He reached the count’s house with its tall windows overlooking the street, rang the bell, and there was Semyon, the butler, opening the door at once, as if he’d been waiting. He took Taras’s second-hand hat and coat and hung them with the others, and Taras could see him quelling the urge to brush something off them, threadbare but spotless though they were. The thought, “Pretend all you like, you are no better than I,” seemed always to lurk in Semyon’s eyes.
Most often the servants of the wealthy were happy to see him and exchange a few words. One of their own had been freed and accepted among their masters. This Semyon, though, had a streak of envy and malice. If he must be a servant, why should Taras escape? That must be how he saw it.
He led Taras into the spacious reception room, lit by dozens of candles, the gilded plasterwork reflecting dancing light into a newcomer’s eyes. “Taras Hryhoryvich Shevchenko, Member of the Academy of Arts,” he announced. Taras was the only man there with no title, no position in government or the army. No land or property, no ancient provenance.
The ordeal of entrance passed quickly. People looked up for a moment, bowed or even smiled in his direction, then turned slowly back, formal and smooth as a figure in a dance, to the people they were talking to before he arrived. As he passed he heard snatches of conversation in the elegant French they’d learned from their nurses and tutors. If there were nothing else, no distinction of dress or good looks or outstanding skill, these upper-class Russians would know each other by this borrowed eloquence. Taras could try to play this game – he’d picked up a basic knowledge of French in his master’s house – but he won’t lower himself to use it.
It was enough he had to speak to them in Russian, knowing that most of them didn’t even recognize Ukrainian as a language. That is, if they’d ever considered the matter at all.
Imagine, he thought. People too refined, too rich, to speak their native tongue. How could anyone be truly admirable who would erase what he really was and affect another country’s language and customs? Whenever he was introduced to such people, he’d see that moment’s struggle, that slight jolt as they forced themselves to recall and speak Russian.
Kalnikov was different. He looked up with his bright eyes and beckoned him with a nod of the head. Taras approached him, although he sat beside the old crone his dowager mother, who was swathed in dull lavender satin that had seen as many seasons as Taras’s own evening clothes. She diverted herself, the count had confided, with planning matches for her many relatives of both sexes with people who could bring them some increase of wealth or position. Now she fussed with the already perfect flowers in the hair of the count’s youngest daughter – Tatiana, a rosy-faced girl of fifteen, her low neckline softened by some kind of gathered sheer material. Taras was touched by her beauty and youth. For as pampered as she was, she would soon be faced with the question of betrothal and marriage. If she were a great artist or possessed the ability to manage some grand enterprise, it wouldn’t matter. For her there was only one profession, one path.
The count rose and came to him, surely a mark of favour, since it saved him the pain of making conversation with the dowager. He would have liked to greet Tatiana, though, as she was giving him her sweetest smile, not in a flirtatious way, but because she was happy and full of life and had the smile ready for anyone who came along, especially young men taken up by her father.
“Good evening, my dear fellow,” the old gentleman said, touching Taras’s shoulder, “you’re just the person I need to talk to.”
Taras bowed and wished him a good evening.
The count’s round face seemed to shine with good health, or at least good food and wine. His silvery hair and beard were meticulously trimmed, his clothing was impeccable. He took Taras’s arm and walked him over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows framed in deep blue velvet. Looking out, Taras felt connected once more to the glowing night.
“Do you by any chance know what I’m talking about?” the count asked in a playful tone. “Has some rumour reached you?”
Taras smiled. “I assure you, sir, that your words are completely new and mysterious to me. No rumour of any kind has reached me. Other than that this man Shevchenko is a villain who should be sent packing.”
The count laughed heartily. “I think you’re safe for the moment. But I see you really haven’t heard a word, a rare thing in this town of intrigue and gossip. Well, my dear man, I’m very excited. I have a commission for you.”
“I am at your service. What – or whom – would you have me paint?”
“Oh, it’s a grand scheme,” old Kalnikov said. “A portrait, you know. Just myself with my family. But we want it large as life, and if you should happen to see more beauty in us than the world in general can see, none of us will find it in our hearts to criticize you. Only we also want it to be warm and jolly, so that years from now it will be a memory of all of us happy together.”
There could be only one answer and Taras bowed deeply. “It will be an honour. Nature has given you and your family so much beauty that I need only portray, not enhance it. But I hope you anticipate nothing which will interfere with your family’s happiness?”
“No. Nothing at the moment. But you know, bad things may happen, even to a fortunate family like ours, and besides, we shall one day or another see our Tatiana leave us. Wish she didn’t have to.”
“Well, I will accept your commission with great pleasure. I think Countess Tatiana can never look more beautiful than she does now in the bosom of her family.”
“Probably true,” the old man said. “I don’t know where we can find her a husband who’ll make her remotely happy, but we’ll try. So, Taras Hryhoryvich. It’s settled then. Good. Come to me tomorrow – early afternoon? – and we’ll decide when you will begin. All the tiresome little details of fees and sitting times and so on.”
Taras bowed again. I could make her happy, he thought.
