like an

experienced man, wished to try the sleeves. Petrovitch helped him on

with them, and it turned out that the sleeves were satisfactory also. In

short, the cloak appeared to be perfect, and most seasonable. Petrovitch

did not neglect to observe that it was only because he lived in a narrow

street, and had no signboard, and had known Akakiy Akakievitch so long,

that he had made it so cheaply; but that if he had been in business on

the Nevsky Prospect, he would have charged seventy-five rubles for the

making alone. Akakiy Akakievitch did not care to argue this point with

Petrovitch. He paid him, thanked him, and set out at once in his new

cloak for the department. Petrovitch followed him, and, pausing in the

street, gazed long at the cloak in the distance, after which he went to

one side expressly to run through a crooked alley, and emerge again into

the street beyond to gaze once more upon the cloak from another point,

namely, directly in front.

Meantime Akakiy Akakievitch went on in holiday mood. He was conscious

every second of the time that he had a new cloak on his shoulders; and

several times he laughed with internal satisfaction. In fact, there were

two advantages, one was its warmth, the other its beauty. He saw nothing

of the road, but suddenly found himself at the department. He took off

his cloak in the ante-room, looked it over carefully, and confided it

to the especial care of the attendant. It is impossible to say precisely

how it was that every one in the department knew at once that Akakiy

Akakievitch had a new cloak, and that the “cape” no longer existed.

All rushed at the same moment into the ante-room to inspect it. They

congratulated him and said pleasant things to him, so that he began at

first to smile and then to grow ashamed. When all surrounded him, and

said that the new cloak must be “christened,” and that he must give

a whole evening at least to this, Akakiy Akakievitch lost his head

completely, and did not know where he stood, what to answer, or how to

get out of it. He stood blushing all over for several minutes, and was

on the point of assuring them with great simplicity that it was not a

new cloak, that it was so and so, that it was in fact the old “cape.”

At length one of the officials, a sub-chief probably, in order to show

that he was not at all proud, and on good terms with his inferiors,

said, “So be it, only I will give the party instead of Akakiy

Akakievitch; I invite you all to tea with me to-night; it happens quite

a propos, as it is my name-day.” The officials naturally at once offered

the sub-chief their congratulations and accepted the invitations with

pleasure. Akakiy Akakievitch would have declined, but all declared that

it was discourteous, that it was simply a sin and a shame, and that he

could not possibly refuse. Besides, the notion became pleasant to him

when he recollected that he should thereby have a chance of wearing his

new cloak in the evening also.

That whole day was truly a most triumphant festival day for Akakiy

Akakievitch. He returned home in the most happy frame of mind, took off

his cloak, and hung it carefully on the wall, admiring afresh the

cloth and the lining. Then he brought out his old, worn-out cloak, for

comparison. He looked at it and laughed, so vast was the difference.

And long after dinner he laughed again when the condition of the “cape”

recurred to his mind. He dined cheerfully, and after dinner wrote

nothing, but took his ease for a while on the bed, until it got dark.

Then he dressed himself leisurely, put on his cloak, and stepped out

into the street. Where the host lived, unfortunately we cannot say:

our memory begins to fail us badly; and the houses and streets in St.

Petersburg have become so mixed up in our head that it is very difficult

to get anything out of it again in proper form. This much is certain,

that the official lived in the best part of the city; and therefore

it must have been anything but near to Akakiy Akakievitch’s residence.

Akakiy Akakievitch was first obliged to traverse a kind of wilderness of

deserted, dimly-lighted streets; but in proportion as he approached the

official’s quarter of the city, the streets became more lively, more

populous, and more brilliantly illuminated. Pedestrians began to appear;

handsomely dressed ladies were more frequently encountered; the men

had otter skin collars to their coats; peasant waggoners, with their

grate-like sledges stuck over with brass-headed nails, became rarer;

whilst on the other hand, more and more drivers in red velvet caps,

lacquered sledges and bear-skin coats began to appear, and carriages

with rich hammer-cloths flew swiftly through the streets, their wheels

scrunching the snow. Akakiy Akakievitch gazed upon all this as upon

a novel sight. He had not been in the streets during the evening for

years. He halted out of curiosity before a shop-window to look at a

picture representing a handsome woman, who had thrown off her shoe,

thereby baring her whole foot in a very pretty way; whilst behind her

the head of a man with whiskers and a handsome moustache peeped through

the doorway of another room. Akakiy Akakievitch shook his head and

laughed, and then went on his way. Why did he laugh? Either because he

had met with a thing utterly unknown, but for which every one cherishes,

nevertheless, some sort of feeling; or else he thought, like many

officials, as follows: “Well, those French! What is to be said? If they

do go in anything of that sort, why--” But possibly he did not think at

all.

Akakiy Akakievitch at length reached the house in which the sub-chief

lodged. The sub-chief lived in fine style: the staircase was lit by

a lamp; his apartment being on the second floor. On entering the

vestibule, Akakiy Akakievitch beheld a whole row of goloshes on the

floor. Among them, in the centre of the room, stood a samovar or

tea-urn, humming and emitting clouds of steam. On the walls hung all

sorts of coats and cloaks, among which there were even some with beaver

collars or velvet facings. Beyond, the buzz of conversation was audible,

and became clear and loud when the servant came out with a trayful of

empty glasses, cream-jugs, and sugar-bowls. It was evident that the

officials had arrived long before, and had already finished their first

glass of tea.

Akakiy Akakievitch, having hung up his own cloak, entered the inner

room. Before him all at once appeared lights, officials, pipes, and

card-tables; and he was bewildered by the sound of rapid conversation

rising from all the tables, and the noise of moving chairs. He halted

very awkwardly in the middle of the room, wondering what he ought to do.

But they had seen him. They received him with a shout, and all thronged

at once into the ante-room, and there took another look at his cloak.

Akakiy Akakievitch, although somewhat confused, was frank-hearted, and

could not refrain from rejoicing when he saw how they praised his cloak.

Then, of course, they all dropped him and his cloak, and returned, as

was proper, to the tables set out for whist.

All this, the noise, the talk, and the throng of people was rather

overwhelming to Akakiy Akakievitch. He simply did not know where he

stood, or where to put his hands, his feet, and his whole body. Finally

he sat down by the players, looked at the cards, gazed at the face of

one and another, and after a while began to gape, and to feel that it

was wearisome, the more so as the hour was already long past when he

usually went to bed. He wanted to take leave of the host; but they

would not let him go, saying that he must not fail to drink a glass

of champagne in honour of his new garment. In the course of an hour,

supper, consisting of vegetable salad, cold veal, pastry, confectioner’s

pies, and champagne, was served. They made Akakiy Akakievitch drink two

glasses of champagne, after which he felt things grow livelier.

Still, he could not forget that it was twelve o’clock, and that he

should have been at home long ago. In order that the host might not

think of some excuse for detaining him, he stole out of the room

quickly, sought out, in the ante-room, his cloak, which, to his sorrow,

he found lying on the floor, brushed it, picked off every speck upon it,

put it on his shoulders, and descended the stairs to the street.

In the street all was still bright. Some petty shops, those permanent

clubs of servants and all sorts of folk, were open. Others were shut,

but, nevertheless, showed a streak of light the whole length of the

door-crack, indicating that they were not yet free of company, and that

probably some domestics, male and female, were finishing their stories

and conversations whilst leaving their masters in complete ignorance

as to their whereabouts. Akakiy Akakievitch went on in a happy frame of

mind: he even started to run, without knowing why, after some lady, who

flew past like a flash of lightning. But he stopped short, and went on

very quietly as before, wondering why he had quickened his pace. Soon

there spread before him those deserted streets, which are not cheerful

in the daytime, to say nothing of the evening. Now they were even more

dim and lonely: the lanterns began to grow rarer, oil, evidently, had

been less liberally supplied. Then came wooden houses and fences: not

a soul anywhere; only the snow sparkled in the streets, and mournfully

veiled the low-roofed cabins with their closed shutters. He approached

the spot where the street crossed a vast square with houses barely

visible on its farther side, a square which seemed a fearful desert.

Afar, a tiny spark glimmered from some watchman’s box, which seemed

to stand on the edge of the world. Akakiy Akakievitch’s cheerfulness

diminished at this point in a marked degree. He entered the square, not

without an involuntary sensation of fear, as though his heart warned him

of some evil. He glanced back and on both sides, it was like a sea about

him. “No, it is better not to look,” he thought, and went on, closing

his eyes. When he opened them, to see whether he was near the end of

the square, he suddenly beheld, standing just before his very nose, some

bearded individuals of precisely what sort he could not make out. All

grew dark before his eyes, and his heart throbbed.

“But, of course, the cloak is mine!” said one of them in a loud voice,

seizing hold of his collar. Akakiy Akakievitch was about to shout

“watch,” when the second man thrust a fist, about the size of a man’s

head, into his mouth, muttering, “Now scream!”

Akakiy Akakievitch felt them strip off his cloak and give him a push

with a knee: he fell headlong upon the snow, and felt no more. In a few

minutes he recovered consciousness and rose to his feet; but no one was

there. He felt that it was cold in the square, and that his cloak was

gone; he began to shout, but his voice did not appear to reach to the

outskirts of the square. In despair, but without ceasing to shout,

he started at a run across the square, straight towards the watchbox,

beside which stood the watchman, leaning on his halberd, and apparently

curious to know what kind of a customer was running towards him and

shouting. Akakiy Akakievitch ran up to him, and began in a sobbing voice

to shout that he was asleep, and attended to nothing, and did not see

when a man was robbed. The watchman replied that he had seen two men

stop him in the middle of the square, but supposed that they were

friends of his; and that, instead of scolding vainly, he had better

go to the police on the morrow, so that they might make a search for

whoever had stolen the cloak.

Akakiy Akakievitch ran home in complete disorder; his hair, which

grew very thinly upon his temples and the back of his head, wholly

disordered; his body, arms, and legs covered with snow. The old woman,

who was mistress of his lodgings, on hearing a terrible knocking, sprang

hastily from her bed, and, with only one shoe on, ran to open the door,

pressing the sleeve of her chemise to her bosom out of modesty; but when

she had opened it, she fell back on beholding Akakiy Akakievitch in such

a state. When he told her about the affair, she clasped her hands, and

said that he must go straight to the district chief of police, for his

subordinate would turn up his nose, promise well, and drop the matter

there. The very best thing to do, therefore, would be to go to the

district chief, whom she knew, because Finnish Anna, her former cook,

was now nurse at his house. She often saw him passing the house; and

he was at church every Sunday, praying, but at the same time gazing

cheerfully at everybody; so that he must be a good man, judging from all

appearances. Having listened to this opinion, Akakiy Akakievitch betook

himself sadly to his room; and how he spent the night there any one who

can put himself in another’s place may readily imagine.

Early in the morning, he presented himself at the district chief’s; but

was told that this official was asleep. He went again at ten and was

again informed that he was asleep; at eleven, and they said: “The

superintendent is not at home;” at dinner time, and the clerks in the

ante-room would not admit him on any terms, and insisted upon knowing

his business. So that at last, for once in his life, Akakiy Akakievitch

felt an inclination to show some spirit, and said curtly that he must

see the chief in person; that they ought not to presume to refuse him

entrance; that he came from the department of justice, and that when he

complained of them, they would see.

The clerks dared make no reply to this, and one of them went to call

the chief, who listened to the strange story of the theft of the coat.

