The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko

by Zinaida Tulub

  “Let him, if he wants,” Djantemir replied and went on thanking the officers for their visit.

  Rahim, dressed in a fine striped gown he was given to wear only on holidays, rode at Shevchenko’s side. When they were passing the black yurts and a gang of boys came running out of them, he called out something loud and derisive to them.

  “What did you say to them?” Shevchenko asked when the boys had fallen behind.

  “I told them that I was going on a visit to your place where you feed your guests well,” Rahim burst into laugh­ter. “They are always hungry and think only of food. So I just teased them.”

  On hearing such a reply, Butakov said, “So why don’t you help them? They are your relatives after all.”

  “Father said that if we were to feed all the hungry, there would be nothing left for ourselves,” he said, and his face colored. “In the summer they got the idea of separating from us. They were attacked by the Khivans and plundered. Now they have turned into real baigushes, but I am friends with Ismagul and Izgut and always give them mutton,” he added, lashed his horse, and dashed ahead.

  “Now here is what you tell those hoys the next time you meet them,” Butakov said sternly when Rahim was level with him again. “Let them come to us at Kosaral every day. We have our meals at midday — that is when the sun stands the highest in the sky. We will feed them.”

  “You will feed them?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes, we will feed them every day. Do you understand? Will you tell them?”

  “Oi boi!” Rahim jumped up in his saddle. “They’ll come for sure, because they all are hungry!”

  Suddenly his face beamed with such sincere joy it made Butakov smile as well.

  It was cold in the earth house. The fire in the little iron stove had died long ago. Shevchenko brought in an arm­ful of brushwood, a bundle of tumbleweed and several piec­es of dung, made a fire in the stove and put on it the eve­ning meal to warm.

  Rahim was not used to sitting on a stool, so he made himself comfortable on the floor by the stove.

  “Let me make up the fire, Taras Aga,” he said and start­ed deftly feeding the fire with pieces of tumbleweed and dung.

  Maksheiev stayed at the commandant’s home in Raïm for the night. Werner had also disappeared somewhere, and Shevchenko was left alone with the boy. He served him a plate of puffy buckwheat porridge. By custom Rahim ate with his fingers at first, but then he followed his host’s example and picked up a spoon.

  “Tomorrow morning I will draw you,” the poet said after the meal, and gave the boy a sheepskin coat. “Spread this on the floor and cover yourself with the other half.”

  The boy obediently put his “bedding” on the floor and was fast asleep a moment later.

  Shevchenko, however, stayed awake for a long time, the words of Nudatov gnawing at his heart. More than once he had blamed himself for his susceptibility to vodka or strong tea flavored with Jamaica rum which deadened the pain in his grief-stricken heart now and then. He had sin­cerely made friends with all the members of the expedition and taken a liking to them, but he could not forget that he was a bondsman and they were but temporary companions along his endless path of suffering. Any minute cruel life could throw him back into the filthy cesspool of the penal army barracks.

  The morning was bright and sunny. Hoar frost glittered on the reeds and shrubs. Pearly smoke rose over the stacks of the barracks, headquarters and the earth houses. In the sky a caravan of similar pearly white clouds drifted by high up.

  Shevchenko worked with inspiration. Rahim sat motionless, which made the artist’s work much easier. The nar­row, black eyes of Rahim looked at him thoughtfully and sadly. What the boy was thinking about Shevchenko could not know, but it seemed that the very soul of Asia was looking out of the eyes of its son.

  “It’s finished!” Shevchenko said at last and almost fell down on his cot: he had been working on the drawing for three hours without stopping.

  Rahim jumped to his feet, put on his striped gown, felt stockings and boots, girded himself, then he bowed deeply to Shevchenko and ran off to the stable for his horse.

  Shevchenko remained sitting in his earth house, his eyes fixed on the drawing.

  Maksheiev would not find any conventionality or embel­lishment in this picture now, he thought. There it was — the real truth of life.

  Thus unwittingly Shevchenko embarked on a new period in his work as a realist artist.

