and which seemed to have been built by an Italian architect; it was two
stories high and constructed of fine thin bricks. The windows of the
lower story were encompassed in lofty granite projections; the whole of
the upper story consisted of arches, which formed a gallery; between
the arches were to be seen gratings with armorial bearings; the corners
of the house were also adorned with coats of arms. An external wide
staircase, built with painted bricks, came down to the very square.
Beneath the staircase were sitting two sentries, who picturesquely and
symmetrically held with one hand a halberd, and leaned their heads on
the other, more like statues than living beings. They neither slept nor
slumbered, but seemed to have lost all feeling; they did not even pay
any attention to those who went upstairs. At the top of the staircase
Andrew and the Tartar found a soldier, clad from head to foot in a rich
dress, who held a prayer-book in his hand. He raised his heavy eyes
on them; but the Tartar whispered a word to him and he dropped them
again on the open pages of his prayer-book. They entered the first
room, which was tolerably spacious and seemed to be the hall for the
reception of petitioners, or, perhaps, simply the ante-room; it was
crowded with soldiers, servants, huntsmen, cup-bearers, and other
officials whose presence was necessary to denote the rank of a high
nobleman, and who were sitting in different postures along the walls.
There was the smell of a candle which had burned down in its socket,
and, although the morning light had long since peeped in at the railed
windows, two more candles were burning in enormous candelabras almost
the size of a man.
Andrew was already in the act of going towards a wide oaken door,
adorned with a coat of arms and much carved work, when the Tartar
pulled him by the sleeve and showed him a small door in the lateral
wall. This door admitted them into a passage through which they
passed into a room, which Andrew began to examine with attention. The
daylight, coming through a hole in the window-shutter, fell upon a
crimson drapery, upon a gilded cornice, and upon the wall covered with
pictures. The Tartar made a sign to him to remain here, and went into
an adjoining room from which came a ray of candlelight. He heard a
whisper and a subdued voice which made him shudder. Through the door
which now opened he caught a glimpse of a finely-shaped female figure
with long luxuriant hair, which fell upon an uplifted arm. The Tartar
returned and bade him enter. He could not account for how he entered or
how the door closed behind him.
Two candles burned in the room, a lamp was lighted before an image,
under which stood a high-backed chair (like those used by Papists),
with steps for kneeling during prayer. But this was not what his eyes
were in search of. He turned to another side, and saw a woman who
seemed to have been suddenly petrified whilst in some rapid motion.
All her figure appeared to betoken that she had been throwing herself
forward towards him and had then suddenly stopped. He, too, stopped
astonished; he could not have expected to meet her such as she now was;
she was no longer the girl he had formerly known. Nothing remained
of what she was before; but still she was twice as beautiful and
handsome as she had been then. _Then_, there was something unfinished,
something to be completed in her; now, she was like a picture to which
the painter had given the last stroke of his brush. _Then_, she was a
pretty giddy girl; _now_, she was a beauty, a woman who had attained
the utmost development of her loveliness. Every feeling of her being
was now expressed in her uplifted eyes--not one particular feeling
or another--but all her feelings at once. Tears had not yet dried in
her eyes, but covered them with a glittering moisture which it made
the heart ache to behold. Her bust, her neck, and her shoulders now
filled those splendid limits which are the dowry of a perfect beauty;
her hair, which formerly curled in light ringlets round her face, now
formed a thick luxuriant plait, part of which remained plaited, while
the remainder hung down the whole length of her arm and fell over her
bosom in long, thin, beautifully waving locks. Every outline of her
features seemed to have undergone a change. Andrew tried in vain to
find some of those which were pressing on his recollection; not one was
to be found. Notwithstanding the extreme pallor of her face, her beauty
was not lessened by it; but, on the contrary, seemed to gain something
intrepid, and unconquerably victorious from it. Andrew felt his heart
overflow with the tremor of adoration, and stood motionless before
her. She seemed also to be astonished at the appearance of the Cossack,
who stood before her in all the beauty and vigour of youthful manhood;
even motionless, as they were, his limbs betrayed the freedom and
elasticity of their action; his eyes shone with firmness; his velvet
eyebrows made a bold curve; his sunburnt cheeks were covered with the
brightness of fiery youth, and his young black mustachios had the gloss
of silk.
