“Thank you very much, but I have already put up at Lazarevsky and Levitsky’s home. They’ll be offended mortally if I leave them. But the idea about the studio is fine, although Butakov wanted me to work at the headquarters.”
“There isn’t a spare cranny there now. So don’t hurry to turn down my offer, and mind the proverb: ‘He that will not when he may, when he will he shall have nay,’” Gern said with a mild laugh.
“All right, I’ll remember that one,” Shevchenko replied with a laugh as well. “You know,” he added ironically, “for all the dark and gloomy horizons, I still see a bit of blue sky in the hope of being promoted to a noncom.”
He gave Gern such a slyly cunning wink it made the host burst into a roar of laughter.
Much as Gern tried to talk him into staying longer, Shevchenko took his leave and hurried to his friends.
Walking down the streets of Orenburg, Shevchenko was beset with joyless thoughts. What he had learned from Gern overwhelmed him, and sadness crept into his heart again.
Suddenly he recalled that Maksheiev had also been acquainted with Petrashevsky and taken part in the circle’s heated arguments about the destiny of Russia and the peoples of the East. Would the bloody paw of the Third Department snatch him from life here in Orenburg as well? Or would his moving from the capital into the provinces save him from arrest and penal servitude after all? The authorities must have attached no mean importance to the case of Petrashevsky since even Gern, usually a levelheaded man, had told about it with such agitation. Shevchenko had to write to Lazarevsky who had been transferred to St. Petersburg and promoted to a considerable office, and he also had to warn Maksheiev.
His thoughts whirled wildly through his head. First of all he had to calm down and steady his nerves. That was the first thing he usually did when his heart was upset. He turned into a barren and solitary boulevard, sat down on a bench, and sat there with closed eyes for a long time.
The sharp pain from the blow of fate that had struck his heart cruelly at first had already abated. The rudeness, dirt and misery of a soldier’s life now seemed to him not a nightmare, but a disgusting, albeit common detail. That was not the main thing. The main thing was that now he knew as never before that not only progressive individuals who understood the essence of social relations, but even common and politically inexperienced people could well distinguish a criminal and villain from a martyr. The people did not hold in contempt a fighter, neither when he was a political convict shackled with jingling fetters, nor when he was forced into the army as a soldier. The people knew…
“Yes, that’s exactly how it is!” Shevchenko said aloud and rose from the bench.
Pospelov and Levitsky were waiting for Shevchenko for dinner. They had only eaten half of the meal when bells jingled outdoors and Fedir Lazarevsky jumped from a tarantass.
“Fedir’s come!” Levitsky rushed outdoors to him. “Fedir, Fedir, Taras Grigorievich has returned!” he shouted.
“Really?! Well, that’s a surprise and joy!” Lazarevsky ran up to Shevchenko and enclosed him in an emotional embrace. “At long last! Have you come for good or only for a while?”
“I don’t know. I’ll be living here some time, and then we’ll see.”
“You’ve grown stronger,” Shevchenko said with warmth in his voice, as Lazarevsky was taking off his dusty cloak and woolen cloth overcoat.
“I’m as dirty as a cat that’s been roving around lofts and roofs,” he said to Shevchenko, glancing quizzically at Pospelov who had tactfully stepped aside.
Shevchenko introduced them to each other, then Lazarevsky left to wash himself, came back dressed in a house jacket shortly after, and joined them at the table.
By and by the conversation revolved around topics of common interest. Everyone was happy at this unexpected and desired meeting. And Shevchenko cheered up.
Next morning at nine o’clock, promptly on the hour, Shevchenko arrived at the headquarters to report to Butakov.
“I thought I’d find you a room for a studio here at the headquarters, but it did not come out,” Butakov said right away. “All the rooms are occupied, and it would be impossible for you to work in the general office: everyone would be looking into your album, you’d be made to wear a uniform and jump to attention every time an officer entered the room. I’ve rented an outhouse at the Gerns for you.”