Instead of directing his attention to the principal points of the

matter, he began to question Akakiy Akakievitch: Why was he going

home so late? Was he in the habit of doing so, or had he been to some

disorderly house? So that Akakiy Akakievitch got thoroughly confused,

and left him without knowing whether the affair of his cloak was in

proper train or not.

All that day, for the first time in his life, he never went near the

department. The next day he made his appearance, very pale, and in his

old cape, which had become even more shabby. The news of the robbery of

the cloak touched many; although there were some officials present who

never lost an opportunity, even such a one as the present, of ridiculing

Akakiy Akakievitch. They decided to make a collection for him on the

spot, but the officials had already spent a great deal in subscribing

for the director’s portrait, and for some book, at the suggestion of the

head of that division, who was a friend of the author; and so the sum

was trifling.

One of them, moved by pity, resolved to help Akakiy Akakievitch with

some good advice at least, and told him that he ought not to go to the

police, for although it might happen that a police-officer, wishing

to win the approval of his superiors, might hunt up the cloak by some

means, still his cloak would remain in the possession of the police if

he did not offer legal proof that it belonged to him. The best thing

for him, therefore, would be to apply to a certain prominent personage;

since this prominent personage, by entering into relations with the

proper persons, could greatly expedite the matter.

As there was nothing else to be done, Akakiy Akakievitch decided to go

to the prominent personage. What was the exact official position of the

prominent personage remains unknown to this day. The reader must

know that the prominent personage had but recently become a prominent

personage, having up to that time been only an insignificant person.

Moreover, his present position was not considered prominent in

comparison with others still more so. But there is always a circle of

people to whom what is insignificant in the eyes of others, is important

enough. Moreover, he strove to increase his importance by sundry

devices; for instance, he managed to have the inferior officials meet

him on the staircase when he entered upon his service; no one was to

presume to come directly to him, but the strictest etiquette must be

observed; the collegiate recorder must make a report to the government

secretary, the government secretary to the titular councillor, or

whatever other man was proper, and all business must come before him in

this manner. In Holy Russia all is thus contaminated with the love of

imitation; every man imitates and copies his superior. They even say

that a certain titular councillor, when promoted to the head of some

small separate room, immediately partitioned off a private room for

himself, called it the audience chamber, and posted at the door a lackey

with red collar and braid, who grasped the handle of the door and opened

to all comers; though the audience chamber could hardly hold an ordinary

writing-table.

The manners and customs of the prominent personage were grand and

imposing, but rather exaggerated. The main foundation of his system

was strictness. “Strictness, strictness, and always strictness!” he

generally said; and at the last word he looked significantly into the

face of the person to whom he spoke. But there was no necessity for

this, for the half-score of subordinates who formed the entire force of

the office were properly afraid; on catching sight of him afar off

they left their work and waited, drawn up in line, until he had passed

through the room. His ordinary converse with his inferiors smacked of

sternness, and consisted chiefly of three phrases: “How dare you?” “Do

you know whom you are speaking to?” “Do you realise who stands before

you?”

Otherwise he was a very kind-hearted man, good to his comrades, and

ready to oblige; but the rank of general threw him completely off his

balance. On receiving any one of that rank, he became confused, lost his

way, as it were, and never knew what to do. If he chanced to be amongst

his equals he was still a very nice kind of man, a very good fellow in

many respects, and not stupid; but the very moment that he found himself

in the society of people but one rank lower than himself he became

silent; and his situation aroused sympathy, the more so as he felt

himself that he might have been making an incomparably better use of

his time. In his eyes there was sometimes visible a desire to join some

interesting conversation or group; but he was kept back by the thought,

“Would it not be a very great condescension on his part? Would it not

be familiar? and would he not thereby lose his importance?” And in

consequence of such reflections he always remained in the same dumb

state, uttering from time to time a few monosyllabic sounds, and thereby

earning the name of the most wearisome of men.

To this prominent personage Akakiy Akakievitch presented himself, and

this at the most unfavourable time for himself though opportune for

the prominent personage. The prominent personage was in his cabinet

conversing gaily with an old acquaintance and companion of his childhood

whom he had not seen for several years and who had just arrived when it

was announced to him that a person named Bashmatchkin had come. He asked

abruptly, “Who is he?”--“Some official,” he was informed. “Ah, he can

wait! this is no time for him to call,” said the important man.

It must be remarked here that the important man lied outrageously:

he had said all he had to say to his friend long before; and the

conversation had been interspersed for some time with very long pauses,

during which they merely slapped each other on the leg, and said, “You

think so, Ivan Abramovitch!” “Just so, Stepan Varlamitch!” Nevertheless,

he ordered that the official should be kept waiting, in order to show

his friend, a man who had not been in the service for a long time, but

had lived at home in the country, how long officials had to wait in his

ante-room.

At length, having talked himself completely out, and more than that,

having had his fill of pauses, and smoked a cigar in a very comfortable

arm-chair with reclining back, he suddenly seemed to recollect, and said

to the secretary, who stood by the door with papers of reports, “So it

seems that there is a tchinovnik waiting to see me. Tell him that he may

come in.” On perceiving Akakiy Akakievitch’s modest mien and his worn

undress uniform, he turned abruptly to him and said, “What do you want?”

in a curt hard voice, which he had practised in his room in private, and

before the looking-glass, for a whole week before being raised to his

present rank.

Akakiy Akakievitch, who was already imbued with a due amount of fear,

became somewhat confused: and as well as his tongue would permit,

explained, with a rather more frequent addition than usual of the word

“that,” that his cloak was quite new, and had been stolen in the most

inhuman manner; that he had applied to him in order that he might, in

some way, by his intermediation--that he might enter into correspondence

with the chief of police, and find the cloak.

For some inexplicable reason this conduct seemed familiar to the

prominent personage. “What, my dear sir!” he said abruptly, “are you not

acquainted with etiquette? Where have you come from? Don’t you know

how such matters are managed? You should first have entered a complaint

about this at the court below: it would have gone to the head of the

department, then to the chief of the division, then it would have been

handed over to the secretary, and the secretary would have given it to

me.”

“But, your excellency,” said Akakiy Akakievitch, trying to collect

his small handful of wits, and conscious at the same time that he

was perspiring terribly, “I, your excellency, presumed to trouble you

because secretaries--are an untrustworthy race.”

“What, what, what!” said the important personage. “Where did you get

such courage? Where did you get such ideas? What impudence towards

their chiefs and superiors has spread among the young generation!” The

prominent personage apparently had not observed that Akakiy Akakievitch

was already in the neighbourhood of fifty. If he could be called a young

man, it must have been in comparison with some one who was twenty. “Do

you know to whom you speak? Do you realise who stands before you? Do you

realise it? do you realise it? I ask you!” Then he stamped his foot and

raised his voice to such a pitch that it would have frightened even a

different man from Akakiy Akakievitch.

Akakiy Akakievitch’s senses failed him; he staggered, trembled in every

limb, and, if the porters had not run to support him, would have

fallen to the floor. They carried him out insensible. But the prominent

personage, gratified that the effect should have surpassed his

expectations, and quite intoxicated with the thought that his word could

even deprive a man of his senses, glanced sideways at his friend

in order to see how he looked upon this, and perceived, not without

satisfaction, that his friend was in a most uneasy frame of mind, and

even beginning, on his part, to feel a trifle frightened.

Akakiy Akakievitch could not remember how he descended the stairs and

got into the street. He felt neither his hands nor feet. Never in his

life had he been so rated by any high official, let alone a strange one.

He went staggering on through the snow-storm, which was blowing in the

streets, with his mouth wide open; the wind, in St. Petersburg fashion,

darted upon him from all quarters, and down every cross-street. In a

twinkling it had blown a quinsy into his throat, and he reached home

unable to utter a word. His throat was swollen, and he lay down on his

bed. So powerful is sometimes a good scolding!

The next day a violent fever showed itself. Thanks to the generous

assistance of the St. Petersburg climate, the malady progressed more

rapidly than could have been expected: and when the doctor arrived, he

found, on feeling the sick man’s pulse, that there was nothing to be

done, except to prescribe a fomentation, so that the patient might not

be left entirely without the beneficent aid of medicine; but at the same

time, he predicted his end in thirty-six hours. After this he turned to

the landlady, and said, “And as for you, don’t waste your time on him:

order his pine coffin now, for an oak one will be too expensive for

him.” Did Akakiy Akakievitch hear these fatal words? and if he heard

them, did they produce any overwhelming effect upon him? Did he

lament the bitterness of his life?--We know not, for he continued in a

delirious condition. Visions incessantly appeared to him, each stranger

than the other. Now he saw Petrovitch, and ordered him to make a cloak,

with some traps for robbers, who seemed to him to be always under the

bed; and cried every moment to the landlady to pull one of them from

under his coverlet. Then he inquired why his old mantle hung before him

when he had a new cloak. Next he fancied that he was standing before

the prominent person, listening to a thorough setting-down, and saying,

“Forgive me, your excellency!” but at last he began to curse, uttering

the most horrible words, so that his aged landlady crossed herself,

never in her life having heard anything of the kind from him, the more

so as those words followed directly after the words “your excellency.”

Later on he talked utter nonsense, of which nothing could be made: all

that was evident being, that his incoherent words and thoughts hovered

ever about one thing, his cloak.

At length poor Akakiy Akakievitch breathed his last. They sealed up

neither his room nor his effects, because, in the first place, there

were no heirs, and, in the second, there was very little to inherit

beyond a bundle of goose-quills, a quire of white official paper, three

pairs of socks, two or three buttons which had burst off his trousers,

and the mantle already known to the reader. To whom all this fell, God

knows. I confess that the person who told me this tale took no interest

in the matter. They carried Akakiy Akakievitch out and buried him.

And St. Petersburg was left without Akakiy Akakievitch, as though he had

never lived there. A being disappeared who was protected by none, dear

to none, interesting to none, and who never even attracted to himself

the attention of those students of human nature who omit no opportunity

of thrusting a pin through a common fly, and examining it under the

microscope. A being who bore meekly the jibes of the department, and

went to his grave without having done one unusual deed, but to whom,

nevertheless, at the close of his life appeared a bright visitant in the

form of a cloak, which momentarily cheered his poor life, and upon whom,

thereafter, an intolerable misfortune descended, just as it descends

upon the mighty of this world!

Several days after his death, the porter was sent from the department

to his lodgings, with an order for him to present himself there

immediately; the chief commanding it. But the porter had to return

unsuccessful, with the answer that he could not come; and to the

question, “Why?” replied, “Well, because he is dead! he was buried four

days ago.” In this manner did they hear of Akakiy Akakievitch’s death at

the department, and the next day a new official sat in his place, with a

handwriting by no means so upright, but more inclined and slanting.

But who could have imagined that this was not really the end of Akakiy

Akakievitch, that he was destined to raise a commotion after death,

as if in compensation for his utterly insignificant life? But so it

happened, and our poor story unexpectedly gains a fantastic ending.

A rumour suddenly spread through St. Petersburg that a dead man had

taken to appearing on the Kalinkin Bridge and its vicinity at night in

the form of a tchinovnik seeking a stolen cloak, and that, under the

pretext of its being the stolen cloak, he dragged, without regard to

rank or calling, every one’s cloak from his shoulders, be it cat-skin,

beaver, fox, bear, sable; in a word, every sort of fur and skin which

men adopted for their covering. One of the department officials saw

the dead man with his own eyes and immediately recognised in him Akakiy

Akakievitch. This, however, inspired him with such terror that he ran

off with all his might, and therefore did not scan the dead man closely,

but only saw how the latter threatened him from afar with his finger.

