The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko

by Zinaida Tulub

  It rolled in a mighty wave along the Syr Darya right to the charted shores of this already explored but so far desolate churning Blue Sea.

  32

  Among Friends

  “Taras Grigorievich, my dear fellow! Can it really be you? I can’t believe my eyes!” Serhiy Levitsky exclaimed enthu­siastically, not letting his dear poet out of his embrace.

  “It’s me; honest to God it’s me,” Shevchenko said cheer­fully, screwing up his eyes. “It took us over a month to get here.”

  “Take your coat off. You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you again!” Levitsky rushed over, helped him out of a flimsy coat, and took his broad-brimmed hat of wool felt which the poet had acquired in Raïm. “You must be fro­zen? Sit down here by the stove.”

  “Wait a minute, old chap,” Shevchenko stopped him. “First of all let me introduce you to my friend Ksenofont Yegorovich Pospelov, navigator and sailing master of the schooner Nicholas, and this,” he turned to Pospelov, “is the Serhiy Levitsky I have been telling you so much about.”

  Levitsky shook hands with the handsome young mariner: “It is a pleasure to meet you! Be seated please. Excuse me for the mess in the room. My landlady calls it a ‘typical bachelor’s den.’” He bustled around, trying to impart some semblance of order to the “den.”

  Levitsky picked up a heap of newspapers from a chair, threw them into a wardrobe, pushed two chairs toward the guests, cleared the table of dirty glasses, wine bottles and an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, shoved all that behind the door into Axinia’s hands, exclaiming now and again: “Oh my, 1 couldn’t have thought you’d be here to­day. All right, tell me how you sailed.”

  “And where is Fedir?” Shevchenko asked, looking around the room and noticing at once that Lazarevsky’s bed was all too accurately made up.

  “He is away on business. I waited for him from morning till late into the night yesterday. Maybe he will arrive to­day. The Kirghiz are getting into quarrels and squabbles, looting and stealing sheep, and we have to fuss with their complaints. So where did you spend last night?”

  “At the fortress together with the sailors, and the first thing we did in the morning was shave, have our hair clipped, go to the bathhouse — and then directly to you,” Shevchenko said. “The town’s become a strange place. I was asked for my passport at the traveler’s inn, and what kind of passport can a soldier have! So we came to you, if you won’t chase me out.”

  “Wonderful! Great! It’s good you’ve come!” Levitsky said, jumping to his feet. “Axinia! Bring the samovar! And something to eat, too!”

  He quickly shoved some copper coins into her hand and sat down opposite the guests again.

  “Our room, as you see, is big and warm. Recently the landlady agreed at last to let us the adjoining room as well. The door to it is over there behind the sofa. I was just waiting for Fedir to move in. I must have decent quarters now: no more am I an assistant, but an admin­istrator with the rank of collegiate assessor.”

  “That’s fine! Accept my congratulations. And what about Fedir?”

  Levitsky faltered abruptly. He could not tell Shevchenko outrightly that Lazarevsky’s name had been struck off the promotion list because of his “inordinately and tactlessly emphasized friendship with the political exile Private Taras Shevchenko,” as the supervisor of the border commission had put it in his report.

  “Fedir holds his old office so far, but we hope that fortune will also be kind to him before the year is out. But tell me at last about your voyage and wanderings. Have you come across anything interesting? What are your plans for the future?”

  “We still don’t believe we are alive after that voyage. We went hungry, suffered immensely from thirst and lack of firewood, chewed musty rusks with cold wafer, ate maggot-infested corned beef and porridge of moldy millet,” Shevchenko said, knitting his shaggy brows, a cunning smile sparkling in his narrowed eyes.

  “Oh, my God!” Levitsky gasped from horror. “Was that really so?”

  He believed, and at the same time was reluctant to believe what he was told, his eyes straying confusedly from Shev­chenko to Pospelov and back.

  “All sorts of things happened,” Pospelov said with a smile. “A sea voyage without them is just impossible.”

