The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko

by Zinaida Tulub

  Shevchenko bowed formally, without saying anything in reply.

  That moment Natalia entered with Petya, Lidia Andreievna’s ten-year-old son. Petya carried a little basket with cherries he had picked in the orchard; Natalia threw a stack of sheet music on the lid of the grand piano and, after greeting the guests, turned to Fischer:

  “Monsieur Otto, help me find a remedy against boredom. Organize a concert, please. We’ve just received wonderful romances by Varlamov, a part of Glinka’s opera Life for the Czar and one or two other things of the sort. You’ll be playing the violin, Lidia and I the piano. Globa has not too bad a bass, and Stepanov a tiny tenor. Besides, we could get a choir together. Mother Stepanida has a fine voice, and I could just as well squeak away two romances or so.”

  “And let Meshkov organize a Prussian-style corps de bal­let,” Fischer added ironically. “He’s good at drilling us sol­diers to stretch out our toes like on the opera stage, but without tutus and tights, which would make the picture complete. Perhaps Miss Natalia would make them for the whole company out of the hospital gauze and tarlatan.”

  Everyone laughed merrily. Lidia Andreievna sat down at the piano and looked through the sheet music.

  “This is an exquisitely melodious duet,” Fischer re­marked, putting a sheet of music in a colorful cover on the music stand. “I used to sing it back home in Warsaw.”

  “You don’t say! So let’s try and sing it now,” Natalia said, “Come on, play, Lidia. Pardon, monsieur Shevchenko, for not having asked. Do you sing too?”

  “I do; not romances but folk songs. Please, sing. I have missed music so much.”

  Following the introduction, Natalia sang with a ringing and clear soprano, then Fischer joined in, darting amorous glances at her. Their young voices blended beautifully; Shevchenko shut his eyes and forgot for a moment that he was in Orsk. He seemed to be back in his Ukraine at Zakrevsky’s estate in Berezovi Rudki.

  Lidia Andreievna underscored the voices of the singers the more by alternating ringing chords with velvety, rolling tremolos.

  “And now we’ll ask Taras Grigorievich to sing!” Natalia cried out and clapped her hands. “No, no! Do not refuse. This is a concert after all. We are but amateurs!” she said passionately seeing how Shevchenko became timid and waved off the idea. “Sing for us, please! We love Little-Rus­sian songs!”

  “My mood is not fit for singing now,” he said sternly. “I will sing a little later on.”

  “How I understand you!” Lidia Andreievna suddenly said as if she were talking to herself. “It’s a year now since my Alexei died, but I still cannot reconcile myself to his death. Are those unfortunate Caucasians to blame for his death? Oh no! It’s the czar!”

  “Dear Madame Lidia,” Fischer stopped her. “It’s inad­visable to say such things out loud. Before you is a living example: Monsieur Shevchenko wrote about all that and here he is a soldier in the Orsk Fortress. We know and understand this, but you cannot talk about it frankly in the Russian Empire, because if Monsieur Globa or Mon­sieur Meshkov or any other officer were to hear you, it would spell a lot of trouble both for you and your father.”

  Lidia Andreievna gave a bitter laugh.

  “I know! But at times even a dumb man starts to shout. I lived in Piatigorsk in eighteen forty and remember Lermontov. He, too, was in disgrace and could not keep si­lent…”

  “…and died from the bullet of a mercenary assassin,” Fischer concluded her thought.

  Shevchenko listened to the conversation with deep ex­citement. What a happiness it was to have crossed the threshold of this home!

  Fischer diverted the conversation to music, opera and the concerts he had attended in Warsaw, and Natalia start­ed passionately recalling her days in St. Petersburg. Then they talked about drama and the stage appearances of Shchepkin and Karatigin. Soon they learned that they had common friends. At the height of the conversation the general entered the parlor. In the morning he usually retired to his study where he read the Russkiy invalid or World History and always appeared for dinner in full dress uniform. But today, intrigued by Fischer’s stories about the exiled artist and poet, he came into the parlor an hour earlier to meet Shevchenko before the arrival of the officers, who had dinner at their commander’s every Sunday.