Constant complaints poured in from all quarters that the backs and

shoulders, not only of titular but even of court councillors, were

exposed to the danger of a cold on account of the frequent dragging off

of their cloaks.

Arrangements were made by the police to catch the corpse, alive or dead,

at any cost, and punish him as an example to others in the most severe

manner. In this they nearly succeeded; for a watchman, on guard in

Kirushkin Alley, caught the corpse by the collar on the very scene of

his evil deeds, when attempting to pull off the frieze coat of a retired

musician. Having seized him by the collar, he summoned, with a shout,

two of his comrades, whom he enjoined to hold him fast while he himself

felt for a moment in his boot, in order to draw out his snuff-box and

refresh his frozen nose. But the snuff was of a sort which even a corpse

could not endure. The watchman having closed his right nostril with his

finger, had no sooner succeeded in holding half a handful up to the left

than the corpse sneezed so violently that he completely filled the eyes

of all three. While they raised their hands to wipe them, the dead man

vanished completely, so that they positively did not know whether they

had actually had him in their grip at all. Thereafter the watchmen

conceived such a terror of dead men that they were afraid even to seize

the living, and only screamed from a distance, “Hey, there! go your

way!” So the dead tchinovnik began to appear even beyond the Kalinkin

Bridge, causing no little terror to all timid people.

But we have totally neglected that certain prominent personage who may

really be considered as the cause of the fantastic turn taken by this

true history. First of all, justice compels us to say that after the

departure of poor, annihilated Akakiy Akakievitch he felt something like

remorse. Suffering was unpleasant to him, for his heart was accessible

to many good impulses, in spite of the fact that his rank often

prevented his showing his true self. As soon as his friend had left his

cabinet, he began to think about poor Akakiy Akakievitch. And from

that day forth, poor Akakiy Akakievitch, who could not bear up under an

official reprimand, recurred to his mind almost every day. The thought

troubled him to such an extent that a week later he even resolved to

send an official to him, to learn whether he really could assist

him; and when it was reported to him that Akakiy Akakievitch had died

suddenly of fever, he was startled, hearkened to the reproaches of his

conscience, and was out of sorts for the whole day.

Wishing to divert his mind in some way, and drive away the disagreeable

impression, he set out that evening for one of his friends’ houses,

where he found quite a large party assembled. What was better, nearly

every one was of the same rank as himself, so that he need not feel

in the least constrained. This had a marvellous effect upon his mental

state. He grew expansive, made himself agreeable in conversation, in

short, he passed a delightful evening. After supper he drank a couple

of glasses of champagne--not a bad recipe for cheerfulness, as every

one knows. The champagne inclined him to various adventures; and he

determined not to return home, but to go and see a certain well-known

lady of German extraction, Karolina Ivanovna, a lady, it appears, with

whom he was on a very friendly footing.

It must be mentioned that the prominent personage was no longer a young

man, but a good husband and respected father of a family. Two sons, one

of whom was already in the service, and a good-looking, sixteen-year-old

daughter, with a rather retrousse but pretty little nose, came every

morning to kiss his hand and say, “Bonjour, papa.” His wife, a still

fresh and good-looking woman, first gave him her hand to kiss, and then,

reversing the procedure, kissed his. But the prominent personage, though

perfectly satisfied in his domestic relations, considered it stylish to

have a friend in another quarter of the city. This friend was scarcely

prettier or younger than his wife; but there are such puzzles in the

world, and it is not our place to judge them. So the important personage

descended the stairs, stepped into his sledge, said to the coachman,

“To Karolina Ivanovna’s,” and, wrapping himself luxuriously in his

warm cloak, found himself in that delightful frame of mind than which

a Russian can conceive no better, namely, when you think of nothing

yourself, yet when the thoughts creep into your mind of their own

accord, each more agreeable than the other, giving you no trouble either

to drive them away or seek them. Fully satisfied, he recalled all the

gay features of the evening just passed, and all the mots which had made

the little circle laugh. Many of them he repeated in a low voice, and

found them quite as funny as before; so it is not surprising that he

should laugh heartily at them. Occasionally, however, he was interrupted

by gusts of wind, which, coming suddenly, God knows whence or why, cut

his face, drove masses of snow into it, filled out his cloak-collar like

a sail, or suddenly blew it over his head with supernatural force, and

thus caused him constant trouble to disentangle himself.

Suddenly the important personage felt some one clutch him firmly by the

collar. Turning round, he perceived a man of short stature, in an old,

worn uniform, and recognised, not without terror, Akakiy Akakievitch.

The official’s face was white as snow, and looked just like a corpse’s.

But the horror of the important personage transcended all bounds when he

saw the dead man’s mouth open, and, with a terrible odour of the grave,

gave vent to the following remarks: “Ah, here you are at last! I have

you, that--by the collar! I need your cloak; you took no trouble about

mine, but reprimanded me; so now give up your own.”

The pallid prominent personage almost died of fright. Brave as he was in

the office and in the presence of inferiors generally, and although, at

the sight of his manly form and appearance, every one said, “Ugh! how

much character he had!” at this crisis, he, like many possessed of an

heroic exterior, experienced such terror, that, not without cause, he

began to fear an attack of illness. He flung his cloak hastily from his

shoulders and shouted to his coachman in an unnatural voice, “Home at

full speed!” The coachman, hearing the tone which is generally employed

at critical moments and even accompanied by something much more

tangible, drew his head down between his shoulders in case of an

emergency, flourished his whip, and flew on like an arrow. In a little

more than six minutes the prominent personage was at the entrance of his

own house. Pale, thoroughly scared, and cloakless, he went home instead

of to Karolina Ivanovna’s, reached his room somehow or other, and passed

the night in the direst distress; so that the next morning over their

tea his daughter said, “You are very pale to-day, papa.” But papa

remained silent, and said not a word to any one of what had happened to

him, where he had been, or where he had intended to go.

This occurrence made a deep impression upon him. He even began to say:

“How dare you? do you realise who stands before you?” less frequently

to the under-officials, and if he did utter the words, it was only after

having first learned the bearings of the matter. But the most noteworthy

point was, that from that day forward the apparition of the dead

tchinovnik ceased to be seen. Evidently the prominent personage’s cloak

just fitted his shoulders; at all events, no more instances of his

dragging cloaks from people’s shoulders were heard of. But many active

and apprehensive persons could by no means reassure themselves, and

asserted that the dead tchinovnik still showed himself in distant parts

of the city.

In fact, one watchman in Kolomna saw with his own eyes the apparition

come from behind a house. But being rather weak of body, he dared

not arrest him, but followed him in the dark, until, at length, the

apparition looked round, paused, and inquired, “What do you want?” at

the same time showing a fist such as is never seen on living men. The

watchman said, “It’s of no consequence,” and turned back instantly. But

the apparition was much too tall, wore huge moustaches, and, directing

its steps apparently towards the Obukhoff bridge, disappeared in the

darkness of the night.

HOW THE TWO IVANS QUARRELLED

CHAPTER I

IVAN IVANOVITCH AND IVAN NIKIFOROVITCH

A fine pelisse has Ivan Ivanovitch! splendid! And what lambskin! deuce

take it, what lambskin! blue-black with silver lights. I’ll forfeit, I

know not what, if you find any one else owning such a one. Look at it,

for heaven’s sake, especially when he stands talking with any one! look

at him side-ways: what a pleasure it is! To describe it is impossible:

velvet! silver! fire! Nikolai the Wonder-worker, saint of God! why have

I not such a pelisse? He had it made before Agafya Fedosyevna went to

Kief. You know Agafya Fedosyevna who bit the assessor’s ear off?

Ivan Ivanovitch is a very handsome man. What a house he has in Mirgorod!

Around it on every side is a balcony on oaken pillars, and on the

balcony are benches. Ivan Ivanovitch, when the weather gets too warm,

throws off his pelisse and his remaining upper garments, and sits, in

his shirt sleeves, on the balcony to observe what is going on in the

courtyard and the street. What apples and pears he has under his

very windows! You have but to open the window and the branches force

themselves through into the room. All this is in front of the house;

but you should see what he has in the garden. What is there not there?

Plums, cherries, every sort of vegetable, sunflowers, cucumbers, melons,

peas, a threshing-floor, and even a forge.

A very fine man, Ivan Ivanovitch! He is very fond of melons: they

are his favourite food. As soon as he has dined, and come out on his

balcony, in his shirt sleeves, he orders Gapka to bring two melons, and

immediately cuts them himself, collects the seeds in a paper, and begins

to eat. Then he orders Gapka to fetch the ink-bottle, and, with his own

hand, writes this inscription on the paper of seeds: “These melons were

eaten on such and such a date.” If there was a guest present, then it

reads, “Such and such a person assisted.”

The late judge of Mirgorod always gazed at Ivan Ivanovitch’s house with

pleasure. The little house is very pretty. It pleases me because sheds

and other little additions are built on to it on all sides; so that,

looking at it from a distance, only roofs are visible, rising one above

another, and greatly resembling a plate full of pancakes, or, better

still, fungi growing on the trunk of a tree. Moreover, the roof is all

overgrown with weeds: a willow, an oak, and two apple-trees lean their

spreading branches against it. Through the trees peep little windows

with carved and white-washed shutters, which project even into the

street.

A very fine man, Ivan Ivanovitch! The commissioner of Poltava knows him

too. Dorosh Tarasovitch Pukhivotchka, when he leaves Khorola, always

goes to his house. And when Father Peter, the Protopope who lives at

Koliberdas, invites a few guests, he always says that he knows of no one

who so well fulfils all his Christian duties and understands so well how

to live as Ivan Ivanovitch.

How time flies! More than ten years have already passed since he became

a widower. He never had any children. Gapka has children and they run

about the court-yard. Ivan Ivanovitch always gives each of them a cake,

or a slice of melon, or a pear.

Gapka carries the keys of the storerooms and cellars; but the key of

the large chest which stands in his bedroom, and that of the centre

storeroom, Ivan Ivanovitch keeps himself; Gapka is a healthy girl, with

ruddy cheeks and calves, and goes about in coarse cloth garments.

And what a pious man is Ivan Ivanovitch! Every Sunday he dons his

pelisse and goes to church. On entering, he bows on all sides, generally

stations himself in the choir, and sings a very good bass. When the

service is over, Ivan Ivanovitch cannot refrain from passing the poor

people in review. He probably would not have cared to undertake

this tiresome work if his natural goodness had not urged him to it.

“Good-day, beggar!” he generally said, selecting the most crippled old

woman, in the most patched and threadbare garments. “Whence come you, my

poor woman?”

“I come from the farm, sir. ‘Tis two days since I have eaten or drunk:

my own children drove me out.”

“Poor soul! why did you come hither?”

“To beg alms, sir, to see whether some one will not give me at least

enough for bread.”

“Hm! so you want bread?” Ivan Ivanovitch generally inquired.

“How should it be otherwise? I am as hungry as a dog.”

“Hm!” replied Ivan Ivanovitch usually, “and perhaps you would like

butter too?”

“Yes; everything which your kindness will give; I will be content with

all.”