  “But we had wonderful moments, too,” Shevchenko con­tinued, “when we suddenly came across unknown islands with mountains and forests, cozy inlets and springs with fresh, cool water, didn’t we? Oh yes, we did! Ksenofont Yegorovich, remember the night during the calm off the Khivan shore, when the moon rose out of the sea like some magic flower out of the primordial chaos.”

  “Indeed, the moon was of a weirdly orange hue,” Pospe­lov added. “You’ll see for yourself how beautifully Taras Grigorievich conveyed it in his painting The Moonrise! It’s a wonderful canvas! But in it the sky is cloudless; when it is a little bit misty the moon turns into something really fabulous.”

  In the meantime Axinia had served breakfast, and the hungry travelers made their jaws work diligently. Once his hunger had abated, Shevchenko pushed his plate aside and asked:

  “Are there any letters for me?” On hearing that there were none, he grew sad. “How come? Hasn’t there really been anything since spring?”

  “There were two letters from Sedniv, one from Yahotin, and another from St. Petersburg.”

  “So where are they?”

  “Fedir sent them immediately to Alexandriysky in Orsk as you asked him.”

  “On my way to Orsk 1 dropped in to his place, but he was away on business somewhere. So where might those letters be?” Shevchenko reflected bitterly. “What if he sent them to Raīm?”

  Levitsky shrugged his shoulders, upset.

  “I’d be glad to tell you, but I don’t know anything. Don’t be so nervous about it. Since you are here, a thousand versts closer to your homeland, write everyone a letter and you will get an answer within a month. Better tell me about your personal problems, if that’s no secret.”

  At this Levitsky imperceptibly gestured with his eyes at Pospelov, as if asking whether the guest could be trusted.

  Shevchenko waved his band in the affirmative.

  “Mine is a roamer’s fate,” he replied with a bitter smile. “Butakov recommended me for a noncom rank for my work on his expedition, but I still have to finish all the drawings I did. All of them will be sent to St. Petersburg to the czar. My friends hope that I will be pardoned then. So far I’ll have to work persistently. Today is Sunday. I’ll have a rest, and tomorrow I report to Butakov. Oh, if you only knew what a wonderful person he is! Isn’t he, Ksenofont Yegorovich?”

  “Indeed, a person of rare modesty, industry and feeling,” Pospelov concurred.

  “Well, if you have to get up early in the morning, go to bed and have a good sleep after the journey,” Levitsky suggested. “I have to go to town for a while. Make your­self comfortable. Both beds are at your disposal, and when I’m back we’ll move into the second room.”

  “Go to sleep, Ksenofont Yegorovich, while I read the newspapers; I’ve missed the news horribly!” Shevchenko said. “Tell me briefly at least what’s going on in France!” he stopped Levitsky. “Lizohub wrote to me about the revol­ution there, but it was back in spring. What’s happening in Paris now?”

  “They’ve got a republic, and everything’s cooled down. But you won’t find a single word about it in our press, except for the trials and death sentences dealt out to the leaders of the June uprising. Anyway, I haven’t kept track of those events.”

  “And what’s up in Hungary?”

  “They had an uprising there, too, in the spring. It was quickly quashed, though. Our troops under Paskevich were thrown in to help the Austrian Emperor, the Hungarians were surrounded and forced to capitulate.”

  “Damn!” Shevchenko said. “It’s dire news!”

  Then he glanced at the clock and reached for his cap.

  “I’m off to the Gerns. The hell with the newspapers. I’ll have my fill of r
eading them yet. Tomorrow it’s down to work, and today I have to call on my friends.”

  “I’m really going to bed,” Pospelov said. “Don’t be away too long, because I’ll feel uneasy being alone in another man’s home,” he added, taking off his uniform.

  Gern himself opened the door.

  “So here you are at last, our famous seafarer!” he greeted the poet cheerfully. “1 had been expecting you yesterday. Butakov told me that you were to arrive with the supply train,” Gern said, inviting the guest to his study. “Zosia is out shopping, and I’m alone at home. Well, let me have a look at you.”

  His keen eye immediately saw the bags below the poet’s eyes, the thinned hair over his lofty “socratic” forehead, and the wrinkles above the jaws.

