The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko

by Zinaida Tulub

Gern took off his greatcoat, and sat down in his usual place.

  “What a pity!” Shevchenko said with a sigh. “It’ll have to be changed.”

  He moved the easel closer to the window, carefully scratched off the dried-up paint, and took up his brush.

  “Aren’t the headquarters really at work today?” he asked at length.

  “They are, hut the clerks have gone to church, and I said I was going hunting so they’d give me some peace. And all of Orenburg is outdoors now anyway, shooting wild ducks.”

  The conversation lapsed. Suddenly Shevchenko glimpsed Isaiev sneaking across the yard.

  Shevchenko stalled, and the brush fell out of his hand.

  “What’s the matter?” Gern asked, alarmed.

  “No-thing,” Shevchenko said, and bent down for the brush.

  “Did you see somebody passing by there?”

  “Y-yes, possibly.”

  “Well, that’s the end of my rest. Somebody must have come for me,” Gern said, got to his feet, reached for his greatcoat, and made to leave.

  “Wait a minute!” Shevchenko rushed after him, and took him by the sleeve. “Be prepared for the worst…”

  “What do you mean?” Gern asked, not understanding the warning. He looked Shevchenko in the eyes, grew pale, and rushed to the back door.

  Shevchenko ran after him. Gern burst into the kitchen, from there he reached the corridor, dining room, looked into the empty sitting room and study. Then he kicked open the locked door of the bedroom and disappeared inside.

  A minute or two passed.

  The door was flung open.

  Shevchenko barely managed to draw back when Isaiev came tumbling into the dining room, hitting his head against a sideboard.

  Without thinking what he was doing, Shevchenko rushed to his studio, frantically picked up his paints and brushes, and hurried to Lazarevsky’s quarters.

  37

  The “Showdown”

  Isaiev burst like a madman into the office of Cavalry Captain Mansurov, and without greeting him, banged his fist on the desk.

  “I’ll make him fight a duel. A lot of blood is going to flow! Serge, you must be my second!”

  “First of all, be as kind as to greet me, and then tell me who you intend fighting?”‘

  “Gern! He offended me terribly! Disgraced me, as a matter of fact! Dishonored me before the soldiers! Put your coat on, and deliver my challenge!”

  “Come, come! Is the reason of the trouble a woman again? What a lewd buck you are indeed!” Mansurov said, shaking his head. “Tell me everything from beginning to end.”

  “It all started with Zosia Gern. Drat it, but she’s an extra­ordinarily delicious dish! Fell head over heels in love with me, and that German swine… became jealous like a simple muzhik. All right, he could have challenged me like a decent man, but he… burst into the bedroom just at the most critical moment…”

  “Ha-ha-ha!!!” Mansurov roared with laughter. “Wait a minute, but you’ve got a bloodied ear! Could that homebred Othello have bitten your ear?”

  “He didn’t, but he yanked me out of her bed, almost tearing my ear off. I must fight him! At once!”

  Mansurov burst into a roar of laughter again, wiped the tears of mirth out of his eyes, and shook his head disapprovingly.

  “What a fool you are! Gern is the best marksman in the Orenburg area, and back in St. Petersburg he won three prizes for marksmanship. He’ll pick you off like a wild duck. It won’t be a duel but suicide for you.”

  Isaiev piped down right away.

  “But I’m an officer. I must fight him or else be dis­missed from the ranks. What will I be living on then?” he asked piteously.

  “You’re a dunce and blockhead — that’s what you are, and not an officer!” Mansurov continued. “Aren’t there enough serf lasses, town girls or modistes for you around here? But no: he had to have a lady. With ladies it’s much more complicated: gentlemen don’t like sharing their wives with anybody else, you know.”

  “You’d better stop philosophizing, and tell me what I’m to do now. His batman and that khokhol painter, who did my portrait, saw everything.”

  “I can just imagine! Must have been a unique scene!”

  Another fit of roaring laughter gripped Mansurov, then the expression of mirth faded from his face abruptly, he rose from his chair, and started buttoning up his uniform.