"No, I cannot, by any means, thank thee enough, generous knight," said
she, and her silvery voice seemed to waver. "God in Heaven alone can
repay thee! Not I, a weak woman!"
She cast her eyes down, hiding them beneath beautiful, snowy,
semicircular eyelids, fringed with long arrow-like eyelashes; she bent
her lovely face, and a fine rosy hue spread over it. Andrew knew not
what to answer; he wished to tell her at once all that he had in his
heart, to tell it as warmly as he felt it--but he could not. Something
stopped his lips; even his voice failed him; he felt that he could not
answer her words--he who had been brought up in the college and in
migratory warfare; and he cursed his being a Cossack!
At this moment the Tartar came into the room. She had already cut the
loaf brought by Andrew into slices, which she brought on a golden
dish and set before her mistress. The lovely girl looked at her, at
the bread, and lifted her eyes on Andrew: and much did those eyes
express! That affecting look, which betrayed her sufferings and the
impossibility of telling all the feelings which filled her bosom, was
more easily understood by Andrew than any speech. He felt his heart
lightened at once; he seemed to have at once lost all confusion,
the motions and feelings of his soul which had till then appeared
held in subjection by some heavy hand, now seemed to be set free, and
uncontrollable streams of words ready to flow forth. But the young
beauty turned abruptly towards the Tartar, and hastily asked, "And my
mother? hast thou taken it to her?"
"She is asleep."
"And to my father?"
"I have; he said that he would come himself to thank the knight."
She took a piece of bread and raised it to her lips. Andrew looked at
her with inexpressible delight as she broke it with her white fingers
and began eating; but suddenly he remembered the man, driven to frenzy
by hunger, who died before his eyes from swallowing a morsel of bread.
He turned pale, and seizing her hand, shrieked, "Enough! eat no more!
Thou hast not eaten for so long a time, bread may bring death to thee!"
She let her hand fall directly, put the bread upon the dish and, like
an obedient child, looked into his eyes. And could any words describe
-but no; neither chisel, nor brush, nor even the loftiest and most
powerful language can express what may sometimes be seen in the eyes of
a maiden, or the delightful sensation of him who looks into such eyes.
"Queen!" cried Andrew, overwhelmed by his feelings; "what dost thou
want? what dost thou wish? order me to it! Set me the task--the most
impossible that ever was in the world. I will fly to accomplish it!
Tell me to do what no man can do--I will do it! I will perish myself!
Yes, that I will! And to perish for thee--I swear by the holy
cross--will be sweet to me. No--but I shall never be able to say it--I
have three farms, half of my father's horses are mine; all the dowry
of my mother; all that she has kept hidden even from him--all is mine!
None of our Cossacks has now such arms as I have; for the hilt alone of
my sabre they will give me the best herd of horses and three thousand
sheep. All this I will renounce: I will throw it away: I will burn
it: drown it if thou sayest but a word; nay, if thou only movest thy
fine dark eyebrow! I know that my speech is foolish, that it is out of
time, out of place; that I, who was brought up in the college and in
the Ssiecha, shall never be able to speak like kings, like princes and
like the best man among the noble knights. I see that thou art another
creature of God unlike us, and that far below thee are all other noble
maidens!"
With increasing astonishment, all ears, but not understanding a single
word, did the maiden listen to the frank hearty speech which, like a
mirror, reflected the young powerful soul, every word of which, spoken
in a voice bounding straight from the bottom of the heart, was invested
with power. She bent her beautiful face forward, threw over her back
the troublesome locks, opened her lips, and remained looking at him
a long time, then was about to speak; but she suddenly stopped, and
recollected that another path had to be followed by the knight; that
behind him stood his father and his kin, like so many harsh avengers;
that terrible were the Zaporoghians who were besieging the city, every
inhabitant of which was doomed to a cruel death--then suddenly her
eyes filled with tears. She took her silk-embroidered handkerchief,
threw it over her face, and in an instant it was moistened all over;
and she remained a long time sitting with her beautiful head thrown
back, with her pretty underlip compressed, as if she had felt the bite
of some venomous reptile; and she kept her handkerchief over her face,
so that he should not behold her overwhelming grief.