  “Time flies by and leaves its traces on man,” he said seriously. “On the whole, you don’t look bad. I’m satisfied.”

  Gern had also changed throughout these two years. The first streaks of gray showed on his temples. Two deep wrin­kles furrowed the bridge of his nose.

  “You don’t seem to be in a good mood,” Shevchenko remarked with alarm.

  “Oh, my friend, it’s because of intrigues, gossip and scheming against me,” Gern said with disgust. “I’m simply sick of it all! If, apart from this house, I were to have any other property, I wouldn’t have given a straw for my service and got myself discharged.”

  “Scheeming against you?” Shevchenko asked, sincerely surprised. “What for? For what ridiculous reason?”

  “It’s an old and nasty story! Putting it briefly, prior to Obruchev we had Perovsky as governor. He was a great friend of our current monarch and thus carved out a spec­tacular career for himself. They say that he advised the czarina to roll the guns out into Senate Square on the fourteenth of December. Perovsky was then transferred to Orenburg. The rebellion of the Kirghiz under Isatai Taimanov was repressed by him with steel and blood — rivers of blood, as a matter of fact. Quite a few of our soldiers met their death running the gauntlet when he was around. On the whole, torturers, embezzlers, and all sorts of shady characters lived in clover under his rule, whereas honest, intelligent and humane officers stayed cooped up in the guardhouse for weeks on end. He surrounded himself with people of his own ilk. He was forced to leave because of the infamous Khivan campaign which took the lives of many of our men, and in place of this typical satrap, Obruchev was appointed governor. For all the outward signs of respect, Perovsky’s former associates hate Obru­chev and scheme against him in every way possible. But it is very difficult to discredit him. First of all, Obruchev is an honest, decent and modest man. He sensed right away that he lacked support here, and that led to a reshuf­fle: some he relieved, others he had court-martialed, and still others promoted to win them over to his side. And like every administrator who finds himself in a surrounding he does not know well, he started staffing his office with his people — so now there is fierce and uncompromising contention between the people of Obruchev and Perovsky. On the face of it, everything looks wonderful: polite greet­ings, amicable smiles, visits, congratulations, but deep in their hearts these people are ready to cut each other’s throats. Pretexts for the contention are galore. War is waged for every office, every decoration and rank, every promotion; even for invitations to a ball, stately banquets, or a reception. Those who are richer behave independently, but for us whose service is the only source of livelihood it is incredibly difficult. As an aide responsible for special missions, I have to be in the thick of this brawl all the time. What makes it especially difficult for me is that Obruchev can be easily swayed by the first influence he is subjected to. He is too soft and doesn’t have one deter­mined policy, which makes it difficult to guess how this or that case I take up might end. Oh, let them all go to hell!” Gern concluded. “You have enough of your own troubles to take care of. Better tell me how you fared in Orsk and on Butakov’s expedition.”

  Shevchenko started his story with Meshkov misunder­standing the message from Fedyaev and Gern’s letter. Then, after describing his life in the barracks, he gratefully re­membered the daughters of General Isaiev, told about his illness, Alexandriysky’s sympathetic treatment, and finally outlined his travel across the steppe and desert, his first and second voyage, and the winter at Kosaral. He also commented on Butakov whom he had taken a great liking to and respected profoundly.

  “He produced a good impression on me too,” Gern re­marked, offering Shevchenko a cigarette. Lighting it from Gern’s cigar, the poet asked:

  “Tell me what is going on in the world. Levitsky told me that Paris and Hungary had been put on their knees, and this morning I heard from the Poles that Western Europe regards Russia as a world gendarme. An accurate definition, I must say. But what goes on in our country now? In St. Petersburg? In Ukraine? In the Caucasus? And, the main thing, what’s up in our fiction?”

  “Unfortunately, there is not much good news. You must have heard already about Belinsky’s death, haven’t you?”

  “What! Belinsky dead? What an irreparable loss!” Shev­chenko exclaimed with sincere grief. “When did it happen?”

  “He died on the twenty-sixth of May last year in St. Pe­tersburg. There is only one consolation in his death — it saved him from becoming a political convict for his letter to Gogol.”