“Hm! Is butter better than bread?”

“How is a hungry person to choose? Anything you please, all is good.”

Thereupon the old woman generally extended her hand.

“Well, go with God’s blessing,” said Ivan Ivanovitch. “Why do you stand

there? I’m not beating you.” And turning to a second and a third with

the same questions, he finally returns home, or goes to drink a little

glass of vodka with his neighbour, Ivan Nikiforovitch, or the judge, or

the chief of police.

Ivan Ivanovitch is very fond of receiving presents. They please him

greatly.

A very fine man too is Ivan Nikiforovitch. They are such friends as the

world never saw. Anton Prokofievitch Pupopuz, who goes about to this

hour in his cinnamon-coloured surtout with blue sleeves and dines every

Sunday with the judge, was in the habit of saying that the Devil himself

had bound Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan Nikiforovitch together with a rope:

where one went, the other followed.

Ivan Nikiforovitch has never married. Although it was reported that

he was married it was completely false. I know Ivan Nikiforovitch very

well, and am able to state that he never even had any intention of

marrying. Where do all these scandals originate? In the same way it

was rumoured that Ivan Nikiforovitch was born with a tail! But this

invention is so clumsy and at the same time so horrible and indecent

that I do not even consider it necessary to refute it for the benefit of

civilised readers, to whom it is doubtless known that only witches, and

very few even of these, have tails. Witches, moreover, belong more to

the feminine than to the masculine gender.

In spite of their great friendship, these rare friends are not always

agreed between themselves. Their characters can best be judged by

comparing them. Ivan Ivanovitch has the usual gift of speaking in an

extremely pleasant manner. Heavens! How he does speak! The feeling can

best be described by comparing it to that which you experience when some

one combs your head or draws his finger softly across your heel. You

listen and listen until you drop your head. Pleasant, exceedingly

pleasant! like the sleep after a bath. Ivan Nikiforovitch, on the

contrary, is more reticent; but if he once takes up his parable, look

out for yourself! He can talk your head off.

Ivan Ivanovitch is tall and thin: Ivan Nikiforovitch is rather shorter

in stature, but he makes it up in thickness. Ivan Ivanovitch’s head is

like a radish, tail down; Ivan Nikiforovitch’s like a radish with the

tail up. Ivan Ivanovitch lolls on the balcony in his shirt sleeves after

dinner only: in the evening he dons his pelisse and goes out somewhere,

either to the village shop, where he supplies flour, or into the fields

to catch quail. Ivan Nikiforovitch lies all day at his porch: if the day

is not too hot he generally turns his back to the sun and will not go

anywhere. If it happens to occur to him in the morning he walks through

the yard, inspects the domestic affairs, and retires again to his room.

In early days he used to call on Ivan Ivanovitch. Ivan Ivanovitch is a

very refined man, and never utters an impolite word. Ivan Nikiforovitch

is not always on his guard. On such occasions Ivan Ivanovitch usually

rises from his seat, and says, “Enough, enough, Ivan Nikiforovitch! It’s

better to go out at once than to utter such godless words.”

Ivan Ivanovitch gets into a terrible rage if a fly falls into his

beet-soup. Then he is fairly beside himself; he flings away his plate

and the housekeeper catches it. Ivan Nikiforovitch is very fond of

bathing; and when he gets up to the neck in water, orders a table and a

samovar, or tea urn, to be placed on the water, for he is very fond of

drinking tea in that cool position. Ivan Ivanovitch shaves twice a

week; Ivan Nikiforovitch once. Ivan Ivanovitch is extremely curious. God

preserve you if you begin to tell him anything and do not finish it! If

he is displeased with anything he lets it be seen at once. It is very

hard to tell from Ivan Nikiforovitch’s countenance whether he is pleased

or angry; even if he is rejoiced at anything, he will not show it. Ivan

Ivanovitch is of a rather timid character: Ivan Nikiforovitch, on the

contrary, has, as the saying is, such full folds in his trousers that

if you were to inflate them you might put the courtyard, with its

storehouses and buildings, inside them.

Ivan Ivanovitch has large, expressive eyes, of a snuff colour, and a

mouth shaped something like the letter V; Ivan Nikiforovitch has small,

yellowish eyes, quite concealed between heavy brows and fat cheeks; and

his nose is the shape of a ripe plum. If Ivanovitch treats you to snuff,

he always licks the cover of his box first with his tongue, then taps

on it with his finger and says, as he raises it, if you are an

acquaintance, “Dare I beg you, sir, to give me the pleasure?” if a

stranger, “Dare I beg you, sir, though I have not the honour of

knowing your rank, name, and family, to do me the favour?” but Ivan

Nikiforovitch puts his box straight into your hand and merely adds, “Do

me the favour.” Neither Ivan Ivanovitch nor Ivan Nikiforovitch loves

fleas; and therefore, neither Ivan Ivanovitch nor Ivan Nikiforovitch

will, on no account, admit a Jew with his wares, without purchasing of

him remedies against these insects, after having first rated him well

for belonging to the Hebrew faith.

But in spite of numerous dissimilarities, Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan

Nikiforovitch are both very fine fellows.

CHAPTER II

FROM WHICH MAY BE SEEN WHENCE AROSE THE DISCUSSION BETWEEN IVAN

IVANOVITCH AND IVAN NIKIFOROVITCH

One morning--it was in July--Ivan Ivanovitch was lying on his balcony.

The day was warm; the air was dry, and came in gusts. Ivan Ivanovitch

had been to town, to the mower’s, and at the farm, and had succeeded in

asking all the muzhiks and women whom he met all manner of questions.

He was fearfully tired and had laid down to rest. As he lay there, he

looked at the storehouse, the courtyard, the sheds, the chickens running

about, and thought to himself, “Heavens! What a well-to-do man I am!

What is there that I have not? Birds, buildings, granaries, everything

I take a fancy to; genuine distilled vodka; pears and plums in the

orchard; poppies, cabbages, peas in the garden; what is there that I

have not? I should like to know what there is that I have not?”

As he put this question to himself, Ivan Ivanovitch reflected; and

meantime his eyes, in their search after fresh objects, crossed the

fence into Ivan Nikiforovitch’s yard and involuntarily took note of

a curious sight. A fat woman was bringing out clothes, which had been

packed away, and spreading them out on the line to air. Presently an

old uniform with worn trimmings was swinging its sleeves in the air

and embracing a brocade gown; from behind it peeped a court-coat, with

buttons stamped with coats-of-arms, and moth-eaten collar; and white

kersymere pantaloons with spots, which had once upon a time clothed Ivan

Nikiforovitch’s legs, and might now possibly fit his fingers. Behind

them were speedily hung some more in the shape of the letter p. Then

came a blue Cossack jacket, which Ivan Nikiforovitch had had made twenty

years before, when he was preparing to enter the militia, and allowed

his moustache to grow. And one after another appeared a sword,

projecting into the air like a spit, and the skirts of a grass-green

caftan-like garment, with copper buttons the size of a five-kopek piece,

unfolded themselves. From among the folds peeped a vest bound with gold,

with a wide opening in front. The vest was soon concealed by an old

petticoat belonging to his dead grandmother, with pockets which would

have held a water-melon.

All these things piled together formed a very interesting spectacle

for Ivan Ivanovitch; while the sun’s rays, falling upon a blue or green

sleeve, a red binding, or a scrap of gold brocade, or playing in

the point of a sword, formed an unusual sight, similar to the

representations of the Nativity given at farmhouses by wandering bands;

particularly that part where the throng of people, pressing close

together, gaze at King Herod in his golden crown or at Anthony leading

his goat.

Presently the old woman crawled, grunting, from the storeroom, dragging

after her an old-fashioned saddle with broken stirrups, worn leather

holsters, and saddle-cloth, once red, with gilt embroidery and copper

disks.

“Here’s a stupid woman,” thought Ivan Ivanovitch. “She’ll be dragging

Ivan Nikiforovitch out and airing him next.”

Ivan Ivanovitch was not so far wrong in his surmise. Five minutes later,

Ivan Nikiforovitch’s nankeen trousers appeared, and took nearly half the

yard to themselves. After that she fetched out a hat and a gun. “What’s

the meaning of this?” thought Ivan Ivanovitch. “I never knew Ivan

Nikiforovitch had a gun. What does he want with it? Whether he shoots,

or not, he keeps a gun! Of what use is it to him? But it’s a splendid

thing. I have long wanted just such a one. I should like that gun very

much: I like to amuse myself with a gun. Hello, there, woman, woman!”

shouted Ivan Ivanovitch, beckoning to her.

The old woman approached the fence.

“What’s that you have there, my good woman?”

“A gun, as you see.”

“What sort of a gun?”

“Who knows what sort of a gun? If it were mine, perhaps I should know

what it is made of; but it is my master’s, therefore I know nothing of

it.”

Ivan Ivanovitch rose, and began to examine the gun on all sides, and

forgot to reprove the old woman for hanging it and the sword out to air.

“It must be iron,” went on the old woman.

“Hm, iron! why iron?” said Ivan Ivanovitch. “Has your master had it

long?”

“Yes; long, perhaps.”

“It’s a nice gun!” continued Ivan Ivanovitch. “I will ask him for it.

What can he want with it? I’ll make an exchange with him for it. Is your

master at home, my good woman?”

“Yes.”

“What is he doing? lying down?”

“Yes, lying down.”

“Very well, I will come to him.”

Ivan Ivanovitch dressed himself, took his well-seasoned stick for the

benefit of the dogs, for, in Mirgorod, there are more dogs than people

to be met in the street, and went out.

Although Ivan Nikiforovitch’s house was next door to Ivan Ivanovitch’s,

so that you could have got from one to the other by climbing the fence,

yet Ivan Ivanovitch went by way of the street. From the street it

was necessary to turn into an alley which was so narrow that if two

one-horse carts chanced to meet they could not get out, and were forced

to remain there until the drivers, seizing the hind-wheels, dragged them

back in opposite directions into the street, whilst pedestrians

drew aside like flowers growing by the fence on either hand. Ivan

Ivanovitch’s waggon-shed adjoined this alley on one side; and on the

other were Ivan Nikiforovitch’s granary, gate, and pigeon-house.

Ivan Ivanovitch went up to the gate and rattled the latch. Within arose

the barking of dogs; but the motley-haired pack ran back, wagging their

tails when they saw the well-known face. Ivan Ivanovitch traversed

the courtyard, in which were collected Indian doves, fed by Ivan

Nikiforovitch’s own hand, melon-rinds, vegetables, broken wheels,

barrel-hoops, and a small boy wallowing with dirty blouse--a picture

such as painters love. The shadows of the fluttering clothes covered

nearly the whole of the yard and lent it a degree of coolness. The woman

greeted him with a bend of her head and stood, gaping, in one spot.

The front of the house was adorned with a small porch, with its roof

supported on two oak pillars--a welcome protection from the sun, which

at that season in Little Russia loves not to jest, and bathes the

pedestrian from head to foot in perspiration. It may be judged how

powerful Ivan Ivanovitch’s desire to obtain the coveted article was when

he made up his mind, at such an hour, to depart from his usual custom,

which was to walk abroad only in the evening.

The room which Ivan Ivanovitch entered was quite dark, for the shutters

were closed; and the ray of sunlight passing through a hole made in one

of them took on the colours of the rainbow, and, striking the opposite

wall, sketched upon it a parti-coloured picture of the outlines of

roofs, trees, and the clothes suspended in the yard, only upside down.