  24

  The Winterers

  Every day, about an hour and a half before the midday meal, Fort Kosaral was visited by a crowd of Kazakh chil­dren ranging in age from six — who barely minced along in their worn felt stockings — to lanky awkward teenagers of fourteen in tattered boots and sorry-looking short chapans, out of which their arms, red-blue from the cold, pro­truded almost from the elbows. They wore shaggy caps of fox or wolf fur which cast weird shadows on the snow. Each of them carried a wooden or earthenware bowl.

  On seeing them in the distance, the cook would say with a smile:

  “Here comes the horde in the raw. It’s amazing how they can tramp such a distance for a spoonful of porridge.”

  The distance from Kosaral to the aul by sleigh trail was quite long — about twelve versts, but the children did not go round the lakes or the big bend in the river: they just tramped across the ice-bound floodlands, stands of reed and inlets, making a considerable shortcut.

  While waiting for the meal, they huddled up to one another like frozen chicks, and to feel warmer burrowed themselves in the haystacks standing behind the mess and stable. But no sooner would they get a little bit warm than they started larking about, kicking and tumbling until a Cossack would shout at them, his eyes bulging with mock severity:

  “Hush, you naked panhandlers! Why do you fuss around in that hay? Or do you think it was cut specially for you?”

  The children would calm down at once and look at him either frightened or roguishly out of their slitty eyes, press­ing closer to one another to show how cold they were. When the frosts were bitter, the Cossacks occasionally invited them into the barracks. But mostly the children just sat in the hay, waiting until the “Rus aga,” that is, the Russian fa­ther, would open the door of the galley, as the men persist­ently called the mess, and ladle out the food. At such mo­ments they instantly flew across the yard like a flock of sparrows, and falling silent abruptly, modestly and almost piously lined up in front of the field kitchen. The cook poured each a full ladle of borshch into their bowls and added a hunk of cooked meal. They went to the wall, sat down on the ground, and scalding their lips and tongues, slurped the hot soup out of the bowls, after which they picked the meal and vegetables with their fingers and re­turned to the cook. He gave each a big serving of porridge. The children went again to the wall. When they finished eating the porridge, they thoroughly licked their bowls, hands and fingers.

  The sailors stood to one side, patiently waiting for their turn, as some with a look of sadness, and others, with a kind smile, watched the children eating their food with a serious mien. In many of the men the scene awakened the yearning for a family nest and warm parental feelings which nature plants in the heart of every human.

  During withering frosts and blizzards the children did not show up. The sailors would then go beyond the ram­part and look intently into the dense veil of swirling snow, alarm stealing over them: “What if they left the aul and the blizzard has overtaken them? The poor mites will freeze to death out there!”

  But the children proved to be keen-witted: several times they brought along their dogs from the aul and never ven­tured into the steppe without them in bad weather; the dogs remembered well the tasty bones the cook treated them to and led the children to the fort by the shortest route, and after a good meal, they guided the children back to the aul.

  The aul’s poor had met with disaster at the time the Constantine was drifting off Khiva’s shores. Offended and deceived by Djantemir, they decided to strike it
out on their own and left the terrible bai. In vain did Jaisak and Taijan try and persuade them to put up with the situation till spring and then wander to the Ishma or Irtysh where the Khiva plunderers did not roam. The hotheads would not listen to the good advice, believing that Jaisak was quite well off as Djantemir’s chief herder and so his advice did not come from a sincere enough heart. They took down their yurts, left the aul with their cattle, and were plundered by the Khivans several days later. Three men were killed and a dozen or so wounded in the fierce skirmish. They failed to retake their cattle, and having lost everything they could call their own, returned to Djantemir, begging his forgiveness and help.

  Djantemir did not accept them immediately and gave them paltry crumbs as alms, and on credit at that. The poor people had to submit to the harshest and most humil­iating terms to save their lives. Butakov’s help at that mo­ment came as a real godsend which saved the children from death.

  The mariners helped the Kazakhs as much as they could, sharing their last shirt with them or giving them a hand in fishing and hunting. Twice a week Istomin visited the aul to treat the sick, and prepared and administered the medi­cines himself.