  Seeing the general, Shevchenko got up and snapped to attention. The general smiled and extended his hand.

  “Drop these formalities, old chap. I have enough of them during duty hours as it is. Sit down and tell me how you live here.”

  “I try to get used to it all, your Excellency, and be no worse than the others,” Shevchenko replied.

  “It must be difficult, mustn’t it? Don’t say no, old chap! I know it myself and regret not having done anything for you yet. It’s all because of my ill health, the devil take it. A military man has it hard, but for a civilian our corps de ballet might be out of his depth altogether. I am a soldier of the Suvorov school and abhor that damned foot drill. The army exists so as to fight and defend the country, not for parades and humiliating people,” the general thun­dered, getting ever more excited. “They teach you to march all right, but the officers themselves are not always good shots! In a war this corps de ballet is absolutely unneces­sary. It wasn’t by parading that we defeated Napoleon, and it wasn’t by parading that we attacked Izmail, and we didn’t cross the Alps to the tune of marches either. This damned order of things made me leave the Guards, be­cause I am used to speaking the straight-out truth. So they decided that this hero climate would be the healthiest for me. Oh well, let the devil take them!” He suddenly waved his hand dismissingly, fell silent and hung down his head.

  After the general had regained his breath from his pas­sionate outburst and asked Shevchenko how he could help him, the poet said simply:

  “Drill is a cursed thing to go through, but life in the barracks is much worse, what with that horrible dirt, unbear­able stench, lice, millions of bed bugs, flies and cockroaches which don’t give me a moment’s rest. I doze off from fatigue only toward morning and wake up with a headache, an exasperated, crushed man. I grew up in misery, in a wretched peasant’s home, but I have never seen anything like this even in a nightmare.”

  “That’s my fault,” the general muttered. “Whatever else, but bed bugs and dirt can be dealt with and… and every­thing else, too. Never mind, we’ll get that done. Don’t you be sad: I’ll have something arranged for you.”

  He asked Shevchenko in great detail what the soldiers received for rations, and suddenly noticed that Shevchenko seemed to be holding something back.

  “What’s the matter? Once you’ve started to speak up, make a clean breast of it.”

  “I wanted to mention about the sick men. There are some soldiers who are marched off to drill while they should be … well, they ought to be in hospital.”

  “So why haven’t they reported through the proper chan­nels themselves?”

  “They reported to the noncoms and the corporal. There is one such novice, an utterly quiet character who is afraid of everything. He’s got a hernia hanging like a bag.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Ivan Karpov.”

  “I see… On the other hand… All right… Although… Inteesting… Who else?”

  “There is Foma Berezin. He has a festering abscess on his foot. And Petrov obviously has scabs.”

  “And what do the noncoms do about it?”

  “I don’t know… The men say that only vodka makes the reports get through to the superiors. But otherwise…”

  “What scoundrels!” the general burst out laughing. “Well, it’s nothing unusual. In a soldier’s life a lot of things depend on the noncoms. You were right in calling them bribe takers and leeches,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

  Shevchenko squinted slightly.

  So I’ve been squealed on, he thought. The general must have read his thoughts, and said in his deep voice:

  “That’s it, old chap. Let this be a lesson to you:
you say one word, and your superiors get three words reported. In your situation you should keep your mouth shut.”

  Then the general settled in his favorite rocking chair and asked Lidia Andreievna to play something for him. His daughter played with feeling and under her fingers Cho­pin’s nocturnes sounded deeply lyrical.

  Presently, loud voices, the jingle of spurs and coughing came from the vestibule, and in the parlor there appeared Meshkov, Globa, Stepanov, Ensign Bogomolov, and some tall, red-haired officer from the Second Company Shevchenko had seen on the parade ground only from afar. While the officers greeted the general and ceremoniously kissed the hand of Lidia Andreievna, Shevchenko and Fischer retired to a corner, but the general immediately remembered them.

  “Gentlemen, let me introduce you — not in the line of duty but privately — to the only real artist and poet in Orsk. I ask you to like and respect him.”