“Thank you, but Ksenofont Yegorovich and I have already put up at my friends Levitsky and Lazarevsky.”
“Oh? Wonderful then. Have your living quarters wherever you wish, but take the outhouse for the studio. With your friends there is a homey comfort, whereas in the studio you’ll have quiet and everything else you need for work. Finish your drawings, adding the final touches to them. We’ll have them glued on Whatman paper, make a gorgeous album, and send it as a present to the czar on his saint’s day on the sixth of December, so work energetically and fast.”
“Aye-aye!” Shevchenko replied in marine fashion and snapped to attention.
“I, too, am in a hurry to finish my charts — geographic, hydrographic, topographic and nautical. I also want to make a weather and physiographic map, but I’m afraid I won’t have the time for them. Then there is the report to prepare for the Geographic Society and the full description of the Aral Sea for the war ministry. So I’ll be laying my shoulder to the wheel pretty hard. In case of any unforeseen difficulties, see me here or, still better, at my home. I advise you not to make your civvies an eyesore for the superiors. Here is my address” — he gave him a slip of paper — “and drop in whenever you can. I’ve become used to all the expedition members during these two years and, to tell you the truth, took a liking to you. Give me your address as well because it’s a long way to the Gems’.”
Shevchenko’s heart missed a beat.
“Permit me, dear Alexei Ivanovich, on behalf of my compatriots and of myself and Pospelov, to invite you to our place. I and Ksenofont, and all the crew… we took a liking to you as to someone dear, and the voice of the people is the voice of God.”
Butakov blushed, giving an embarrassed smile, thanked him for the invitation in a simple and warm way, and then switched to his usual businesslike tone of voice:
“So that you finish everything in time I’ll have an artist from the exiled Poles sent to you for help. He will come tomorrow to the Gerns. Well, good luck.”
When Shevchenko was already opening the door, Butakov suddenly stopped him.
“Wait a minute, Taras Grigorievich. You might not know, but during the spring last year an inquiry about your behavior, current views and health arrived from St. Petersburg. Governor Obruchev and General Fedyaev asked Meshkov and the local doctors about you. I do not know the reason for the inquiry, but I am sure that someone is interceding for you. Meshkov gave you a wonderful reference which was signed by the local authorities and sent to St. Petersburg. There is no response to it so far. But the important thing is that according to the conclusion of the medical commission, you suffer from a heart disease and have thus been transferred to noncombatant service.”
“What does that mean?” Shevchenko asked.
“If you were to meet with usual army circumstances or a campaign, you will be relieved of drill or combat. They might make you work in an office, a hospital, or as a mess attendant. And since you are an exile and already work in the capacity of artist, your illness is yet another serious reason for your being pardoned.”
“Well, I’ll have to thank fate for this turn, too,” the poet responded with a sad smile.
33
An Artist From the Capital
Sophia Ivanovna Gern loved company. Apart from her exiled Polish compatriots, the Gerns entertained a lot of acquaintances — from old retired generals to young ensigns just out of military school.
She also liked to have herself considered a connoisseur of art, although she actually understood little about it, and all her raptures or carelessly mocking opinions about a book, a play or the perform
ance of an actor were appropriated from the thoughts of others. She praised what everyone else praised and evaded any conversation about something new until she heard the judgment of a real connoisseur. These innocent ruses helped her gain the fame of a cultured woman with a refined taste and artistic flair.
Whenever she met a real actor, artist or some famous violinist or pianist, she liked to play the part of a patron and really helped the touring performer sell tickets for the concerts or collect money for a sick actor.
On learning that Shevchenko would be living in her outhouse, she made the batman Guriy bring from the loft an old but decent enough settee, two soft armchairs, a number of chairs, and a large table on which Shevchenko could put his drawings and draft boards. She herself hung clean white curtains on the window, placed an ashtray and decanter on the table, and lined the shelves with some tableware so that the poet could have something to brew himself tea in or prepare a light repast.