"Say but one word to me!" said Andrew, and he took hold of her
satin-like arm. The touch made fire run through his veins, and he
pressed her hand which lay insensible in his.
But she was silent; did not withdraw her handkerchief from her face,
and remained motionless.
"Why art thou so sorrowful? tell me, why art thou so sorrowful?"
She flung away her handkerchief, threw back the locks which fell over
her eyes and gave way to a burst of plaintive words, uttering them in
a low voice. Thus, rising on a beautiful evening, does the breeze run
through the dense stems of the water-weeds, and soft plaintive tones
quiver, thrill, and melt away in the air, and the passing traveller,
in unaccountable sadness, pauses without noticing either the evening
which is fading away, or the gay songs of the people returning from the
fields and their harvest labours.
"Do not I, then, deserve everlasting pity? Is not the mother who
brought me into the world, unhappy? Is not the lot which has fallen
to me sad? Art thou not merciless, my cruel fate? All men hast thou
brought to my feet, the greatest of our nobility, the wealthiest lords,
counts and foreign barons, and the very flower of our knighthood! All
these sought my hand, and as a great boon, would any one of them have
received my love. I had but to wave my hand, and the choicest of them
all, the handsomest in person and the best in lineage, would have been
my husband! But for none of them hast thou warmed my heart, merciless
fate! in spite of the most accomplished knights of my country, thou
hast given it to a foreigner, to one of our foes! Why, most holy Mother
of God, for what sins of mine, for what heavy crimes dost thou subject
me to such relentless, to such unsparing persecutions? My life was
passed amidst affluence and luxury; the costliest viands, the richest
wines were my food and my drink; and for what? to what result has it
brought me? Is it, that I must die the most cruel death which even the
poorest beggar in the kingdom is spared? Alas! it is not enough for me
to be doomed to this most horrible fate; to see, before my end, how my
father and my mother will die in insupportable sufferings--they, for
whose welfare I would readily give up twenty times my own life--all
this is not enough, but I must previously to my death hear words and
see love such as I have never heard or seen before; my heart must be
torn to pieces by his speech: that my bitter fate may be still bitterer
to me: that I may regret still more my young life: that death may
appear to me still more frightful: and that I may before dying still
utter more reproaches to thee, my cruel fate, and thee (forgive my sin)
most holy Mother of God!"
As she ceased speaking, an expression of hopelessness, of the most
utter despair, spread over her features; every outline of them
betokened sadness, and the brow bent down in sorrow, the downcast cast
eyes, the tears which had remained and dried on her glowing cheeks, all
appeared to tell that no happiness was there!
"Such a thing was never heard of: it cannot be: it shall not be,"
exclaimed Andrew, "that the loveliest and best of women should be
doomed to so bitter a lot, when she was born to see all that is best
in the world worship her like a goddess. No--thou shalt not die; it is
not thy lot to die; I swear, by my birth and by all that I love in the
world, thou shalt not die! And if it should happen, if nothing, neither
strength, nor prayer, nor courage can avert the dreadful fate, we will
die together, and I will die first; I will die beneath thine eyes, at
thy dear feet, and only when dead will I part with thee!"
"Do not deceive me and thyself, knight!" answered she, slowly shaking
her fine head; "I know, and to my greatest sorrow do I know but too
well, that thou canst not love me; I know, what thy duty, what thy
covenant is: thy father, thy comrades, thy country call thee--and we
are thy foes!"
"And what to me, are father, comrades, country?" said Andrew, tossing
his head, and drawing up his stature to his full height, straight as
the black poplar growing on the banks of a river: "if so--not one of
them will I know! not one! not one!" repeated he with that voice, and
peculiar motion of the hand, with which the mighty dauntless Cossack
expresses his decision about something unheard of, and impossible for
any one but himself. "Who has told me that Ukraine is my country? Who
gave it to me for my country? Our native country is that for which our
soul longs, which is dear to us above all other tilings! My native
country--thou art it! This is my country! And I will carry this country
in my heart as long as I live, and I shall see who of all the Cossacks
will ever tear it thence! And all that I have, will I sell, resign,
destroy, for this, my native country!"