  “What letter? I don’t know absolutely anything about it. Please tell me everything, just everything.”

  “It was a letter written in response to Gogol’s latest book Selected Excerpts from the Correspondence with Friends.”

  “A disgusting and dishonorable book!” Shevchenko re­marked. “Excuse me for interrupting you. So what did Belinsky write on this account?”

  “It was not a letter but more of a destructive condemna­tion pronounced against Gogol for betraying the glorious traditions of our progressive literature and public thought, and for trying to justify obscurantism, serfdom, embezzle­ment of public funds, theft and bribery. Every single word of Belinsky’s lashed out and burned like a fire.”

  “But… could it really have been published?”

  “Of course not! Belinsky wrote it abroad in Salzburg where the doctors had sent him for treatment. The letter is being passed from hand to hand in thousands of copies now. Belinsky called for the immediate emancipation of the serfs, for universal education, and wrote about the consti­tution and a republican social system. It’s not a letter, but a Marseilaise rousing for an armed uprising to gain free­dom, a hymn of the future revolution!”

  “My God! I wish I could read it! Isn’t there anyone in Orenburg who has a copy of it?”

  “You could find one probably. But for a political exile as you are it would be extremely dangerous having it on you and even mentioning in conversations ever hearing about it or having read it. Haven’t you heard what happened to Petrashevsky and his circle?”

  “Absolutely nothing. My dear Karl Ivanovich, you are forgetting where I have been. I’m over two years behind life.”

  “You are right. Well, Petrashevsky was arrested this spring, along with everybody who had ever visited him.”

  “What for? What were they accused of?”

  “Nobody knows anything so far. All sorts of contradic­tory rumors are making their rounds. But, incidentally, everyone says that the letter was read aloud at his home and circulated in handwritten copies. The trial has not been held yet. All of them are confined in the Peter and Paul Fortress. More and more searches and arrests are being authorized in St. Petersburg all the time. People are getting panicky, what with the extremely difficult and bad times. France and Hungary have been crushed, but an uprising against the Austrian yoke is about to break out in Italy. Our muzhiks are rebelling. In the Caucasus there is a war against the highlanders. All this taken together has frightened our government so much it is tightening the noose around the neck of our hapless Rus­sia remorselessly, and I don’t see a gleam of hope for the future.”

  Shevchenko had a feeling as if a draft had chilled him. Could he count on be
ing freed under such circumstances? It was not news of this kind he had expected from Gern! He recalled how Mombelli had invited him to Petrashevsky’s Fridays and told him that the soirees drew progressive people who openly exchanged thoughts about the books they read, delivered lectures, and argued about the future of Russia. Was Mombelli apprehended too?

  “Karl Ivanovich, tell me who, apart from Petrashevsky, was arrested?” Shevchenko asked after a lengthy pause.

  Gern threw the cigar into the ashtray, but then he picked it up again and pulled on it deeply. The conversation had visibly agitated him.

  “I don’t remember much. Among the arrested was the young writer Dostoyevsky, Maikov, Mombelli, Speshnev. Also, the poet Pleshcheiev. Maybe I’ll recall somebody else later on.”

  Shevchenko dropped his head sadly: he had known Plesh­cheiev as well.

  “I beg of you: don’t breathe a single word on this subject even in my home” Gern said. Apart from friends, I am always visited by all sorts of people in my line of duty. And 1 have enemies overt and covert enough and to spare.”

  “It’s like the times of the ‘Holy Inquisition,’ when parents were afraid of their children, husbands of the wives, chil­dren of parents and all of them of the neighbors, acquaint­ances, relatives and friends.”

  “It is,” Gern agreed. “By the way, I had a talk about you with Butakov. There is an unoccupied outhouse in my yard, with two little rooms, a kitchen and entrance hall. The building is of wood — dry and warm. Alexei Ivanovich told me that you needed a studio and some living quarters. So settle here. In the loft there are some pieces of furniture, though they’re not new. I’ll have my batman clean the rooms and stoke the stove for you every day. Breakfasts and dinners you will have together with us. My wife will be very glad to have you around.”