The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko

by Zinaida Tulub

  “My God, it’s so boring, like at a sumptuous funeral feast,” he said and burst into raucous laughter.

  None of the men, however, followed suit.

  Shevchenko went to his bunk and lay down, facing the wall lest anyone see his tears. He recalled his cheerless childhood and that poignantly bitter Christmas Eve when his mother died and he had to go with his elder sister and take the evening meal to their old grandfather as custom dic­tated. On crossing the threshold, the boy had to say the customary: “Holy Evening to you. Father and Mother willed that we bring you the holy supper, Grandfather,” but the orphan could not make himself utter these words after his mother, wasted away by misery and serf labor, had been confined to the grave. Tears gushed from his eyes, and his sister burst out crying as well. And now, recalling that evening far away from his homeland, he seemed to have been forgotten by the entire world, and just like during his childhood, he sharply felt his lot as an orphan.

  “Don’t be so sad, old chap. There’s no need for it,” Kuzmich suddenly said in a tender voice, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a sin to grieve so bitterly when there is peace the whole world over and goodwill amongst men.”

  Shevchenko did not say anything in reply, but this unex­pected tenderness made him tremble the more with his silent tears, as Kuzmich was lightly stroking his shoulder and saying:

  “There are a lot of us like you around here… and every­one has a wound in his heart. Let hope lighten it at least once a year. With God’s grace, you, too, will get home some day.”

  “I’m all right… I just remembered my mother,” Shev­chenko said.

  “Certainly. A man’s heart withers without tenderness. Even in gray-haired old age it is difficult to be an orphan,” Kuzmich said soothingly. “I grew up without a father. On Christmas Eve we used to get together and go around the houses glorifying Christ. Some gave us money, others a pie or a hunk of bread, and still others a sausage or a piece of fatback. We’d bring all that back to Mother, she’d cry at the sight of this charity, divide it between us children, but would not take a single bite herself. ‘I’ve already eaten,’ she said, while it never occurred to us that she was utterly hungry,” Kuzmich concluded with a sigh, wiping away a tear.

  Both of them lapsed into silence and became thoughtful. Suddenly, from the opposite corner where only vile curses and scurrilous songs originated every day, a strong voice started singing an ancient moving carol with a solemn ring:

  … and strew some hay and put God’s son into the crib…

  Unwittingly, Shevchenko quietly joined in the carol, its words sounding the dearer to him, since he knew them since childhood. His voice gradually gained in strength and soon lead on the other voices. From the carols he switched over to Ukrainian folk songs. Minutes later all the men in the barracks crowded around him and supported his singing with a great deal of excitement.

  “What the dickens! You are a remarkable singer!” Kozlovsky cried out when Shevchenko finished, and then added without his usual insolence: “Don’t give me your oblique looks, Shevchenko! It’s a cursed life that’s crippled me. Grief is what made me take to drinking… et cetera… et cete­ra. Otherwise I’d have been a dead man long since…”

  When the men had dispersed in silence, each retiring to his bunk, Kozlovsky came up to Shevchenko, sat down at his side, and said unexpectedly, a crooked smile curling his lips:

  “I’m a villain, and I know it. There’s nothing to be done about that. But I’ve still got principles. Yes, sir! I’ll ne-ev-er fool you anymore or steal a thread from you. But… for Christ’s sake, give me twenty kopecks, because I’ll go crazy if I don’t have a drink.”

  Grabbing the coin Shevchenko offered, Kozlovsky dashed out of the barracks.

  For the three days of the Christmas holidays the men could leave the barracks without any leave passes. Shev­chenko went to see his friends. First he went to convey his best Christmas wishes to Lavrentiev, and on the way dropped in to Chalhushian’s grocery where he bought some fruitdrops for his former pupils Stepan and Vasiliy.

  “Let’s go see the bai in the aul” Shevchenko proposed after Lavrentievhad treated him to a drink and some fatback and sausage.

  “Impossible,” the clerk said. “I’ve promised to visit the sergeant-major. His wife is celebrating her birthday today. Go to the bai alone, you know the way. The Kirghiz, though, have no holiday today: they are heathens and don’t believe in Christ.”