  “What I hear is really bad! Shevchenko is received at the best homes and might broadcast the scandal throughout Orenburg. And you, too, have been blabbering God knows what. In such a case, a duel is unavoidable. It all happened because of Obruchev and those damned liberal nobles! They make too much of that khokhol, recommend one another for promotions and decorations, leaving the loyal servants of the czar in the cold. You, too, hoped to get a second star on your shoulder straps, didn’t you?”

  “You bet! I had to become a second lieutenant and com­mand half a company,” Isaiev took up the cue angrily. “But don’t evade the point, Serge, and tell me what to do.”

  “On the other hand, that khokhol isn’t such a fool as to chatter more than is good for him. I think he’ll keep his mouth shut. And if you yourself bridle your tongue, every­thing will be kept in the dark. Gern wouldn’t like to be called a cuckold.”

  “Yes, but I’ve been offended.”

  “It’s unclear yet who’s been offended more. But to take revenge for the scratched ear — that’s very much to the point. It calls for some good thinking on how to go about it. You’re not the only one who’s out for his blood.”

  Isaiev’s eyes flared up with rage, he craned his thin neck and was all attention. Mansurov lit up a pipe, and carried on, winking cunningly now and again:

  “Who compiles the lists of those to be recommended for decorations? Gern as the aide responsible for special mis­sions. Obruchev approves them. Their entire cohort received orders and other decorations for the New Year. The same thing will occur on Easter Day, and next winter again, and so on. It’ll be so always and everywhere until we unseat them. We’ve been considering that many a time with Tolmachov. He hates Gern and Obruchev and all that liberal bunch of theirs, as exemplified by that lout Matveiev. And he hates them more than you do. Let’s go to Tolmachov. Maybe we’ll come up with something together.”

  “But I don’t want Tolmachov knowing anything about the scandal.”

  “First of all, Tolmachov is one of us, and besides, we don’t have to tell him everything. A hint would be enough.”

  Isaiev wavered, but the thought that Gern might chal­lenge him to a duel put a stop to his wavering, and both men went to the fortress where Tolmachov had his quarters.

  The general was at home. On learning that they had come not on a visit but on some business, he invited them to his study and locked its door, ready to hear them out. Isaiev briefly set forth his unpleasant case in a tone em­phasizing the highest trust in the general.

  “Why the hell did you have to fall for that Polish skirt?” the general said angrily. “Of all the impregnable fortresses to take, when its gates are held open wide for every passerby. But for an officer of the general headquarters to take a common soldier in on the secrets of his bedroom and com­promise a brother officer — that’s something I don’t under­stand altogether. It’s what you get for that foolish liberal­ism. Ever since our dear Perovsky left us, life’s been a torture for decent people here. Unfortunately, Obruchev is extremely careful and it’s difficult to find a weak spot in him: he doesn’t accept bribes, has no interest in women, neither does he indulge in drinking. He’s prosecuted quartermas­ters and suppliers for the slightest offense and complied with laws and orders. The headquarters under him is more like a school for the daughters of the nobility; he corrupts the soldiers with his lenient ways and is friends with the mariners, especially with that… What’s his name?”

  “With Butakov!” Mansurov prompted, anxious to please. “Yes, yes! Our mariners, as you know have been traipsing around the world, and they picked
up a rebellious spirit in Europe. That Butakov alone has it up to his gills! He doesn’t send a sailor, but gets into the water himself to sound the depth. As to the unjust ways of decorating and promoting people, we’ve become used to that. Obruchev decorates anyone he likes. That’s what he’s governor for. Now if we could remove him… Then ranks, crosses and stars would come spilling on our chests and shoulder straps. By the way, the poor devil Perovsky writes to tell me that he is not his own self anymore, because he’s missing the Yayïk Cossacks. Even our sovereign recently noticed how gloomy and sad Perovsky was. ‘What’s the matter with you, Perovsky?’ he asked him once. Our Vasiliy Alexeyevich told him straight off that he was missing his Ural life. The sovereign smiled and said that the matter could be settled, which means that if Obruchev were to slip on something, our dear Perovsky would be back with us again. But so far we have to suffer and wait…”

  “Everything you say is correct, your Excellency. But advise our young friend what he is to do. He won’t unseat Obruchev, but Gem must be punished for the scratched ear. A duel with such a dangerous adversary as Gern must be avoided.”