  Butakov made the following entry in his diary during those days:

  “It is amazing how these hapless Kirghiz still exist. They dwell in wretched tents in which chilling winds freeze a man to the marrow. They go around in rags through which their naked bodies show, and in footwear which gets filled with snow. All our assistance will be but a drop in the sea unless a really strong power capable of defending them from the Khivans is established here.”

  Christmas was approaching. Everybody succumbed to a dolorous mood, recalling their childhood, the merry time of Christmas caroling, Christmas trees, and their kith and kin. And everyone wanted to share the recollections with his friends.

  Shevchenko keenly sensed the mood of the men, and even his personal anguish troubled him less than the air of sadness which clung about him like a mist. So when Butakov proposed to stage a play, Shevchenko supported him wholeheartedly.

  Werner and Shevchenko volunteered to stage the show and soon were carried away by the preparations for it. The experience Shevchenko gained in organizing the wolf chase the year before stood him in good stead now. First of all he and Werner devised a program for the show and then wrote a list of all the things they had to make themselves or, as Werner put it, “make from scratch,” after which they started seeking the “scratch.” Butakov immediately agreed to have them issued the old underwear and linen for the costumes and stage curtains. Bogomolov dug up some red and blue ink in his office. Istomin was so generous as to give them six white hare furs. The quartermaster-sergeant found some cardboard boxes and pieces of gold and silver braid. Maksheiev gave them a bottle of shoe lacquer. The cook came up with skins of an astrakhan sheep and of a black shaggy long-fleeced sheep. Chortorogov contributed a bear’s skin, and Shevchenko asked Jaisak for eagle’s feathers and Kumish’s old sleeveless jacket of velvet. In this way they also procured thread and glue — and plunged into work.

  Knowing that the mail would arrive soon, Shevchenko snatched some minutes from his hectic holiday preparations to write a letter to Lizohub, in which he frankly described his mood: “I cannot say that I am exactly happy, but I am cheerful at least now, and that means a lot to me: thus, gloomy sadness and despair have withered in me.”

  Shevchenko’s energy fired everybody. The “actors” du­tifully rehearsed their parts and perfected them to make their performance the more distinctive. In the meantime, Shevchenko had made a fantastic headdress out of the ea­gle’s feathers, and persuaded Istomin to perform an Indian dance to a weird melody which noncom Abizarov played on his guitar, assuring everybody that it was really an Indian dance tune. Of course, nobody succeeded in making him change his mind. Nonetheless, the number was a tremen­dous success.

  Two days before Christmas a dress rehearsal was held in Kosaral but without any makeup, because there was none really and Butakov had forbidden the deficient stock of water colors to be squandered for the rehearsal.

  A horseman was sent to Fort Raïm to say that the Kosa­ral garrison would descend on Raïm in a body with the show on the first day of Christmas.

  At midday the men set forth in four big paired sleighs, without waiting for the Cossacks who decided to take part in the performance at the last minute.

  Both the program of the show and the performers were a tremendous success with the audience. There was no end to the congratulations and thanks which Shevchenko and Butakov received for the interesting entertainment. The merry, though short spectacle, was followed up by a grand ball.

  The ball lasted to the third hour in the morning. Nobody dared return to Kosaral because of the wolves, so the resi­dents of Raïm took the officers into their homes, while the sailors and Cossacks slept the rest of the night in the bar­racks.

  On the third day of the holiday Raïm paid a return call to Kosaral with a group of musicians. The visit was followed by dinner, dances, and supper. Again there was merri­ment, laughter, a lot of drinking, and with all the bustle neither Shevchenko nor Werner or the other members of the expedition had any time to be sad.

  New Year was celebrated in a calm and modest way at Butakov’s quarters. The guests downed a goblet of cham­pagne, wished one another all the best in the New Year, and quietly retired to their quarters an hour later.

  Shevchenko marked this New Year by another little poem in which he noted that two years after he had been for­bidden to write he was still writing and embarked on the third year of his creativity at a happy moment.