  Shevchenko had to go alone. After the singing of the day before he had slept well and felt almost healthy. The long walk, however, made him tired and he barely reached the aul.

  Jaisak was happy to see his dear guest and invited him to sit in the place of honor opposite the entrance. The other day he had bagged a couple of hares and was glad to treat Shevchenko to fresh hare roast.

  “I hunted with him,” Jaisak said and nodded at the eagle dozing in the corner on the tugir. “He’s good at getting hare, fox and even wolves. Take a look, Taras Aga, how many furs I have already: seven silver fox, nine red fox, and three wolves. I hunt so many hares that apa and I have enough every day and our dogs have become sleeker for the hare meat,” the young herder said merrily, flashing his pitch-black eyes. “Iskhak is also hunting with the bat’s eagle, because there are so many wolves in the steppe now that six jigits guard the herd every night. This winter I’d be unable to handle a pack of wolves myself: they’d tear me up for certain.”

  “Do you know how to process furs?” the poet asked.

  “I don’t, but my friend Taijan knows how,” Jaisak said, putting the furs into the trunk. “When I get together about half a hundred furs of silver fox and a lot of red fox, I’ll go to Orenburg to sell them.” Then he added with a sigh: “It’s so difficult to scrape up money for the bride and the wedding. But I don’t want to lose hope.”

  “Is there any news about Kuljan’s intended husband?”

  “Nothing new. He’s lying in bed motionless. Next year we will see what happens.”

  Shevchenko noticed that the subject was unpleasant for Jaisak, so he asked:

  “And where’s Abdrahman?”

  “He’s going around the auls, singing his songs. Where else should he be? Right now a young akyn, Azat, is our bai’s guest. If you want, we can go there and listen to his songs.”

  When heavy frosts set in, Djantemir moved from his yurt into a little house on the bank of the Or. Its spacious but low-ceilinged rooms as well as the floors and walls were covered with carpets and wolf skins. The house was heated by a real stove. The double-framed windows had shutters on the outside with thick mats of hay hung for additional warmth when the frosts were viciously bitter. Trestle platforms were used to sit and sleep on, although Djantemir had bought for himself in Orsk a real bed with a spring mattress, of which he was very proud.

  When Shevchenko entered the room with Jaisak, Azat was singing a merry song that sounded like a dance tune. Zeineb, Nurina and Shauken swayed their heads in time with the music, shrugging their shoulders and even snap­ping their fingers. On seeing the guest, the bai gave him a nod and gestured that he sit at his side, without interrupting the akyn. Since Djantemir did not get up this time and shake hands, Shevchenko understood that the bai had not forgiven him the My Testament he had recited during his first visit.

  When Azat was resting after his songs, Djantemir turned to Shevchenko.

  “Tell your mayirs to shoot the wolves, of which there are too many in the steppe. They must be destroyed. Every day they kill two sheep at least.”

  “You mean to say that a hunt should be staged?” Shev­chenko asked to get the meaning of Djantemir’s words right.

  “Yes, yes! A hunt! It has to be a big hunt! Tell that to Meshka Mayir. I beg of you. A jigit asks you. Djantemir asks you.”

  “All right, I will tell him,” Shevchenko said, deciding that he would pass the request on to the officers through Alexandriysky as a last resort.

  “Don’t forget it,” Djantemir repeated. “I will g
ive you a sheep as a present for that.”

  “I’ll do it without a sheep,” Shevchenko said and fell silent on seeing Azat reaching for his dombra again.

  That instant a wind buffeted against the windows, and everyone turned round and saw that the sun was shrouded by a white mist.

  Time to go back — a blizzard is building up, Shevchenko thought.

  Nobody tried to talk him out of leaving. Pulling his cap deeper onto his head and tying the ends of the bashlik tighter around his neck, he quickly walked toward Orsk.

  “Wait a minute, Taras Aga! I’ll give you a horse and see you off,” Jaisak said, rushing after him, but Shev­chenko did not turn round — either the wind had stifled Jaisak’s words, or Shevchenko did not want to heed him.