  The general kept silent for a minute, then admitted out­right:

  “This story is an incredible nonsense not worth a copper. The best thing would be to close your eyes on it and forget it. But — ” He stopped abruptly, and added as an afterthought: “This matter can gain all of us something and Gern might be given a rap over the knuckles at the same time. Gern must have read the sovereign’s resolution on Shevchenko’s case many a time and reported it to Obruchev no less frequently. Gern and Obruchev were the first to flout the czar’s will by assigning Shevchenko to the Aral expedition as an artist. Even now they flout it systematically, openly and brazenly. If the sovereign were to learn how his orders are complied with in Orenburg, the skin would be flying off Gern and Obruchev’s backs in strips and pieces. Truth is, Shev­chenko would suffer, too, regrettably, for he’s a talented artist. But for us he’s no more than a soldier who must do his soldier’s duty, instead of loafing about the Orenburg parlors. And when Nikolai Grigorievich” — the general turned to Isaiev — “submits a report to Obruchev on Gern, and on Obruchev, too, by the way, the general will have to reprimand his subordinate in the strictest terms. In this way we’ll make them remember Easter Day as the blackest event they ever experienced in their lifetime. And if Nikolai Grigorievich sends a similar report to Count Orlov, I can wager a hundred thousand rubles that the general’s monograms will be stripped off his epaulettes, and eventually he’ll lose his office of military governor. Then we’ll have Perovsky back again.”

  “But what about Gern?” Isaiev cut in, unable to restrain his vengefulness.

  “For Gern a duel will be the farthest thing on his mind then! He, too, will lose his aide’s aiguilettes and his officer’s uniform perhaps. That seafaring ‘scientist’ Butakov will also get his share of punishment, and no albums of colored charts will save him from falling into disgrace.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Accept our warmest gratitude for the advice!” Mansurov and Isaiev said, passionately shaking the general’s hand. Tolmachov smiled contentedly into his mustache.

  “I congratulate you, gentlemen, on a great victory,” he replied cheerfully. “At last we have found a weak point in the liberals. Now they’re in our hands.”

  “A thousand times merci!” Isaiev said, clicking his heels. “So the only thing left is to write the report.”

  “And as quickly as possible, so it will be submitted tomorrow morning,” Tolmachov added. “Its effect will be stunning.”

  To write a usual brief report had always been a difficult task for Isaiev. He was constantly at odds with his gram­mar, the simplest thought did not materialize on paper, hard as he tried, but instantly became as heavy as blocks of granite, and words and phrases were repeated innumer­ably on the same page.

  But now he had to write not a brief report, but an entire serious delation to be read by Obruchev and the chief of the gendarmes, and probably even by the czar himself. The ensign broke into a sweat, and no sooner had he collected his petty thoughts than the clock struck three and the headquarters became deserted. The first to disappear were the officers, then the clerks closed up their desks and melted away imperceptibly like ice in the sun, while Isaiev was still sitting over his delation, helplessly gnawing at his pen and tearing up what he had written again and again.

  “Your Excellency, the officers left for dinner a long time ago. It’s impossible to do everything. You’d better go and have a rest,” the clerk on duty addressed him. “Besides, the floor must be mopped and the office cleaned up for the holidays.”

  Isaiev started like a crook who had been caught red-handed, swept his writing off the desk with a jerky hand, and looked at the clerk.

  “Indeed, it’s time to go home,” he said, regaining his self-control, shoved the paper into his pocket, and sadly trudged off to Mansurov again with a sense of stark fear: he might come across Gern on the street.

  Mansurov read what Isaiev had written, and threw the paper onto his desk.

  “What a fool you are — a straight-laced fool!” he blurted out. “Whoever writes delations like that? ‘I have the honor to report to your Excellency that the artist Shevchenko, who painted my portrait and the portrait of your Excellency’s wife as well as the portrait of Baroness Blaramberg and of many others, is an exiled soldier, and according to the orders of His Majesty the Emperor, he has to be in the barracks and not writing and painting.’ He knows that well enough himself! In the word honor, the last vowel is an o, not an e, portrait is written with an ai, not an ei. Oh, you wretched scholar!”