  25

  Two Schemes

  Just at that time Djantemir unexpectedly summoned Jaisak.

  “Now listen,” he said to the young herder, after making sure that nobody was eavesdropping on them. “In a month or a month and a half Shauken will bear me a child. If it is a son, I will hold a big toi and baiga. Pick the best two-and three-year-old horses out of the herd and start breaking them, and then train them to run long quick races. I pin my hopes upon you. But mind you — let not a single soul guess that you are preparing the horses for a baiga. We will announce it not months but just weeks before it starts. Everybody will enter his mount just like it is, while we …he-he-he! Then my horses will be the first to finish, and my fame will again spread across the whole steppe.”

  “All right, I will do it,” Jaisak said laconically. “But I’ll need a strong helper. Besides, give me one of your sons for an assistant. And we’d need also arms in case we run into the Khivans.”

  “Take Taijan and Rahim, but mind they don’t wag their tongues,” Djantemir added sternly, and called Rahim.

  “Did you call me, ata?” the boy asked, slightly alarmed, because his father mostly called his children to punish rather than say a kind word to them.

  “Yes, I called you. Enough of you traipsing around and doing nothing. You’ll be breaking horses together with Jai­sak. But I warn you: if you say a word about it to anyone, I’ll skin you alive! Understand?” He raised his fist. “Keep your mouth shut like a sheep’s head cooked in rice. If Shauken bears a son, there’ll be a big toi and baiga.”

  A light flashed in Rahim’s eyes but faded the next in­stant.

  “And what if it will be a girl?” he asked. “Baibishe says that there are more girls being born now than boys.”

  “If it will be a girl, there’ll be a baiga anyway, but not now — a little later during Kuljan’s wedding. It’s high time we got over that accursed affair.” Djantemir grew angry suddenly.

  Jaisak and Taijan saw through Djantemir’s scheme.

  “In this case, too, that jackal wants to fill his pockets,” Jaisak cursed. “He’ll fool the poor folk again.”

  “No doubt about it! Other bais, at the joy of a son being born to them, invite the entire steppe to a baiga, and even if their horses win, they give away a flock of sheep as a prize,” Taijan said with a wry smile.

  “He’ll arrange things so t
hat everyone will have to pay for the right to enter a horse in the race,” Jaisak said, spit­ting with disgust. “And the prizes he’ll take away for himself. The only good thing is that he allowed me to try my luck.”

  “We’ll outtrick that crook,” Taijan said with a guffaw. “Hush! Don’t rejoice ahead of time,” the superstitious Jaisak stopped him and changed the subject of the conver­sation on seeing Rahim in the distance.

  But the boy knew more than Jaisak realized. When he was alone with Jaisak, Rahim spoke out bluntly:

  “Don’t hide anything from me, Jaisak. I know every­thing. Kuljan has already wept a lot because of that dratted wedding. If Ibrai dies, she will wither completely with that ugly old man Moldabai for a husband. You must get rich by all means. Your horses must be the first to finish the race. One thing will add up to another. She loves you, Jai­sak. And I, too, want her to be your wife and not leave our aul forever, because I cannot, do you hear — I just cannot part with her!”

  Jaisak only heaved a desolate sigh. Rahim had spoken so sincerely and passionately that Jaisak realized that Kul­jan had become a second mother to the boy, and moved, he silently embraced him.

  “Good, I’ll help you,” Rahim whispered with ardor. “You must know that I am also a brother to you and a real friend.”

  Jaisak and Taijan started breaking in the future racers. They were skillfully experienced and exceptionally good horsemen, but for all his strength and agility, the heavy Tai­jan was twice thrown out of the saddle on the very first day. Fortunately for him, he tumbled both times into a snow pile which had become slightly compressed after a recent thaw. The snow cushioned the blow, and he did not break any bones. Jaisak was much lighter and lither than Taijan. He was thrown out of the saddle only once and did not hurt himself, falling into a ditch filled with snow. But on impact the shock registered in his shoulder which the wolves had mauled the year before, and he had to ride to the aul and stay there for three days.