  The wind grew stronger and changed direction all the time as if it were performing a wild dance over the snow. A ground wind lashed across the steppe, swirling snow at the height of Shevchenko’s knees. Some twenty minutes later the snow was whipping around his waist. He seemed to be walking into a white river that was growing deeper and deeper. Far away on the horizon flashed the cross of the Orsk church, but it was quickly disappearing in the haze.

  He quickened his pace, but the racking pain in his knees and feet made him slow down.

  He plodded thus through the snow over an hour and suddenly noticed that dusk was falling and a gray mist had enveloped the sky. He summoned all the strength that was left in him, believing Orsk to be within a stone’s throw, but through the dense curtain of snow he did not see a single light blinking, while the frost chilled his body more and more. Exhausted and gasping, he stopped to regain his breath.

  This is the end, the thought flashed through his mind. But what I do not know yet is who will launch me into eternity: the wolves or the frost?

  “Taras Aga! Where have you disappeared to?” he sud­denly heard the voice of Jaisak from above. “Get on the horse. How could you have gone so far astray? It was only hounds which found you.”

  A horse’s head and over it the shaggy malakhai of Jaisak appeared out of the blizzard. The hounds sniffed the poet suspiciously all over. Jaisak led another saddled horse by the bridle.

  Shevchenko was short of words to thank his savior. He was so exhausted he could not get into the saddle. Jaisak slipped to the ground, helped Shevchenko up, hopped onto his own horse and urged it ahead at a trot, holding the poet’s horse by the bridle as before.

  “Oi boi, you just don’t know what place you’ve come to. You walked right into the saxaul grove swarming with wolves,” Jaisak said. “The shaitans must have led you astray. It was only your black cap I saw through the snow.”

  They had been riding at a trot for a good thirty minutes before they saw the first glimmering lights of Orsk. When they stopped at the barracks, Shevchenko barely slipped to the ground. His legs did not bend.

  “Come in and warm yourself,” Shevchenko invited Jai­sak. “You saved my life. Come in and drink some hot tea, because you, too, are stiff with cold.”

  “I can’t! There’s still the herd to take care of. There are a lot of wolves around,” Jaisak explained and jumped onto his horse. “So don’t forget, Taras Aga, to tell your mayirs to shoot the wolves. Without the mayirs we won’t be able to do it. Well, I’ll be going!”

  “Where have you been for so long, mon cher?” Kozlovsky said, on meeting Shevchenko. “At the clerk’s home I presume?”

  “I visited the Kirghiz, and went astray on my way back. One of their young men found me when I had wandered the hell knows where. I was already preparing myself for death,” Shevchenko said, sipping the scalding hot tea Kuzmich had brought him. “I thought the wolves would tear me to pieces.”

  “Do wolves really attack people?”

  “And what did you think?” Kuzmich retorted gruffly. “They’re fierce and as big as a six-month-old calf.”

  “Djantemir asked me to talk with the officers about staging a battue. But I doubt whether our Meshkov will agree,” Shevchenko said, concerned. “How can we make them interested in it?”

  Kozlovsky suddenly became wildly excited.

  “Thank God, mon cher, that there are wolves in this world! Don’t you realize what a fantastic opportunity is dropping into our laps?”

  Shevchenko looked at him, puzzled.

  “Why can’t you understand that this is our only chance to stop our betters picking on us for a long time to come?” Kozlovsky said angrily.

  “What has picking on us have to do with the wolves?”

  “Because it’s ‘You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.’” Kozlovsky exclaimed. “But you have to scratch delicately, cleverly, tactfully. A battue could simply be a fantastic thing! You go ahead and organize it. Our brother soldier who’ll be flushing the game with a will, apart from the army grub, he’ll get a shot of vodka, while the lord officers will get soaked with drink. Besides, every one of them will receive several wolf skins as hunting trophies, for a good half a year they’ll leave us in complete peace, and the main thing” — here he raised his index finger mean­ingfully — “keep their eyes shut to everything. Do you under­stand me now?”

  “First of all, I don’t understand anything about hunting, and so I won’t be able to organize the battue properly; sec­ondly, where should I get the money to buy all that booze? With the officers vodka won’t be enough: they are used to drinking rum and champagne.”