At first she remained stupified and motionless, and, like a fine
statue, gazed into his eyes; then, on a sudden, bursting into tears,
she flung herself on his neck, caught him in her snow-white delicate
arms, and sobbed aloud; all this she did with that marvellous womanly
impetuosity, of which none is capable but inconsiderate generous woman,
created for magnanimous impulses of the heart. At this moment, confused
shouts, together with the sound of trumpets and kettle-drums were heard
in the street. But Andrew heard them not, he only felt how her pretty
lips diffused over his face the aromatic warmth of their breath, how
her tears flowed in streams over his cheeks, and how, falling down from
her head, her fragrant hair wrapped him in its dark and glossy silk.
At the same moment the Tartar ran into the room with the joyful
exclamation, "Rescued! rescued!" cried she, beside herself with joy:
"_our own_ have come into the town; they have brought with them,
bread, millet, flour, and Zaporoghian prisoners!" But neither of the
two understood who "_our own_" were who had come into the town, what
they had brought, or what they had to do with the Zaporoghians. Full
of feelings not to be enjoyed on earth, Andrew impressed a kiss on her
fragrant lips; they returned the kiss, and in that mutual, melting
embrace each of them felt all that man can feel but once in his
lifetime.
Then lost was the Cossack for ever! lost to all Cossack knighthood!
Never again will he see the Ssiecha: the farms of his father: the
church of God. Ukraine will never again see the bravest of her children
who went forth for its defence. Old Tarass will tear from his head a
lock of his grey hair, and curse the day and the hour when such a son
was born to bring shame upon him!
VII.
The whole of the Zaporoghian camp was in an uproar. At first nobody
could ascertain how it had come to pass that the Polish reinforcement
had entered the city. It was afterwards found out that all the Cossacks
of the kooren of Percaslavl, encamped before one of the side gates of
the city, were dead drunk; so no wonder if half of them were killed,
and the remainder bound and made prisoners, before any one could
discover what was the matter. While the other koorens, awakened by the
noise, had but time to snatch up their arms, the Poles had already
made their way through the gate, and their rear-ranks alone fired on
the Zaporoghians who, not yet wholly recovered from their slumbers and
their tipsiness, had in disorder rushed upon them. The Koschevoï gave
the order for all to assemble, and when all stood in a circle and kept
silence, their caps off, he spoke thus:--
"Do you see, gentlemen brothers, what has happened this night? You see
now the result of drunkenness? You see the shame that the foe has
brought upon us? It seems to be part of your habits, that, if your
allowance is doubled, you think yourselves entitled to go on drinking
till you bring yourselves into such a state that the foe of Christian
soldiers may not only pull off your trowsers, but even spit in your
face before you are aware of it!"
The Cossacks stood with their heads bent down, as if to acknowledge
their fault. The ataman of the kooreen of Neezamaitzy, Kookoobenko,
alone retorted. "Stop, father," said he, "although it is not according
to the rules that one should reply when the Koschevoï is speaking
before the army, yet as the matter was not thus, I must say so. Thou
art not quite right in thy reproach. The Cossacks would have been in
fault, and would have deserved death if they had got drunk on march,
on the field of battle, or during some hard or difficult labour; but
we remained without any business at all, sauntering round the city. No
fast, nor any other Christian penance was at hand; how, then, could it
be expected that a man should not get drunk when he had nothing to do?
There is no sin in that. Let us rather show now what it is to fall upon
innocent men. We have till now struck hard--let us now strike so that
they may not even be able to take to their heels to fly back to their
homes!"
The speech of the koorennoï ataman greatly pleased the Cossacks. They
raised their eyes which had, till then, remained bent down, and many of
them approvingly tossed their heads, saying, "Well said, Kookoobenko!"
Tarass Boolba, who was standing not far from the Koschevo, said, "How
now, Koschevoï? Kookoobenko seems to be right; what wilt thou say-now?"