This gave the room a peculiar half-light.

“God assist you!” said Ivan Ivanovitch.

“Ah! how do you do, Ivan Ivanovitch?” replied a voice from the corner

of the room. Then only did Ivan Ivanovitch perceive Ivan Nikiforovitch

lying upon a rug which was spread on the floor. “Excuse me for appearing

before you in a state of nature.”

“Not at all. You have been asleep, Ivan Nikiforovitch?”

“I have been asleep. Have you been asleep, Ivan Ivanovitch?”

“I have.”

“And now you have risen?”

“Now I have risen. Christ be with you, Ivan Nikiforovitch! How can you

sleep until this time? I have just come from the farm. There’s very fine

barley on the road, charming! and the hay is tall and soft and golden!”

“Gorpina!” shouted Ivan Nikiforovitch, “fetch Ivan Ivanovitch some

vodka, and some pastry and sour cream!”

“Fine weather we’re having to-day.”

“Don’t praise it, Ivan Ivanovitch! Devil take it! You can’t get away

from the heat.”

“Now, why need you mention the devil! Ah, Ivan Nikiforovitch! you will

recall my words when it’s too late. You will suffer in the next world

for such godless words.”

“How have I offended you, Ivan Ivanovitch? I have not attacked your

father nor your mother. I don’t know how I have insulted you.”

“Enough, enough, Ivan Nikiforovitch!”

“By Heavens, Ivan Ivanovitch, I did not insult you!”

“It’s strange that the quails haven’t come yet to the whistle.”

“Think what you please, but I have not insulted you in any way.”

“I don’t know why they don’t come,” said Ivan Ivanovitch, as if he did

not hear Ivan Nikiforovitch; “it is more than time for them already; but

they seem to need more time for some reason.”

“You say that the barley is good?”

“Splendid barley, splendid!”

A silence ensued.

“So you are having your clothes aired, Ivan Nikiforovitch?” said Ivan

Ivanovitch at length.

“Yes; those cursed women have ruined some beautiful clothes; almost new

they were too. Now I’m having them aired; the cloth is fine and good.

They only need turning to make them fit to wear again.”

“One thing among them pleased me extremely, Ivan Nikiforovitch.”

“What was that?”

“Tell me, please, what use do you make of the gun that has been put to

air with the clothes?” Here Ivan Ivanovitch offered his snuff. “May I

ask you to do me the favour?”

“By no means! take it yourself; I will use my own.” Thereupon Ivan

Nikiforovitch felt about him, and got hold of his snuff-box. “That

stupid woman! So she hung the gun out to air. That Jew at Sorotchintzi

makes good snuff. I don’t know what he puts in it, but it is so very

fragrant. It is a little like tansy. Here, take a little and chew it;

isn’t it like tansy?”

“Ivan Nikiforovitch, I want to talk about that gun; what are you going

to do with it? You don’t need it.”

“Why don’t I need it? I might want to go shooting.”

“God be with you, Ivan Nikiforovitch! When will you go shooting? At the

millennium, perhaps? So far as I know, or any one can recollect, you

never killed even a duck; yes, and you are not built to go shooting. You

have a dignified bearing and figure; how are you to drag yourself about

the marshes, especially when your garment, which it is not polite to

mention in conversation by name, is being aired at this very moment? No;

you require rest, repose.” Ivan Ivanovitch as has been hinted at above,

employed uncommonly picturesque language when it was necessary to

persuade any one. How he talked! Heavens, how he could talk! “Yes, and

you require polite actions. See here, give it to me!”

“The idea! The gun is valuable; you can’t find such guns anywhere

nowadays. I bought it of a Turk when I joined the militia; and now,

to give it away all of a sudden! Impossible! It is an indispensable

article.”

“Indispensable for what?”

“For what? What if robbers should attack the house?... Indispensable

indeed! Glory to God! I know that a gun stands in my storehouse.”

“A fine gun that! Why, Ivan Nikiforovitch, the lock is ruined.”

“What do you mean by ruined? It can be set right; all that needs to be

done is to rub it with hemp-oil, so that it may not rust.”

“I see in your words, Ivan Nikiforovitch, anything but a friendly

disposition towards me. You will do nothing for me in token of

friendship.”

“How can you say, Ivan Ivanovitch, that I show you no friendship? You

ought to be ashamed of yourself. Your oxen pasture on my steppes and I

have never interfered with them. When you go to Poltava, you always ask

for my waggon, and what then? Have I ever refused? Your children climb

over the fence into my yard and play with my dogs--I never say anything;

let them play, so long as they touch nothing; let them play!”

“If you won’t give it to me, then let us make some exchange.”

“What will you give me for it?” Thereupon Ivan Nikiforovitch raised

himself on his elbow, and looked at Ivan Ivanovitch.

“I will give you my dark-brown sow, the one I have fed in the sty. A

magnificent sow. You’ll see, she’ll bring you a litter of pigs next

year.”

“I do not see, Ivan Ivanovitch, how you can talk so. What could I do

with your sow? Make a funeral dinner for the devil?”

“Again! You can’t get along without the devil! It’s a sin! by Heaven,

it’s a sin, Ivan Nikiforovitch!”

“What do you mean, Ivan Ivanovitch, by offering the deuce knows what

kind of a sow for my gun?”

“Why is she ‘the deuce knows what,’ Ivan Nikiforovitch?”

“Why? You can judge for yourself perfectly well; here’s the gun, a known

thing; but the deuce knows what that sow is like! If it had not been you

who said it, Ivan Ivanovitch, I might have put an insulting construction

on it.”

“What defect have you observed in the sow?”

“For what do you take me--for a sow?”

“Sit down, sit down! I won’t--No matter about your gun; let it rot and

rust where it stands in the corner of the storeroom. I don’t want to say

anything more about it!”

After this a pause ensued.

“They say,” began Ivan Ivanovitch, “that three kings have declared war

against our Tzar.”

“Yes, Peter Feodorovitch told me so. What sort of war is this, and why

is it?”

“I cannot say exactly, Ivan Nikiforovitch, what the cause is. I suppose

the kings want us to adopt the Turkish faith.”

“Fools! They would have it,” said Ivan Nikiforovitch, raising his head.

“So, you see, our Tzar has declared war on them in consequence. ‘No,’

says he, ‘do you adopt the faith of Christ!’”

“Oh, our people will beat them, Ivan Ivanovitch!”

“They will. So you won’t exchange the gun, Ivan Nikiforovitch?”

“It’s a strange thing to me, Ivan Ivanovitch, that you, who seem to be

a man distinguished for sense, should talk such nonsense. What a fool I

should be!”

“Sit down, sit down. God be with it! let it burst! I won’t mention it

again.”

At this moment lunch was brought in.

Ivan Ivanovitch drank a glass and ate a pie with sour cream. “Listen,

Ivan Nikiforovitch: I will give you, besides the sow, two sacks of

oats. You did not sow any oats. You’ll have to buy some this year in any

case.”

“By Heaven, Ivan Ivanovitch, I must tell you you are very foolish! Who

ever heard of swapping a gun for two sacks of oats? Never fear, you

don’t offer your coat.”

“But you forget, Ivan Nikiforovitch, that I am to give you the sow too.”

“What! two sacks of oats and a sow for a gun?”

“Why, is it too little?”

“For a gun?”

“Of course, for a gun.”

“Two sacks for a gun?”

“Two sacks, not empty, but filled with oats; and you’ve forgotten the

sow.”

“Kiss your sow; and if you don’t like that, then go to the Evil One!”

“Oh, get angry now, do! See here; they’ll stick your tongue full of

red-hot needles in the other world for such godless words. After a

conversation with you, one has to wash one’s face and hands and fumigate

one’s self.”

“Excuse me, Ivan Ivanovitch; my gun is a choice thing, a most curious

thing; and besides, it is a very agreeable decoration in a room.”

“You go on like a fool about that gun of yours, Ivan Nikiforovitch,”

said Ivan Ivanovitch with vexation; for he was beginning to be really

angry.

“And you, Ivan Ivanovitch, are a regular goose!”

If Ivan Nikiforovitch had not uttered that word they would not have

quarrelled, but would have parted friends as usual; but now things took

quite another turn. Ivan Ivanovitch flew into a rage.

“What was that you said, Ivan Nikiforovitch?” he said, raising his

voice.

“I said you were like a goose, Ivan Ivanovitch!”

“How dare you, sir, forgetful of decency and the respect due to a man’s

rank and family, insult him with such a disgraceful name!”

“What is there disgraceful about it? And why are you flourishing your

hands so, Ivan Ivanovitch?”

“How dared you, I repeat, in disregard of all decency, call me a goose?”

“I spit on your head, Ivan Ivanovitch! What are you screeching about?”

Ivan Ivanovitch could no longer control himself. His lips quivered; his

mouth lost its usual V shape, and became like the letter O; he glared

so that he was terrible to look at. This very rarely happened with Ivan

Ivanovitch: it was necessary that he should be extremely angry at first.

“Then, I declare to you,” exclaimed Ivan Ivanovitch, “that I will no

longer know you!”

“A great pity! By Heaven, I shall never weep on that account!” retorted

Ivan Nikiforovitch. He lied, by Heaven, he lied! for it was very

annoying to him.

“I will never put my foot inside your house again!”

“Oho, ho!” said Ivan Nikiforovitch, vexed, yet not knowing himself what

to do, and rising to his feet, contrary to his custom. “Hey, there,

woman, boy!” Thereupon there appeared at the door the same fat woman

and the small boy, now enveloped in a long and wide coat. “Take Ivan

Ivanovitch by the arms and lead him to the door!”

“What! a nobleman?” shouted Ivan Ivanovitch with a feeling of vexation

and dignity. “Just do it if you dare! Come on! I’ll annihilate you and

your stupid master. The crows won’t be able to find your bones.” Ivan

Ivanovitch spoke with uncommon force when his spirit was up.

The group presented a striking picture: Ivan Nikiforovitch standing

in the middle of the room; the woman with her mouth wide open and a

senseless, terrified look on her face, and Ivan Ivanovitch with uplifted

hand, as the Roman tribunes are depicted. This was a magnificent

spectacle: and yet there was but one spectator; the boy in the ample

coat, who stood quite quietly and picked his nose with his finger.

Finally Ivan Ivanovitch took his hat. “You have behaved well, Ivan

Nikiforovitch, extremely well! I shall remember it.”

“Go, Ivan Ivanovitch, go! and see that you don’t come in my way: if you

do, I’ll beat your ugly face to a jelly, Ivan Ivanovitch!”

“Take that, Ivan Nikiforovitch!” retorted Ivan Ivanovitch, making an

insulting gesture and banged the door, which squeaked and flew open

again behind him.

Ivan Nikiforovitch appeared at it and wanted to add something more; but

Ivan Ivanovitch did not glance back and hastened from the yard.