  “But I was in a hurry, and so excited. Correct spelling just wasn’t on my mind. It’s already five o’clock now, everyone’s gone home long ago,” Isaiev tried to justify himself. “Be a friend, Serge, and help me! The pen’s slip­ping out of my fingers at the thought that the sovereign might read my report.”

  “All right! The hell with you! I’ll help, not so much for your sake as because of Obruchev sitting on our necks. I’ll never be a lieutenant-colonel to the end of my days under his rule,” Mansurov snapped out with determination.

  He wrote for over an hour, now crossing out entire phras­es, then adding something to what he had written. In the end, he leaned back in the armchair with an air of satis­faction, and started reading his delation aloud:

  “On an impulse of fervent loyalty to my sovereign and country, I, Ensign Isaiev Nikolai Grigorievich, consider it my duty and a matter of honor and conscientiousness to bring to the notice of your Excellency that your aide Gern Karl Ivanovich, Captain-Lieutenant of the Navy Butakov Alexei Ivanovich, and other authorities of the Orenburg County have, probably by ignorance, outrageously trampled upon and gone against the will of our most August Mon­arch, expressed in the resolution on Private Shevchenko ratified with the hand of His Imperial Highness to the effect that the said artist and writer be made a soldier and dispatched under the strictest surveillance of the authorities, with the prohibition to write and to paint, to the Orenburg Territory to do military service there and, in accordance with the instructions of the Third Department of the Per­sonal Office of His Imperial Highness, the said Shevchenko was to be posted to one of the farthest forts of the Orenburg line.

  “At the present time, however, Shevchenko is registered as an artist on the descriptive expedition of the Aral Sea which finished its work long ago, resides in Orenburg at the home of the aforementioned Gern Karl Ivanovich, an aide responsible for special missions of your Excellency, goes about town in civilian clothes, is received in the highest society without formality, and paints the portraits of highly respected persons, including the governor’s wife, thereby earning his living, which I have the honor to bring to the notice of your Excellency in order that respective meas­ures be taken and all those guilty in this violation of the monarchic will be properly punished.”

  Mansurov finished reading this vile sample of his wri
t­ing, having savored every single word of it, then he clacked his tongue contentedly, and motioned Isaiev to an armchair near the desk.

  “Sit down and write two copies of it. One goes to Obru­chev, and the other to St. Petersburg, to the Third Depart­ment and Count Orlov. Copy it carefully, and mind you don’t make any mistakes,” he added, putting two pages of the best paper in front of Isaiev.

  Isaiev was busy almost till midnight, copying the dela­tion. In the morning he did not go to the headquarters, but sent his batman to the post office to mail two registered letters. During the midday meal he emptied a bottle of vodka and retired to bed at once.

  Gern was not on speaking terms with his wife and did not notice her presence. He had slept the night on the sofa in his study and woke up with a headache, but after a cup of strong coffee he forced himself to get dressed and look­ing as smart as ever, he appeared at the headquarters promptly on the hour.

  His morning passed in looking through the classified spe­cial delivery mail, then he busied himself writing a report to Obruchev, went through the list of participants in the holiday parade for a long time before he secured Tolmachov’s final approval, and only by midday did he get down to routine matters and the usual everyday mail. The sizable pile of letters, complaints, and packages gradually melted in front of him. He opened the letters quickly, read them through, made the necessary notes on each, put some aside to be reported to Obruchev separately, and then picked up the next package.

  The last in the pile was a letter postmarked Local Mail. He tore it open, pulled out the stiff sheets of paper neatly folded in four, and started reading. The blood rushed to his head.

  “What a villain! What filthy vermin!” he whispered.

  Yes, Isaiev had written it. It was really his crabbed hand­writing, but the sinister logic and malice of the delation was not his. Somebody else had composed it with the spite­ful mentality of a gendarme. Isaiev could have never hit upon the idea himself, and the proof of it was the fact that he was the first to have his portrait painted by Shevchenko which he passed over in silence in the delation. He was simply used as a tool. The venomous delation was directed not so much against Shevchenko as against Obruchev, Gern and Butakov.