"What will I say? I will say that happy is the father that has brought
such a son. It is no difficult matter to find upbraiding words, but
it is a difficult matter to speak such words as, aggravating a man's
misfortunes by reproach, may coax him and stir up his fallen spirit as
spurs incite the spirit of a steed refreshed by drink. I had, myself,
the intention of adding some encouraging words; but Kookoobenko has
outstripped me."
"Well, also, has the Koschevoï spoken!" was heard in the ranks of the
Zaporoghians. "Well spoken!" repeated others; and even the oldest,
those with ash-coloured locks, nodded their heads, and twirling their
mustachios, said, "Well spoken!"
"Now, hear me, gentlemen!" continued the Koschevoï; "it is neither
proper for a Cossack, nor is it his business to take fortresses as
German mercenaries do (may the fiend seize them!), climbing the walls
and digging the ground. But, after all, what may be guessed is, that
the enemy entered the town with no great store of provisions; there
were not many waggons with them, the people in the fortress are
starving, so all will be eaten up in no time; as for the horses--I
do not know, unless some of their saints throw them hay from heaven;
but this seems not highly probable, the more so, as their parsons are
men of mere words. So, happen what will, not one of them must ever
come out of the town. Divide yourselves into three parties, and take
the three roads which lead to the three gates. Five koorens must take
the high road before the main gate; before each of the others three
koorens must stand. The Diadnivsky and the Korsoonsky koorens must lie
in ambush. Colonel Tarass, with his regiment, must lie in ambush, also!
The Tytarevskoï and the Toonnoshevsko? koorens in reserve, on the right
flank of the baggage! The Stcherbinovskoï and the Upper Steblikovskoï
on its left flank. Now, come forward those who are clever at teasing,
and tease the enemy! Poles are empty-headed people and cannot bear
jeering, and may be, even to-day, they will sally forth out of the
gates. Let the atamans pass each kooren in review: those that have not
their full complement must be filled up with the Cossacks remaining
from the Percaslavskoï kooren. Then, review them once more I Let every
Cossack have a loaf and a dram of brandy, to drive away the tipsiness
out of his head. But, surely, every one got enough yesterday; for, to
say the truth, you all had so much drink that I wonder nobody burst
asunder in the night. One order more:--If any Jew, brandy-shop keeper,
or any one else sell, were it but a single dram of brandy to a Cossack,
I'll have a hog's ear nailed to his face, and I'll have him, the cursed
dog, hung with his head downwards! Well, now to business, brothers!"
Thus ordered the Koschevoï, and all bowed to him, and with uncovered
heads went to their waggons and to their camps, and only when they were
at a distance did they put on their caps. They all made preparations;
every one tried his sabre or his broadsword, poured powder from the
bags into powder-horns, removed and placed the carts, and selected the
horses.
On his way to his regiment Tarass thought, but could not imagine, what
had happened to Andrew. Had he been made prisoner with the others, and
had he been bound during his sleep?--but no, it could not be; Andrew
was not the man to be made prisoner whilst alive. He was not, moreover,
to be found among the slain Cossacks. Tarass was lost in thought, and
went before his regiment without noticing that somebody had been for
a long time calling him by his name. "Who wants me?" said he, at last
recovering from his reverie. Yankel, the Jew, was standing before him.
"My lord colonel! My lord colonel!" said the Jew in a hasty and choked
voice, as if he had some matter of no small importance to impart to
him. "I have been in the town, my lord colonel!"
Tarass looked at the Jew, marvelling how he could have managed to find
time already to go into the town. "And what devil took thee there?"
"I will tell you directly," said Yankel. "As soon as I heard the noise
in the morning, and heard the Cossacks fire their guns, I caught up
my coat and, without waiting to put it on, ran with all speed to the
spot; by the way only I slipped on the sleeves, for I was in a hurry to
know what the noise was, and why the Cossacks fired their guns so early
in the morning. I got to the town gate just as the last of the troops
entered the town. And, behold! before the soldiers, I saw the Ensign
Galiandovitch. He is an acquaintance of mine; he has owed me, for more
than two years now, a hundred ducats; so I came to him as if for the
purpose of settling our accounts, and I went with him into the town."
"How so? thou wentest into the town, and still more, for the purpose of
settling accounts!" said Boolba, "and he did not have thee hanged like
a dog?"