“Now, let’s go and break up this circle in the corner. I want you to meet my country cousin. He’s not at all rustic, by the way. Studied in Paris and Berlin. Has very advanced ideas. He’s just freed the serfs on his home estate.”
If he could possibly have declined this friendly offer, Taras would have done so. The last thing he wanted was to receive the sympathy or good intentions of this cousin. “But will he speak Russian, sir? As you know, my French is non-existent.”
“Ah! Fear not,” the old man said. “Not only does he speak Russian, but he can speak your own language. One of his estates is in Little Russia.”
Taras felt his cheeks burn, but luckily the count didn’t notice, was already touching the cousin’s elbow. It’s not “little” Russia, he wanted to say. It’s not any kind or size of Russia. It is Ukraïna.
Yet here he was himself, in Petersburg, among Russians, dependent on Russians. The artists who befriended him. Bruillov, who painted the picture to ransom him. To buy him one last time and then set him free. He was glad beyond measure to have this freedom, grateful too, but still sometimes it was terrifying.
The count was talking about family matters with the non-rustic cousin, who hadn’t noticed him yet.
What would be the best thing for him to do now? He could likely make a tolerable living as a portraitist and engraver. He could do well enough to send money to his sister and brother back home, money that would make their lives more bearable. He could manage that. He could perhaps marry. But always his heart asked him to do more. To make something of the gift he had so improbably received. A little bit like the lost prince or princess in a folk tale, he had been restored to his own estate, but he was not yet the ruler of anything.
People were kind to him. Admission to places like this, the patronage of the count and his circle, was immensely useful. These things could help him build a successful career. He could learn to do splendid portraits of counts and countesses, princes and princesses and their retinues of relatives and, who could say, perhaps some day even the Imperial family.
The very o
nes who considered it reasonable to keep his people in bondage. At home, in Kyrylivka, his sister Yaryna and her family did not own themselves. They belonged and probably always would belong to the landlord Engelhardt.
Across the room, Tatiana sent him a happy smile, no doubt in on the secret of the great project of the family painting.
And now the count was introducing his cousin, Alexei Vasil-yevich Maslov, and, unexpectedly, Taras found him both likeable and entertaining. His Ukrainian was very good – and remember, Taras thought, the old count did say “your language,” which many people wouldn’t do – and his manner was unaffected and friendly. He never once mentioned serfdom in any context at all, but talked of Paris, its art and its people, and the freedom he felt walking its tree-lined streets.
“Perhaps it’s only an illusion,” Alexei Vasilyevich said, “but as I walked those pavements I felt as if chains slid from my mind. I could forget Russia for a time and believe that art and ideas were the highest good, the passport to all delight. My dear man, you can’t imagine their galleries. Oh, they have their academicians too, but it’s easier to ignore them. The place seemed to confer permission to experiment or change.”
Taras had this freedom too, not as much as this man of education and means, but enough to do many things. A waiter came by with a tray laden with flutes of champagne, golden in the candlelight, and the room changed as Taras helped his new acquaintance and himself to a glass. It felt a little warmer, kinder.
“That was a good story, Myro,” Tymko says. “You must be missing teaching.”
Myro smiles. “Well, I said I was a teacher. Maybe it was time I proved it.”
“Consider it proved. Scientifically. Even this old revolutionary liked it.”
“You’re not that old.” Myro waggles his own eyebrows in a reasonable imitation of Tymko’s.
“No,” Tymko says, “it just feels that way.”
The story sends a new spirit through the listeners. Through Shevchenko they glimpse their own place in the history of their country, or the idea of their country – a nation they can neither forget nor wholeheartedly believe in yet. It feels painful, to be sure, but understanding is better than not understanding. Or so it seems at this moment.
CHAPTER 10
It happened far away
The prisoners sit on benches in the dining hall, which looks like a smaller version of the bunkhouse, drinking coffee at one of the long wooden tables. Taras tries to decide if the coffee actually tastes better than the usual burnt swill, or if he’s just imagining it does due to the novelty of decorations. Because the rough wooden walls are trimmed with red and green crêpe paper streamers twined together. A crooked but very fresh pine tree, about eight feet tall, stands in the middle of the room, its spindly branches hung with coloured glass balls. Several prisoners familiar with Christmas trees think it looks pitiful, but Taras likes it. He’s never seen one before and it does make some kind of change – Christmas is coming. December 25. Canadian Christmas, the men call it. Christmas won’t come for Ukrainians until early January – they use a different calendar.
“So,” Tymko says, “Canadian Christmas will be a holiday for both internees and guards. Dobre. This calls for analysis.”
The other prisoners yawn or exchange long-suffering looks. It seems nothing is to have a simple, ordinary meaning any more.
“Why does it call for analysis?” Taras asks. May as well find out. Get it over with.
“I’m glad you asked me that. Well. Christmas Day – Canadian Christmas, of course – is meant to be a holiday for prisoners and guards. A day of recreation and pleasure, yes?”
It seems safe to nod agreement to this, but of course there’s more coming.
“However... This certainly appears to be a contradiction in the case of the guards, since they still have to guard the prisoners. Guarding prisoners is their work. So calling Christmas a holiday for the guards seems to say that guarding prisoners at Christmas is not actually work, but recreation. How can the same actions be work on one day and recreation on another?”