CHAPTER III

WHAT TOOK PLACE AFTER IVAN IVANOVITCH’S QUARREL WITH IVAN NIKIFOROVITCH

And thus two respectable men, the pride and honour of Mirgorod, had

quarrelled, and about what? About a bit of nonsense--a goose. They would

not see each other, broke off all connection, though hitherto they had

been known as the most inseparable friends. Every day Ivan Ivanovitch

and Ivan Nikiforovitch had sent to inquire about each other’s health,

and often conversed together from their balconies and said such charming

things as did the heart good to listen to. On Sundays, Ivan

Ivanovitch, in his lambskin pelisse, and Ivan Nikiforovitch, in his

cinnamon-coloured nankeen spencer, used to set out for church almost arm

in arm; and if Ivan Ivanovitch, who had remarkably sharp eyes, was

the first to catch sight of a puddle or any dirt in the street, which

sometimes happened in Mirgorod, he always said to Ivan Nikiforovitch,

“Look out! don’t put your foot there, it’s dirty.” Ivan Nikiforovitch,

on his side, exhibited the same touching tokens of friendship; and

whenever he chanced to be standing, always held out his hand to Ivan

Ivanovitch with his snuff-box, saying: “Do me the favour!” And what

fine managers both were!--And these two friends!--When I heard of it, it

struck me like a flash of lightning. For a long time I would not believe

it. Ivan Ivanovitch quarrelling with Ivan Nikiforovitch! Such worthy

people! What is to be depended upon, then, in this world?

When Ivan Ivanovitch reached home, he remained for some time in a state

of strong excitement. He usually went, first of all, to the stable to

see whether his mare was eating her hay; for he had a bay mare with a

white star on her forehead, and a very pretty little mare she was too;

then to feed the turkeys and the little pigs with his own hand, and

then to his room, where he either made wooden dishes, for he could make

various vessels of wood very tastefully, quite as well as any turner, or

read a book printed by Liubia, Garia, and Popoff (Ivan Ivanovitch could

never remember the name, because the serving-maid had long before torn

off the top part of the title-page while amusing the children), or

rested on the balcony. But now he did not betake himself to any of his

ordinary occupations. Instead, on encountering Gapka, he at once began

to scold her for loitering about without any occupation, though she was

carrying groats to the kitchen; flung a stick at a cock which came upon

the balcony for his customary treat; and when the dirty little boy, in

his little torn blouse, ran up to him and shouted: “Papa, papa! give me

a honey-cake,” he threatened him and stamped at him so fiercely that the

frightened child fled, God knows whither.

But at last he bethought himself, and began to busy himself about his

every-day duties. He dined late, and it was almost night when he lay

down to rest on the balcony. A good beet-soup with pigeons, which Gapka

had cooked for him, quite drove from his mind the occurrences of the

morning. Again Ivan Ivanovitch began to gaze at his belongings with

satisfaction. At length his eye rested on the neighbouring yard; and he

said to himself, “I have not been to Ivan Nikiforovitch’s to-day: I’ll

go there now.” So saying, Ivan Ivanovitch took his stick and his hat,

and directed his steps to the street; but scarcely had he passed through

the gate than he recollected the quarrel, spit, and turned back. Almost

the same thing happened at Ivan Nikiforovitch’s house. Ivan Ivanovitch

saw the woman put her foot on the fence, with the intention of climbing

over into his yard, when suddenly Ivan Nikiforovitch’s voice was heard

crying: “Come back! it won’t do!” But Ivan Ivanovitch found it very

tiresome. It is quite possible that these worthy men would have made

their peace next day if a certain occurrence in Ivan Nikiforovitch’s

house had not destroyed all hopes and poured oil upon the fire of enmity

which was ready to die out.

*****

On the evening of that very day, Agafya Fedosyevna arrived at Ivan

Nikiforovitch’s. Agafya Fedosyevna was not Ivan Nikiforovitch’s

relative, nor his sister-in-law, nor even his fellow-godparent. There

seemed to be no reason why she should come to him, and he was not

particularly glad of her company; still, she came, and lived on him for

weeks at a time, and even longer. Then she took possession of the keys

and took the management of the whole house into her own hands. This was

extremely displeasing to Ivan Nikiforovitch; but he, to his amazement,

obeyed her like a child; and although he occasionally attempted to

dispute, yet Agafya Fedosyevna always got the better of him.

I must confess that I do not understand why things are so arranged, that

women should seize us by the nose as deftly as they do the handle of a

teapot. Either their hands are so constructed or else our noses are good

for nothing else. And notwithstanding the fact that Ivan Nikiforovitch’s

nose somewhat resembled a plum, she grasped that nose and led him about

after her like a dog. He even, in her presence, involuntarily altered

his ordinary manner of life.

Agafya Fedosyevna wore a cap on her head, and a coffee-coloured cloak

with yellow flowers and had three warts on her nose. Her figure was like

a cask, and it would have been as hard to tell where to look for her

waist as for her to see her nose without a mirror. Her feet were small

and shaped like two cushions. She talked scandal, ate boiled beet-soup

in the morning, and swore extremely; and amidst all these various

occupations her countenance never for one instant changed its

expression, which phenomenon, as a rule, women alone are capable of

displaying.

As soon as she arrived, everything went wrong.

“Ivan Nikiforovitch, don’t you make peace with him, nor ask his

forgiveness; he wants to ruin you; that’s the kind of man he is! you

don’t know him yet!” That cursed woman whispered and whispered, and

managed so that Ivan Nikiforovitch would not even hear Ivan Ivanovitch

mentioned.

Everything assumed another aspect. If his neighbour’s dog ran into

the yard, it was beaten within an inch of its life; the children, who

climbed over the fence, were sent back with howls, their little shirts

stripped up, and marks of a switch behind. Even the old woman, when

Ivan Ivanovitch ventured to ask her about something, did something so

insulting that Ivan Ivanovitch, being an extremely delicate man, only

spit, and muttered, “What a nasty woman! even worse than her master!”

Finally, as a climax to all the insults, his hated neighbour built

a goose-shed right against his fence at the spot where they usually

climbed over, as if with the express intention of redoubling the

insult. This shed, so hateful to Ivan Ivanovitch, was constructed with

diabolical swiftness--in one day.

This aroused wrath and a desire for revenge in Ivan Ivanovitch. He

showed no signs of bitterness, in spite of the fact that the shed

encroached on his land; but his heart beat so violently that it was

extremely difficult for him to preserve his calm appearance.

He passed the day in this manner. Night came--Oh, if I were a painter,

how magnificently I would depict the night’s charms! I would describe

how all Mirgorod sleeps; how steadily the myriads of stars gaze down

upon it; how the apparent quiet is filled far and near with the barking

of dogs; how the love-sick sacristan steals past them, and scales the

fence with knightly fearlessness; how the white walls of the houses,

bathed in the moonlight, grow whiter still, the overhanging trees

darker; how the shadows of the trees fall blacker, the flowers and

the silent grass become more fragrant, and the crickets, unharmonious

cavaliers of the night, strike up their rattling song in friendly

fashion on all sides. I would describe how, in one of the little,

low-roofed, clay houses, the black-browed village maid, tossing on

her lonely couch, dreams with heaving bosom of some hussar’s spurs

and moustache, and how the moonlight smiles upon her cheeks. I would

describe how the black shadows of the bats flit along the white road

before they alight upon the white chimneys of the cottages.

But it would hardly be within my power to depict Ivan Ivanovitch as he

crept out that night, saw in hand; or the various emotions written on

his countenance! Quietly, most quietly, he crawled along and climbed

upon the goose-shed. Ivan Nikiforovitch’s dogs knew nothing, as yet, of

the quarrel between them; and so they permitted him, as an old friend,

to enter the shed, which rested upon four oaken posts. Creeping up to

the nearest post he applied his saw and began to cut. The noise

produced by the saw caused him to glance about him every moment, but

the recollection of the insult restored his courage. The first post was

sawed through. Ivan Ivanovitch began upon the next. His eyes burned and

he saw nothing for terror.

All at once he uttered an exclamation and became petrified with fear. A

ghost appeared to him; but he speedily recovered himself on perceiving

that it was a goose, thrusting its neck out at him. Ivan Ivanovitch spit

with vexation and proceeded with his work. The second post was sawed

through; the building trembled. His heart beat so violently when he

began on the third, that he had to stop several times. The post was more

than half sawed through when the frail building quivered violently.

Ivan Ivanovitch had barely time to spring back when it came down with

a crash. Seizing his saw, he ran home in the greatest terror and flung

himself upon his bed, without having sufficient courage to peep from

the window at the consequences of his terrible deed. It seemed to him

as though Ivan Nikiforovitch’s entire household--the old woman, Ivan

Nikiforovitch, the boy in the endless coat, all with sticks, and led by

Agafya Fedosyevna--were coming to tear down and destroy his house.

Ivan Ivanovitch passed the whole of the following day in a perfect

fever. It seemed to him that his detested neighbour would set fire to

his house at least in revenge for this; and so he gave orders to Gapka

to keep a constant lookout, everywhere, and see whether dry straw

were laid against it anywhere. Finally, in order to forestall Ivan

Nikiforovitch, he determined to enter a complaint against him before the

district judge of Mirgorod. In what it consisted can be learned from the

following chapter.

CHAPTER IV

WHAT TOOK PLACE BEFORE THE DISTRICT JUDGE OF MIRGOROD

A wonderful town is Mirgorod! How many buildings are there with straw,

rush, and even wooden roofs! On the right is a street, on the left a

street, and fine fences everywhere. Over them twine hop-vines, upon them

hang pots; from behind them the sunflowers show their sun-like heads,

poppies blush, fat pumpkins peep; all is luxury itself! The fence

is invariably garnished with articles which render it still more

picturesque: woman’s widespread undergarments of checked woollen stuff,

shirts, or trousers. There is no such thing as theft or rascality in

Mirgorod, so everybody hangs upon his fence whatever strikes his fancy.

If you go on to the square, you will surely stop and admire the view:

such a wonderful pool is there! The finest you ever saw. It occupies

nearly the whole of the square. A truly magnificent pool! The houses

and cottages, which at a distance might be mistaken for hayricks, stand

around it, lost in admiration of its beauty.

But I agree with those who think that there is no better house than that

of the district judge. Whether it is of oak or birch is nothing to the

point; but it has, my dear sirs, eight windows! eight windows in a row,

looking directly on the square and upon that watery expanse which I have

just mentioned, and which the chief of police calls a lake. It alone

is painted the colour of granite. All the other houses in Mirgorod

are merely whitewashed. Its roof is of wood, and would have been even

painted red, had not the government clerks eaten the oil which had been

prepared for that purpose, as it happened during a fast; and so the

roof remained unpainted. Towards the square projects a porch, which the

chickens frequently visit, because that porch is nearly always strewn

with grain or something edible, not intentionally, but through the

carelessness of visitors.

The house is divided into two parts: one of which is the court-room; the

other the jail. In the half which contains the court-room are two neat,

whitewashed rooms, the front one for clients, the other having a table

adorned with ink-spots, and with a looking-glass upon it, and four oak

chairs with tall backs; whilst along the wall stand iron-bound chests,

in which are preserved bundles of papers relating to district law-suits.

Upon one of the chests stood at that time a pair of boots, polished with

wax.

The court had been open since morning. The judge, a rather stout man,

though thinner than Ivan Nikiforovitch, with a good-natured face, a

greasy dressing-gown, a pipe, and a cup of tea, was conversing with the

clerk of the court.

The judge’s lips were directly under his nose, so that he could snuff

his upper lip as much as he liked. It served him instead of a snuff-box,

for the snuff intended for his nose almost always lodged upon it. So the

judge was talking with the assistant. A barefooted girl stood holding

a tray with cups at once side of them. At the end of the table, the

secretary was reading the decision in some case, but in such a mournful

and monotonous voice that the condemned man himself would have fallen

asleep while listening to it. The judge, no doubt, would have been the

first to do so had he not entered into an engrossing conversation while

it was going on.