Shevchenko thanked the Gerns heartily for their care, and immediately started unpacking his treasures.
The Gerns had their afternoon meal at four o’clock. On the first day Shevchenko was carried away by his work so much he forgot about meal time, and Karl Ivanovich himself had to come and invite him to the table.
“How did you exist in that primeval Kosaral?” Sophia Ivanovna asked during the meal. “I can imagine it on a ship, but how was it in the winter quarters?”
“Sometimes I had my meals at the fort with our infantrymen, but mostly we ate in our earth house, because we ‘mariners’ were serviced by the ship’s cook on land as well. Frequently I visited my acquaintances at Raïm or dropped in to the local sutler. He was a shrewd character keeping a store and something like a canteen where his customers were given more to drinking than to eating, although I could always get some hot food there.”
“But I don’t think the sutler treated you gratis? You had to have money, didn’t you?”
Shevchenko involuntarily drew a sigh, recalling how difficult it had been to come by that accursed money.
“Occasionally I painted portraits,” he replied after a pause. “But the people there were not rich, and so there was not much money they could offer. I charged ten rubles a portrait.”
“Ten rubles? Incredible! Did you hear, Karl? Ten rubles a portrait! And in oils, I suppose?”
“Of course not. In water colors, but sometimes with a mixture of white lead and India ink on colored paper. It came out not too bad, you know.”
“But it was for a song anyway,” Sophia Ivanovna kept repeating. “Oh well, we will find you customers here. And not from the poor category. I will take care of that myself.”
“But don’t you tell anybody that Taras Grigorievich charged so little,” Gern remarked, knowing too well the garrulity of his Zosia. “This case needs a different approach: say, a famous painter from St. Petersburg has shown up in town. He graduated from the Academy of Fine Arts where he studied under the glorious Brüllow, he has painted portraits of Prince and Princess Repnin, Princess Keikuatova and many others. So here is an occasion to have yourself painted on canvas.”
“Why are you lecturing me? I know how to go about it!” Sophia Ivanovna said angrily. “You can rely on me, Taras Grigorievich: I will find customers for you, but for the present would you please give me your plate. This cold boiled pork has come out fine, I believe.”
The days of a new life ensued. In the morning, after a hastily drunk cup of tea, Shevchenko hurried to his studio, and almost simultaneously with him came his assistant; Bronislaw Zaleski, or simply Bronek, was Werner’s friend, a fact which drew the two men close together right from their first meeting.
Zaleski was five years Shevchenko’s junior. The son of a physician from Vilnius, he graduated from a Gymnasium, enrolled in the University of Dorpat and during his second year of studies became an active member of a clandestine students’ society. The society was exposed; Zaleski was arrested and exiled to Chernihiv. Two years later he was granted permission to finish his studies at the University of Kharkiv, after which he returned to Vilnius where he entered the civil service. Some time later he was arrested again and forced into the army as a private in a line battalion of the Orenburg Military District.
He had never been an artist, but he loved painting and had studied drawing since his school days. Persistent that he was in this pursuit, he became a wonderful copyist, excelling in drawing intricate ornaments, masks and human heads. He had a keen grasp of outlines and drew highlights so softly and evenly as if he were using not a pencil but India ink and brush; but no composition or color scheme turned out well in whatever he drew. Zaleski simply made a clean breast of it to Shevchenko. From the outset Shevchenko employed his skills in working graphic details, and took upon himself the more complex work necessitating creative flight. His vivid visual memory retained all the highlights he had to add to his sketches and the distinctive features of the local color schemes, and now he colored every drawing, inundating it with dazzling light, a secret he had learned during his studies at the Academy of Arts, for which his fellow students called him a “Russian Rembrandt.”
Most of the time they worked in silence. Shevchenko hummed some barely audible song, but sometimes they threw aside their pencils and brushes from exhaustion and suddenly plunged into a long, sincere conversation, in which each found a response to his own feelings and a tender sadness of recollection and painful regret for his ruined life and bold hopes.