  After such an introduction the officers had no choice but shake hands with Shevchenko, feeling deeply embarrassed on recalling how they had addressed him rudely on the parade ground and called him names for every awkward step, turn or movement.

  “Monsieur Stepanov, and you, Captain, look what won­derful music I have been sent from Orenburg,” Natalia warbled away to offset the moment of embarrassment. “Here is one of Susanin’s arias from Glinka’s opera. That’s especially for you, Captain. And here is a romance for you, Ensign,” she turned to Stepanov. “Otto and I have just had a try at a very melodious duet. I want every one of you prepare some musical item for my birthday. Monsieur Fischer will play his violin, and 1 will sing a duet with him. I’d like it to turn into a real concert like they have in the big cities.”

  “But only without the ballet troupe under Major Meshkov’s direction,” Fischer whispered to her.

  Natalia could not check herself and burst into a giggle, covering her nose with a handkerchief to make it look as if she had a cough.

  Meshkov sat by the general, and Petya claimed the full­est attention of Stepanov, as he showed him a model of a Roman catapult he had built out of pieces of wood, rubber bands and cork. Lidia Andreievna asked Shev­chenko to sit at her side and tell her about Varvara Nikolaevna Repnina whom she had once met in St. Petersburg, while the officers looked through the sheets of music and commented on strictly military matters and news.

  The dinner that followed was a noisy and lively affair. The officers had a few drinks and conversed with the ladies in an easy manner. After coffee the general invited Mesh­kov to his study and asked him about Shevchenko.

  “He is a quiet man, sober and polite compared with others, but for the death of me he remains the same clod­hopper he was when he arrived. He just hasn’t got any military bearing — you might as well write finis to it,” Meshkov said, spreading his arms in despair.

  “All right, let him remain how he has been made by the Creator,” General Isaiev said with a smile, puffing on his long pipe. “I think that as a political prisoner he should be transferred to civilian quarters.”

  “But, your Excellency, that is against regulations.”

  “What makes you think so? Fischer, Zawadzki, Królikiewicz are also soldiers and live out of barracks, don’t they?”

  “As to the Poles, we have a special instruction. The czar deems it necessary to keep them isolated from the soldiers, for they might be a bad influence. But this Shevchenko…”

  “…this Shevchenko is no ordinary character. Today he rails at the noncoms, and tomorrow he might go after royal dignitaries.”

  “But he’ll be under surveillance.”

  “Yes, that is so. But still… A word spoken is past recall­ing; his word might awaken a harmful thought in a sol­dier’s head. I know such types, he must be isolated imme­diately. I know what I am talking about. It was not for theft or murder that he was forced into the army. His is a more serious case. What if he manages to induce adverse sentiments in the barracks and it becomes known to the higher-ups? What will happen then? Why, you’d be made responsible for it in the first place as battalion commander, and Captain Globa as company commander.”

  Such an unexpected argument overwhelmed Meshkov.

  “Let me call Globa, and we’ll think it over together,” he proposed.

  “All right, call him.”

  Globa heard out the general, and retorted:

  “But that’s against regulations.”

  “Come on, old chap,” the general cut him short brusque­ly. “Regulations are written to maintain order, but ev­ery one of us breaks them once in a while. You, for instance, Captain, are entitled to a leave of twenty-eight days in a year. But who else but you, and twice for that matter, went to Orenburg for a length of ten days each time, and I didn’t say a word to you, because not every feast is supposed to end in a reckoning, so to speak. And you, Major, asked me to give you help in building your house. Thirty soldiers worked on it without any pay for forty days, raising walls, setting rafters, building the roof and stove — everything. They even worked on holidays” — the general raised his index finger, — “and this at the expense of drill exercises, which by the very same regulations are prohibited from being replaced by anything whatsoever. I looked at all this through my fingers as well. But here we have an absolutely special case. I am serious about it, because such a quiet character might make a political re­bellion flare up. Just imagine the Kirghiz rebelling against us as they did ten years ago. They come up to Orsk, and this here man juts it into the soldiers’ heads that the Kir­ghiz have no serfdom, and our men side with the rebels out of stupidity. What tune will you be singing then? That is why I advise you not to argue the point. The first thing I’ll do tomorrow morning is sign an order, because I’ve made up my mind to guard my own and your security by isolating him promptly from our ‘drab riffraff,’ “ the general concluded and got to his feet, making everybody understand that his decision was final.