“I don’t –” Taras begins.
“On the other hand,” Tymko rolls on, “this apparent contradiction may be more complex than it appears at first glance. It may require further examination.” He waggles his eyebrows.
“How so?”
“In this way. We know the guards have been ordered to put up decorations and install a tree in the dining hall. We may not completely understand Canadian army traditions, but there is a real possibility that this will have been very pleasant – not work at all. It may even have been festive. They have been ordered to enjoy themselves and have done so.”
“I wouldn’t call that fun,” Taras says.
“A perplexing question follows from this analysis,” Tymko goes on as if Taras hasn’t spoken. “If guarding internees on Christmas day is a sort of holiday, is every day of guarding prisoners actually a holiday? A form of recreation?” He waggles his brows again. “And yet everyone knows the guards are paid for these pleasant holidays. Moreover, everyone will have observed that they take little pleasure in them, an obvious paradox.”
“That’s, uh, very interesting.”
“Isn’t it? You see,” Tymko says, “how important it is to analyze everything in a scientific way? There’s so much we can learn. One day we’ll understand everything.”
It is interesting. But the coffee’s gone cold while Taras listened. How did that happen? He’ll have to analyze it. When he has a moment.
The day arrives at last. For the prisoners it feels much like any other day you don’t have to work, but supper is much better than usual. Turkey and potatoes and boiled peas. Not-completely-grey peas. And an unusual treat: each man receives an extra bun.
Taras gazes at his for several seconds. Of course, it’s not the first time he’s seen an extra bun. Even on an ordinary day one or two unneeded places may be set. Some prisoner is sick, or in the guardhouse, or has escaped. Or maybe the kitchen staff counted wrong. Whatever the reason, you do occasionally see an extra place setting with a bun. Unclaimed, undefended. When that happens there’s only one thing to be done, and no one’s quicker than Yuriy. Like a fox in a chicken coop, he’ll have that bun inside his shirt while the others are only thinking about it.
Today, however, each man has been issued a double ration of buns. Good. And there’s also an empty setting. This time Yuriy captures only one of the extras. Taras has been learning Yuriy’s methods and he gets the second. So each of them eats two buns with his supper and carries a third one back to the bunkhouse inside his shirt.
In the bunkhouse they sit and smoke. Each man has been given a Christmas cracker. All over the bunkhouse men pull the ends and wait for the pop.
“Good thing Barkley isn’t making one of his sudden visits,” Tymko says. “He’d think we were trying to blow up the bunkhouse.” Tymko has on a hat of golden tissue paper cut to look like a crown. It suits him. King Tymko.
“I can’t believe they’d give us anything containing explosives,” Myro says.
“What if we gathered them up and put all the gunpowder into one cracker?” Yuriy wonders. “We could offer it to Barkley and there’d be a huge explosion. What do you think, would it be enough to kill Barkley?” Always practical, Yuriy. “Probably not.” He shakes his head wistfully. Blowing up pale, frosty-looking Barkley would be an interesting sight.
“Would it be enough to wound Barkley?” Myro asks. Taras starts laughing and can’t stop. It’s the idea of Myro, in a purple-and-silver hat, considering blowing anybody up. The crackers are making them silly.
“This is interesting,” Ihor says. “It’s almost like being drunk.” His hat is made of red paper printed with yellow flowers. It looks better on him than Taras would have expected. The dark red colour looks good with his black hair.
They smoke, looking serious in the colourful hats. Taras has a bit of a smile on his face, still picturing Barkley as he pulled his cracker. The tiny moment of surprise; then the
realization that he’d just exploded.
“I hate to disappoint you,” Tymko says, “but I don’t think they use gunpowder.”
“Never mind that,” Taras says. “Who would pull the other end?” He holds his cracker out to Tymko. They pull but it doesn’t pop. He digs around for the hat and finds pleated white paper with gold circles on it. He crumples it in his fist and throws in on the floor.
“What was wrong with it?” Tymko asks. Taras shrugs.
“Oh well,” Yuriy says. “It was just a thought.” He grows silent and Taras can see he’s thinking hard.
After a while he nods his head. “I have a plan. You’re all going to help me with it.” He takes his bun from inside his shirt and makes an inspection of the woodstoves. Chooses the middle one – it must be the hottest – and places the bun on top to get warm. Comes back to his bunk and starts telling stories. “Once there was a man who had no testicles.”
“Sounds like Barkley,” Ihor says.
“And also once there was a man with two assholes,” Yuriy goes on.
“Two assholes!” Ihor says. “Still sounds like Barkley.”
“It sounds like many people I’ve known,” Yuriy says. Suddenly his head turns. Taras twists around in time to see a quick movement near the stove where the bun is warming. A blurry figure disappears into the shadows.
“Time for me to get that bun, boys,” Yuriy says with a grin. “I’ll cut it up for all of us. It’ll be a nice way to end the day.” He gets up and leads the others to the middle stove.
“What?” he says, “it’s gone! How can that be? I put it right here... You know, that reminds me of a story.” He winks his broadest, wickedest wink.
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