During the first days Shevchenko mostly asked Bronek about life at Orenburg, the horrible cholera that had almost devastated the town, and about other exiles.
“Bronek, do you have anything new and significant to read?” he asked Zaleski on the fourth day of their acquaintance. “1 was cut off from the developments in fiction for almost three years, and so 1 lag behind them like a resurrected corpse.”
“I don’t have anything at the present moment,” he said, blushing as if he were to blame for not having a book. “But I’ll be visiting the library today. What is it that you want to read?”
“What library are you talking about?” Shevchenko asked in surprise. “Is there really such a thing as a soldiers’ library in this place?”
“There is one for the officers at the headquarters, but soldiers also get something from it occasionally. But I visit the local public library. It’s got all the best journals and almost all the books that are published in St. Petersburg, Moscow and elsewhere. There are even some of our Warsaw publications.”
“How did you manage to subscribe to it? For us soldiers it’s strictly off limits. Why, you must have been asked for your passport for this purpose.”
“It’s prohibited for sure. The librarian is an exile just like us, but only a civilian. I visit him after closing hours. He quarters at the library and has never refused to put aside a good and new book for me. Let’s visit him this evening. By the way, he’s read your Kobzar, so you’ll have anything you wish.”
“My greatest thanks!” Shevchenko said, overjoyed. “Now let’s pick up the laboring oar quick: we’ve got mountains of work to do!”
When dusk descended, Bronek prepared to leave, while Shevchenko usually went to the Gerns for the evening meal or walked to his friends, where Axinia always left the best morsel of food for him. That evening, however, he finished his meal quickly and then hurried to Cathedral Square where Bronek was waiting for him.
The librarian opened the door at once, and drew back in confusion on seeing Shevchenko standing behind Bronek.
“Don’t be afraid,” Bronek said, smiling. “This is my and Werner’s Friend Taras Shevchenko, the famous Little-Russian poet. Just like me he cannot visit you in the daytime. So greet him and give him the best book you have.”
The librarian asked them politely inside, offered Shevchenko a chair, and asked what he would like to read.
“I am three years behind the events in fiction,” the poet explained. “Let me have the best from what has appeared within t
his time. I have to catch up with life.”
The librarian started putting on the table book after book. The sheer amount of them made Shevchenko confused; in the end, he chose a set of the Otechestvenniye zapiski for 1847 and White Nights by Dostoyevsky for the simple reason that he had heard this new name for the first time among the others whom the gendarmes arrested along with Petrashevsky and Mombelli.
In the meantime, Zaleski had also chosen some books for himself, and after thanking the pleasing librarian, they left.
In the evenings, Shevchenko and Pospelov stayed at home. Pospelov played chess with Levitsky or told about his voyages around the world. He was overjoyed to see new books which were read and discussed by all of the friends throughout the subsequent evenings. Gern dropped in on them, too. Then Butakov started frequenting their home, since he had no acquaintances in Orenburg at all. He felt like a stranger in this town, and only in the friendly circle of his former assistants did his soul really feel at home.
Shevchenko took to reading greedily: apart from poetry, novels and stories, he carefully studied the scholarly articles and critiques, followed the developments in international politics, and did not skip a single section of the thick literary monthlies. He almost learned by heart the review on Humboldt’s Cosmos, read with interest about the inventors who had so far failed in developing an electric lamp, and even asked the librarian for a textbook on physics, considering that he also had to have an idea about this science since it was studied at secondary schools.
During his first days in Orenburg Shevchenko sent a letter to Lizohub, asking him to write in great detail about life in Ukraine, their common friends, and the fate of the members of the Brotherhood of Cyril and Methodius. At that time Lazarcvsky gave him the letter from Varvara Repnina which he received for Shevchenko in 1848 when the poet was away with the expedition. In it, the princess implored Lazarevsky that he inform her of Shevchenko’s whereabouts and his life.
The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko Page 40
