![]() Taras Bulba ![]() 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 Andrķi could hold
himself erect. He gazed with curiosity at the earthen walls. Here and there,
as in the catacombs at Kyiv, 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. Andrķi 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. Andrķi 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. Andrķi involuntarily halted at
the sight of a Catholic monk--one of those who had aroused such hate and
disdain among the Kozaks that they treated them even more inhumanly than
they treated the Jews. The monk, on his part, started back on perceiving a Zaporozhian Kozak,
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. Andrķi 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
Andrķi, 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 Andrķi 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
Andrķi's precious burden, sprang upon him like a tiger, and clutched him,
yelling, "Bread!" But his strength was not equal to his madness. Andrķi
repulsed him and he fell to the ground. Moved with pity, the young Kozak
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, At the sight of such terrible proofs of famine, Andrķi 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." Andrķi 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. Andrķi 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 Andrķi 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. Andrķi felt in his heart a noble
timidity, and stood motionless before her. She, too, seemed surprised at the
appearance of the Kozak, 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. Andrķi 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 Kozak 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 Andrķi. 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 Andrķi 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
Andrķi 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 Andrķi, 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 Kozaks 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 Andrķi, 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 most 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 Andrķi, "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 Andrķi,
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 Kozak 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 Kozaks 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, Andrķi 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 Kozak was ruined. He was lost to Kozak 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.
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