“I expressly tried to find out,” said the judge, sipping his already

cold tea from the cup, “how they manage to sing so well. I had a

splendid thrush two years ago. Well, all of a sudden he was completely

done for, and began to sing, God knows what! He got worse and worse and

worse and worse as time went on; he began to rattle and get hoarse--just

good for nothing! And this is how it happened: a little lump, not so big

as a pea, had come under his throat. It was only necessary to prick that

little swelling with a needle--Zachar Prokofievitch taught me that; and,

if you like, I’ll just tell you how it was. I went to him--”

“Shall I read another, Demyan Demyanovitch?” broke in the secretary, who

had not been reading for several minutes.

“Have you finished already? Only think how quickly! And I did not hear a

word of it! Where is it? Give it me and I’ll sign it. What else have you

there?”

“The case of Cossack Bokitok for stealing a cow.”

“Very good; read it!--Yes, so I went to him--I can even tell you in

detail how he entertained me. There was vodka, and dried sturgeon,

excellent! Yes, not our sturgeon,” there the judge smacked his tongue

and smiled, upon which his nose took a sniff at its usual snuff-box,

“such as our Mirgorod shops sell us. I ate no herrings, for, as you

know, they give me heart-burn; but I tasted the caviare--very fine

caviare, too! There’s no doubt it, excellent! Then I drank some

peach-brandy, real gentian. There was saffron-brandy also; but, as you

know, I never take that. You see, it was all very good. In the first

place, to whet your appetite, as they say, and then to satisfy it--Ah!

speak of an angel,” exclaimed the judge, all at once, catching sight of

Ivan Ivanovitch as he entered.

“God be with us! I wish you a good-morning,” said Ivan Ivanovitch,

bowing all round with his usual politeness. How well he understood

the art of fascinating everybody in his manner! I never beheld such

refinement. He knew his own worth quite well, and therefore looked for

universal respect as his due. The judge himself handed Ivan Ivanovitch

a chair; and his nose inhaled all the snuff resting on his upper lip,

which, with him, was always a sign of great pleasure.

“What will you take, Ivan Ivanovitch?” he inquired: “will you have a cup

of tea?”

“No, much obliged,” replied Ivan Ivanovitch, as he bowed and seated

himself.

“Do me the favour--one little cup,” repeated the judge.

“No, thank you; much obliged for your hospitality,” replied Ivan

Ivanovitch, and rose, bowed, and sat down again.

“Just one little cup,” repeated the judge.

“No, do not trouble yourself, Demyan Demyanovitch.” Whereupon Ivan

Ivanovitch again rose, bowed, and sat down.

“A little cup!”

“Very well, then, just a little cup,” said Ivan Ivanovitch, and reached

out his hand to the tray. Heavens! What a height of refinement there

was in that man! It is impossible to describe what a pleasant impression

such manners produce!

“Will you not have another cup?”

“I thank you sincerely,” answered Ivan Ivanovitch, turning his cup

upside down upon the tray and bowing.

“Do me the favour, Ivan Ivanovitch.”

“I cannot; much obliged.” Thereupon Ivan Ivanovitch bowed and sat down.

“Ivan Ivanovitch, for the sake of our friendship, just one little cup!”

“No: I am extremely indebted for your hospitality.” So saying, Ivan

Ivanovitch bowed and seated himself.

“Only a cup, one little cup!”

Ivan Ivanovitch put his hand out to the tray and took a cup. Oh, the

deuce! How can a man contrive to support his dignity!

“Demyan Demyanovitch,” said Ivan Ivanovitch, swallowing the last drain,

“I have pressing business with you; I want to enter a complaint.”

Then Ivan Ivanovitch set down his cup, and drew from his pocket a

sheet of stamped paper, written over. “A complaint against my enemy, my

declared enemy.”

“And who is that?”

“Ivan Nikiforovitch Dovgotchkun.”

At these words, the judge nearly fell off his chair. “What do you say?”

he exclaimed, clasping his hands; “Ivan Ivanovitch, is this you?”

“You see yourself that it is I.”

“The Lord and all the saints be with you! What! You! Ivan Ivanovitch!

you have fallen out with Ivan Nikiforovitch! Is it your mouth which says

that? Repeat it! Is not some one hid behind you who is speaking instead

of you?”

“What is there incredible about it? I can’t endure the sight of him: he

has done me a deadly injury--he has insulted my honour.”

“Holy Trinity! How am I to believe my mother now? Why, every day, when I

quarrel with my sister, the old woman says, ‘Children, you live together

like dogs. If you would only take pattern by Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan

Nikiforovitch, they are friends indeed! such friends! such worthy

people!’ There you are with your friend! Tell me what this is about. How

is it?”

“It is a delicate business, Demyan Demyanovitch; it is impossible to

relate it in words: be pleased rather to read my plaint. Here, take it

by this side; it is more convenient.”

“Read it, Taras Tikhonovitch,” said the judge, turning to the secretary.

Taras Tikhonovitch took the plaint; and blowing his nose, as all

district judges’ secretaries blow their noses, with the assistance of

two fingers, he began to read:--

“From the nobleman and landed proprietor of the Mirgorod District,

Ivan Pererepenko, son of Ivan, a plaint: concerning which the following

points are to be noted:--

“1. Ivan Dovgotchkun, son of Nikifor, nobleman, known to all the world

for his godless acts, which inspire disgust, and in lawlessness exceed

all bounds, on the seventh day of July of this year 1810, inflicted upon

me a deadly insult, touching my personal honour, and likewise tending to

the humiliation and confusion of my rank and family. The said nobleman,

of repulsive aspect, has also a pugnacious disposition, and is full to

overflowing with blasphemy and quarrelsome words.”

Here the reader paused for an instant to blow his nose again; but the

judge folded his hands in approbation and murmured to himself, “What a

ready pen! Lord! how this man does write!”

Ivan Ivanovitch requested that the reading might proceed, and Taras

Tikhonovitch went on:--

“The said Ivan Dovgotchkun, son of Nikifor, when I went to him with a

friendly proposition, called me publicly by an epithet insulting and

injurious to my honour, namely, a goose, whereas it is known to the

whole district of Mirgorod, that I never was named after that disgusting

creature, and have no intention of ever being named after it. The proof

of my noble extraction is that, in the baptismal register to be found in

the Church of the Three Bishops, the day of my birth, and likewise the

fact of my baptism, are inscribed. But a goose, as is well known to

every one who has any knowledge of science, cannot be inscribed in

the baptismal register; for a goose is not a man but a fowl; which,

likewise, is sufficiently well known even to persons who have not been

to college. But the said evil-minded nobleman, being privy to all these

facts, affronted me with the aforesaid foul word, for no other purpose

than to offer a deadly insult to my rank and station.

“2. And the same impolite and indecent nobleman, moreover, attempted

injury to my property, inherited by me from my father, a member of

the clerical profession, Ivan Pererepenko, son of Onisieff, of blessed

memory, inasmuch that he, contrary to all law, transported directly

opposite my porch a goose-shed, which was done with no other intention

that to emphasise the insult offered me; for the said shed had, up

to that time, stood in a very suitable situation, and was still

sufficiently strong. But the loathsome intention of the aforesaid

nobleman consisted simply in this: viz., in making me a witness of

unpleasant occurrences; for it is well known that no man goes into a

shed, much less into a goose-shed, for polite purposes. In the execution

of his lawless deed, the two front posts trespassed on my land, received

by me during the lifetime of my father, Ivan Pererepenko, son of

Onisieff, of blessed memory, beginning at the granary, thence in a

straight line to the spot where the women wash the pots.

“3. The above-described nobleman, whose very name and surname inspire

thorough disgust, cherishes in his mind a malicious design to burn me in

my own house. Which the infallible signs, hereinafter mentioned, fully

demonstrate; in the first place, the said wicked nobleman has begun to

emerge frequently from his apartments, which he never did formerly on

account of his laziness and the disgusting corpulence of his body; in

the second place, in his servants’ apartments, adjoining the fence,

surrounding my own land, received by me from my father of blessed

memory, Ivan Pererepenko, son of Onisieff, a light burns every day, and

for a remarkably long period of time, which is also a clear proof of the

fact. For hitherto, owing to his repulsive niggardliness, not only the

tallow-candle but also the grease-lamp has been extinguished.

“And therefore I pray that the said nobleman, Ivan Dovgotchkun, son of

Nikifor, being plainly guilty of incendiarism, of insult to my rank,

name, and family, and of illegal appropriation of my property, and,

worse than all else, of malicious and deliberate addition to my

surname, of the nickname of goose, be condemned by the court, to fine,

satisfaction, costs, and damages, and, being chained, be removed to

the town jail, and that judgment be rendered upon this, my plaint,

immediately and without delay.

“Written and composed by Ivan Pererepenko, son of Ivan, nobleman, and

landed proprietor of Mirgorod.”

After the reading of the plaint was concluded, the judge approached

Ivanovitch, took him by the button, and began to talk to him after this

fashion: “What are you doing, Ivan Ivanovitch? Fear God! throw away

that plaint, let it go! may Satan carry it off! Better take Ivan

Nikiforovitch by the hand and kiss him, buy some Santurinski or

Nikopolski liquor, make a punch, and call me in. We will drink it up

together and forget all unpleasantness.”

“No, Demyan Demyanovitch! it’s not that sort of an affair,” said Ivan

Ivanovitch, with the dignity which always became him so well; “it is

not an affair which can be arranged by a friendly agreement. Farewell!

Good-day to you, too, gentlemen,” he continued with the same dignity,

turning to them all. “I hope that my plaint will lead to proper action

being taken;” and out he went, leaving all present in a state of

stupefaction.

The judge sat down without uttering a word; the secretary took a pinch

of snuff; the clerks upset some broken fragments of bottles which served

for inkstands; and the judge himself, in absence of mind, spread out a

puddle of ink upon the table with his finger.

“What do you say to this, Dorofei Trofimovitch?” said the judge, turning

to the assistant after a pause.

“I’ve nothing to say,” replied the clerk.

“What things do happen!” continued the judge. He had not finished saying

this before the door creaked and the front half of Ivan Nikiforovitch

presented itself in the court-room; the rest of him remaining in the

ante-room. The appearance of Ivan Nikiforovitch, and in court too,

seemed so extraordinary that the judge screamed; the secretary stopped

reading; one clerk, in his frieze imitation of a dress-coat, took his

pen in his lips; and the other swallowed a fly. Even the constable on

duty and the watchman, a discharged soldier who up to that moment had

stood by the door scratching about his dirty tunic, with chevrons on its

arm, dropped his jaw and trod on some one’s foot.

“What chance brings you here? How is your health, Ivan Nikiforovitch?”