  On leaving, he stopped at the threshold for a moment, and added:

  “I advise you, gentlemen, to treat him circumspectly when he’s in formation. Don’t make a martyr out of him in front of the men.”

  While visiting the general, the officers felt themselves a little restrained: they liked to drink without measure, and after getting drunk, burst into song or dance, but the presence of Lidia Andreievna, a lady from the capital’s high society, hindered them. For propriety’s sake they asked her to play something on the piano, and while she played, they had a tedious time, pretending to be listening to her performance attentively. When she finished her number, they applauded all as one, and then did not know what else to do.

  “Oh my,” the red-headed ensign from the Second Com­pany sighed all of a sudden. “Last year I was stationed at Nizhniy Novgorod. While the local fair was on, there was no end to the fun: gypsies, comedies at the theater, carousals at the restaurants every evening. We had an ensign there. He did not know music and his voice was not of the best, but he could sing those khokhol songs so well it wrung your heart to tears. We could listen to him for hours.”

  “Our Taras Grigorievich here also sings Little-Russian songs,” Fischer dropped an offhand remark, realizing quick­ly that it was in Shevchenko’s interests to produce the best impression on the officers. “Ask him. He is a wonderful singer.”

  Shevchenko, however, remained implacable.

  No sooner had Shevchenko entered the barracks the next day alter dinner than the orderly called out to him:

  “Hey, Shevchenko! Off to the office! Clerk Lavrentiev wants to see you. On the double!”

  Such a summons never portended anything good: it would mean either confinement in the guardhouse, extra duty for some minor infringement of regulations, or something else of the sort. But Lavrentiev met him amicably.

  “This deserves a treat off you, greenie, because I’ve got orders to have you transferred to civilian quarters but with daily report for drill and other company exercises. So pack up your wearables, draw your rations in kind, and foot it to the settlement. You’ll be issu
ed your ration of bread every day before drill.”

  Shevchenko made the sign of the cross on himself for joy and was ready to embrace Lavrentiev. The latter smiled and asked:

  “So where will you go now? Come to my place! My house is one of the best. The old lady, I mean my mother-in-law, died last winter. I’ll have you settled in the living room. It’s warm, clean and without any bed bugs. Now mind you don’t bring any along from the barracks. My wife will plague the life out of you and me if you bring in that vermin. She’s a compatriot of yours, a dumpling eater from Poltava, so her home is as clean as the general’s.”

  “How much will you charge?” Shevchenko asked foresightedly, because his resources were depleted.

  “People charge a ruble a month, but I’ll take you in for nothing, if you’re willing to teach my boys, Vasiliy and Stepan, reading, writing, ‘rithmetic and all those other fan­cy school sciences.”

  “Agreed,” Shevchenko said happily and hurried to the barracks to pack.

  That day he could not get over his excitement. Meshkov unexpectedly relieved him of attending “colloquy” classes to let him get settled at his new place of residence. Shevchenko asked the hostess to lend him a scythe, cut himself some grass for a mattress, stacked the books by Schiller — miraculously saved from Kozlovsky and Belobrovov’s greedy eyes — on a simple, rough-hewn table, but did not take the notebook out of his bootleg, because in his private quarters he would nonetheless remain under surveillance, an unexpected search was possible at any hour of the day; his bootleg notebooks were dearer to him than life itself.

  By evening the hay had dried under the sun. He stuffed a mattress and pillow case with the hay, covered his bed with a gray soldier’s blanket, hung his greatcoat on a nail, and sat down on a stool, taking pleasure in the quiet and inhaling the clean air of a tidy human dwelling. In the room stood a faint fragrance of dried herbs which hung along the wall in little bunches. Shevchenko recalled that Lavrentiev’s late mother-in-law had been an herb doctor, and in his heart he wished that God rest her soul in His King­dom.