  “And what do you think Djantemir is for? It must be explained to him that such a service calls for a good treat for the officers and the beaters. The wolves gobble up two sheep every night. For the bai it’ll be less expensive spending ten sheep than losing a hundred by spring. As for me, I am an experienced hunter and will help you. With no reward whatsoever, that is, of course, except for the treat of vodka you’ll be offering everyone. In this case the chiefs will also leave me alone for a long time.” Shevchenko kept silent.

  “Let’s see Meshkov first thing tomorrow,” Kozlovsky in­sisted. “We’ll come to him not like soldiers but like mes­sengers from Djantemir and make Meshkov agree. I swear he’ll give his consent at once. From Meshkov we’ll go to Djantemir. Meshkov will also give us a horse for the sake of the future spree; we’ll appear at the bai’s as Meshkov’s representatives, so to speak, and explain to that fat hog that, firstly, he must provide us with as many beaters from the Kirghiz as he can so that we won’t have to chase the entire company out into the steppe, and secondly, he must provide enough food and drink for the officers and men. Then we’ll take along that Jarabek, or whatever you call him, and have a good look at the place where the wolves slink around; the next few days we’ll be busy preparing everything we need, buy the vodka, and take all that to Djantemir, because holding a boozing party in Orsk is out of the question. You’ll be in charge of the money and all the other arrangements, while I’ll be the chief huntsman.”

  “All right, I’ll think it over and let you know tomorrow morning,” the poet said at last, and when Kozlovsky walked away in his peculiar gait, Shevchenko took a pencil and a piece of candy paper out of his pocket, and got down to complex mathematical calculations.

  Of the money he had received from Lazarevsky and Lidia Andreievna he had thirty rubles left. After lengthy calcula­tions, hesitations, and talks with the former cook of the Isaievs, Shevchenko realized that the money would be enough to treat the officers and that Kozlovsky’s scheme was really a splendid opportunity to get rid of drill for some time at least.

  18

  The Battue

  In the morning, Shevchenko went with Kozlovsky to Meshkov’s home. The appearance of Shevchenko in the com­pany of Kozlovsky surprised the major tremendously, and he ordered both of them to be called to his study.

  “What is it you want to tell me?” he asked, coming out in a dressing gown to see them. “Why do you approach me, and not submit your report through proper channels?”

  As he said this, he kept glancing at Shevchenko with undisguised curiosity.

  “We’ve come here, y
our Excellency, not on private or the company’s’ business,” Shevchenko replied, standing stiff at attention. “Yesterday evening I was at the aul visiting Djantemir to listen to the singing of their akyn, and Djantemir asked me to pass on to your Excellency a request on his and the entire aul’s behalf that you help them do away with the wolves. The wolves are a real nuisance to the Kirghiz: every night they run down a horse, a couple of sheep or even more. They beg you to stage a big hunt, a battue… I gave it a thought with my comrade here,” Shev­chenko inclined his head toward Kozlovsky, “and decided to ask your Excellency’s permission to put on a big battue after the feast of the Epiphany. Our Cossacks also suffer a great deal from the wolves, which steal up to the horses in broad daylight. We suggest detailing fifty infantry, and having the Cossacks provide a hundred men for beaters. The aul of the Kirghiz will turn out as one man for the hunt. We’ll surround the valley in the saxaul grove where the wolves’ dens are. For the officers this will be a pleasant diversion, and for the people a great benefit: we’d shoot the gray brutes, and then go to the aul for a rest, a meal and drink lest the men, God forbid, catch a cold from the frost. Everything necessary will be arranged ahead of time. For the beaters there’ll be a meat pie and a shot of vodka, and Djantemir, for his part, will surely treat us to some mutton.”

  Meshkov’s eyes flashed with excitement. An approving smile spread across his lips and hid under his mustache, but for appearance’s sake he knit his brow, stood thought­fully for a while, and replied indecisively:

  “Yeah… killing wolves… is a very useful thing. I simply don’t know what to tell you… When do you intend going to that … what you call him… Djantemir again?”

  “We might as well go now. It’s a holiday. If only we have your permission, your Excellency.”