But Ivan Nikiforovitch was neither dead nor alive; for he was stuck fast

in the door, and could not take a step either forwards or backwards. In

vain did the judge shout into the ante-room that some one there should

push Ivan Nikiforovitch forward into the court-room. In the ante-room

there was only one old woman with a petition, who, in spite of all the

efforts of her bony hands, could accomplish nothing. Then one of the

clerks, with thick lips, a thick nose, eyes which looked askance and

intoxicated, broad shoulders, and ragged elbows, approached the front

half of Ivan Nikiforovitch, crossed his hands for him as though he had

been a child, and winked at the old soldier, who braced his knee against

Ivan Nikiforovitch’s belly, so, in spite of the latter’s piteous moans,

he was squeezed out into the ante-room. Then they pulled the bolts,

and opened the other half of the door. Meanwhile the clerk and his

assistant, breathing hard with their friendly exertions, exhaled such

a strong odour that the court-room seemed temporarily turned into a

drinking-room.

“Are you hurt, Ivan Nikiforovitch? I will tell my mother to send you

a decoction of brandy, with which you need but to rub your back and

stomach and all your pains will disappear.”

But Ivan Nikiforovitch dropped into a chair, and could utter no word

beyond prolonged oh’s. Finally, in a faint and barely audible voice

from fatigue, he exclaimed, “Wouldn’t you like some?” and drawing his

snuff-box from his pocket, added, “Help yourself, if you please.”

“Very glad to see you,” replied the judge; “but I cannot conceive

what made you put yourself to so much trouble, and favour us with so

unexpected an honour.”

“A plaint!” Ivan Nikiforovitch managed to ejaculate.

“A plaint? What plaint?”

“A complaint...” here his asthma entailed a prolonged pause--“Oh! a

complaint against that rascal--Ivan Ivanovitch Pererepenko!”

“And you too! Such particular friends! A complaint against such a

benevolent man?”

“He’s Satan himself!” ejaculated Ivan Nikiforovitch abruptly.

The judge crossed himself.

“Take my plaint, and read it.”

“There is nothing to be done. Read it, Taras Tikhonovitch,” said the

judge, turning to the secretary with an expression of displeasure, which

caused his nose to sniff at his upper lip, which generally occurred only

as a sign of great enjoyment. This independence on the part of his nose

caused the judge still greater vexation. He pulled out his handkerchief,

and rubbed off all the snuff from his upper lip in order to punish it

for its daring.

The secretary, having gone through the usual performance, which he

always indulged in before he began to read, that is to say, blowing his

nose without the aid of a pocket-handkerchief, began in his ordinary

voice, in the following manner:--

“Ivan Dovgotchkun, son of Nikifor, nobleman of the Mirgorod District,

presents a plaint, and begs to call attention to the following points:--

“1. Through his hateful malice and plainly manifested ill-will, the

person calling himself a nobleman, Ivan Pererepenko, son of Ivan,

perpetrates against me every manner of injury, damage, and like spiteful

deeds, which inspire me with terror. Yesterday afternoon, like a brigand

and thief, with axes, saws, chisels, and various locksmith’s tools, he

came by night into my yard and into my own goose-shed located within it,

and with his own hand, and in outrageous manner, destroyed it; for which

very illegal and burglarious deed on my side I gave no manner of cause.

“2. The same nobleman Pererepenko has designs upon my life; and on the

7th of last month, cherishing this design in secret, he came to me, and

began, in a friendly and insidious manner, to ask of me a gun which was

in my chamber, and offered me for it, with the miserliness peculiar to

him, many worthless objects, such as a brown sow and two sacks of oats.

Divining at that time his criminal intentions, I endeavoured in every

way to dissuade him from it: but the said rascal and scoundrel, Ivan

Pererepenko, son of Ivan, abused me like a muzhik, and since that time

has cherished against me an irreconcilable enmity. His sister was well

known to every one as a loose character, and went off with a regiment

of chasseurs which was stationed at Mirgorod five years ago; but she

inscribed her husband as a peasant. His father and mother too were

not law-abiding people, and both were inconceivable drunkards. The

afore-mentioned nobleman and robber, Pererepenko, in his beastly and

blameworthy actions, goes beyond all his family, and under the guise of

piety does the most immoral things. He does not observe the fasts; for

on the eve of St. Philip’s this atheist bought a sheep, and next day

ordered his mistress, Gapka, to kill it, alleging that he needed tallow

for lamps and candles at once.

“Therefore I pray that the said nobleman, a manifest robber,

church-thief, and rascal, convicted of plundering and stealing, may be

put in irons, and confined in the jail or the government prison, and

there, under supervision, deprived of his rank and nobility, well

flogged, and banished to forced labour in Siberia, and that he may be

commanded to pay damages and costs, and that judgment may be rendered on

this my petition.

“To this plaint, Ivan Dovgotchkun, son of Nikifor, noble of the Mirgorod

district, has set his hand.”

As soon as the secretary had finished reading, Ivan Nikiforovitch seized

his hat and bowed, with the intention of departing.

“Where are you going, Ivan Nikiforovitch?” the judge called after him.

“Sit down a little while. Have some tea. Orishko, why are you standing

there, you stupid girl, winking at the clerks? Go, bring tea.”

But Ivan Nikiforovitch, in terror at having got so far from home, and at

having undergone such a fearful quarantine, made haste to crawl through

the door, saying, “Don’t trouble yourself. It is with pleasure that I--”

and closed it after him, leaving all present stupefied.

There was nothing to be done. Both plaints were entered; and the affair

promised to assume a sufficiently serious aspect when an unforeseen

occurrence lent an added interest to it. As the judge was leaving the

court in company with the clerk and secretary, and the employees were

thrusting into sacks the fowls, eggs, loaves, pies, cracknels, and other

odds and ends brought by the plaintiffs--just at that moment a brown sow

rushed into the room and snatched, to the amazement of the spectators,

neither a pie nor a crust of bread but Ivan Nikiforovitch’s plaint,

which lay at the end of the table with its leaves hanging over. Having

seized the document, mistress sow ran off so briskly that not one of

the clerks or officials could catch her, in spite of the rulers and

ink-bottles they hurled after her.

This extraordinary occurrence produced a terrible muddle, for there had

not even been a copy taken of the plaint. The judge, that is to say,

his secretary and the assistant debated for a long time upon such an

unheard-of affair. Finally it was decided to write a report of the

matter to the governor, as the investigation of the matter pertained

more to the department of the city police. Report No. 389 was despatched

to him that same day; and also upon that day there came to light a

sufficiently curious explanation, which the reader may learn from the

following chapter.

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH ARE DETAILED THE DELIBERATIONS OF TWO IMPORTANT PERSONAGES OF

MIRGOROD

As soon as Ivan Ivanovitch had arranged his domestic affairs and stepped

out upon the balcony, according to his custom, to lie down, he saw, to

his indescribable amazement, something red at the gate. This was the red

facings of the chief of police’s coat, which were polished equally with

his collar, and resembled varnished leather on the edges.

Ivan Ivanovitch thought to himself, “It’s not bad that Peter

Feodorovitch has come to talk it over with me.” But he was very

much surprised to see that the chief was walking remarkably fast and

flourishing his hands, which was very rarely the case with him. There

were eight buttons on the chief of police’s uniform: the ninth, torn off

in some manner during the procession at the consecration of the church

two years before, the police had not been able to find up to this time:

although the chief, on the occasion of the daily reports made to him by

the sergeants, always asked, “Has that button been found?” These eight

buttons were strewn about him as women sow beans--one to the right and

one to the left. His left foot had been struck by a ball in the last

campaign, and so he limped and threw it out so far to one side as to

almost counteract the efforts of the right foot. The more briskly the

chief of police worked his walking apparatus the less progress he made

in advance. So while he was getting to the balcony, Ivan Ivanovitch

had plenty of time to lose himself in surmises as to why the chief was

flourishing his hands so vigorously. This interested him the more, as

the matter seemed one of unusual importance; for the chief had on a new

dagger.

“Good morning, Peter Feodorovitch!” cried Ivan Ivanovitch, who was, as

has already been stated, exceedingly curious, and could not restrain his

impatience as the chief of police began to ascend to the balcony, yet

never raised his eyes, and kept grumbling at his foot, which could not

be persuaded to mount the step at the first attempt.

“I wish my good friend and benefactor, Ivan Ivanovitch, a good-day,”

replied the chief.

“Pray sit down. I see that you are weary, as your lame foot hinders--”

“My foot!” screamed the chief, bestowing upon Ivan Ivanovitch a glance

such as a giant might cast upon a pigmy, a pedant upon a dancing-master:

and he stretched out his foot and stamped upon the floor with it. This

boldness cost him dear; for his whole body wavered and his nose struck

the railing; but the brave preserver of order, with the purpose of

making light of it, righted himself immediately, and began to feel in

his pocket as if to get his snuff-box. “I must report to you, my dear

friend and benefactor, Ivan Ivanovitch, that never in all my days have I

made such a march. Yes, seriously. For instance, during the campaign of

1807--Ah! I will tell to you how I crawled through the enclosure to see

a pretty little German.” Here the chief closed one eye and executed a

diabolically sly smile.

“Where have you been to-day?” asked Ivan Ivanovitch, wishing to cut the

chief short and bring him more speedily to the object of his visit. He

would have very much liked to inquire what the chief meant to tell him,

but his extensive knowledge of the world showed him the impropriety of

such a question; and so he had to keep himself well in hand and await a

solution, his heart, meanwhile, beating with unusual force.

“Ah, excuse me! I was going to tell you--where was I?” answered the

chief of police. “In the first place, I report that the weather is fine

to-day.”

At these last words, Ivan Ivanovitch nearly died.

“But permit me,” went on the chief. “I have come to you to-day about a

very important affair.” Here the chief’s face and bearing assumed the

same careworn aspect with which he had ascended to the balcony.

Ivan Ivanovitch breathed again, and shook as if in a fever, omitting

not, as was his habit, to put a question. “What is the important matter?

Is it important?”

“Pray judge for yourself; in the first place I venture to report to

you, dear friend and benefactor, Ivan Ivanovitch, that you--I beg you

to observe that, for my own part, I should have nothing to say; but the

rules of government require it--that you have transgressed the rules of

propriety.”

“What do you mean, Peter Feodorovitch? I don’t understand at all.”

“Pardon me, Ivan Ivanovitch! how can it be that you do not understand?

Your own beast has destroyed an important government document; and you

can still say, after that, that you do not understand!”

“What beast?”

“Your own brown sow, with your permission, be it said.”

“How can I be responsible? Why did the door-keeper of the court open the

door?”

“But, Ivan Ivanovitch, your own brown sow. You must be responsible.”

“I am extremely obliged to you for comparing me to a sow.”

“But I did not say that, Ivan Ivanovitch! By Heaven! I did not say so!

Pray judge from your own clear conscience. It is known to you without

doubt, that in accordance with the views of the government, unclean

animals are forbidden to roam about the town, particularly in the

principal streets. Admit, now, that it is prohibited.”

“God knows what you are talking about! A mighty important business that

a sow got into the street!”

“Permit me to inform you, Ivan Ivanovitch, permit me, permit me,

that this is utterly inadvisable. What is to be done? The authorities

command, we must obey. I don’t deny that sometimes chickens and geese

run about the street, and even about the square, pray observe, chickens

and geese; but only last year, I gave orders that pigs and goats were

not to be admitted to the public squares, which regulations I directed

to be read aloud at the time before all the people.”

“No, Peter Feodorovitch, I see nothing here except that you are doing

your best to insult me.”

“But you cannot say that, my dearest friend and benefactor, that I have

tried to insult you. Bethink yourself: I never said a word to you last

year when you built a roof a whole foot higher than is allowed by law.

On the contrary, I pretended not to have observed it. Believe me, my