"Lay down thy mace, lay it down directly, devil's son!—we do not want thee any more!" shrieked some Cossacks from the crowd. Some of the sober koorens seemed to resist, but tipsy and sober koorens came to blows. The shouts and noise became general.
The Koschevoï tried to speak, but knowing that the infuriated self-willed crowd might perhaps beat him to death for it, and that such was almost always the end of such riots, he bowed very low, laid down the mace, and disappeared among the people.
"Do you order, gentlemen, that we too lay down the tokens of our rank?" said the judge, the secretary, and the essaool, ready to resign the seal, the inkstand, and the staff.
"Not you; you may remain; we only wanted to drive away the Koschevoï, because he is an old woman, and we need a man for a Koschevoï!"
"Whom will you choose for your Koschevoï?" asked the dignitaries.
"Choose Kookoobenko!" cried one side.
"We will not have Kookoobenko!" cried the other. "'Tis early for him; his mother's milk is yet wet upon his lips!"
"Let Shilo be the Ataman," cried some. "Shilo must be Koschevoï!"
"Away with Shilo!" shouted the angry crowd.
"Is he a Cossack, to have thieved like a Tartar, the dog's son I To the devil with the drunkard Shilo!"
"Let us choose Borodaty—Borodaty!"
"We will not have Borodaty; a curse upon Borodaty!"
"Shout for Kirdiaga," whispered Tarass Boolba.
"Kirdiaga, Kirdiaga," shouted the crowd. "Borodaty! Borodaty!"—"Kirdiaga! Kirdiaga!"
"Shilo!"—"The devil take Shilo!"—"Kirdiaga!"
Each of the proposed candidates, on hearing his name shouted, instantly quitted the crowd, to leave no room for suspecting his personal influence in the election.
"Kirdiaga! Kirdiaga!" was heard above all.
"Borodaty!"
Blows succeeded to words, and Kirdiaga's party got the better.
"Go and fetch Kirdiaga!" was now the cry.
Some ten Cossacks directly stepped out of the crowd; many of them hardly stood upon their legs, such was the strength of the spirits they had swallowed; they went straight to Kirdiaga, to notify to him his election.
Kirdiaga, a clever old Cossack, had already been some time seated in his kooren, and looked as if quite unconscious of what had just taken place. "What do you want, gentlemen?" asked he.
"Go; thou art elected to be the Koschevoï."
"Be merciful, gentlemen!" said Kirdiaga. "I am by no means worthy of such an honour; I have not sense enough for a rank like that; is there no one better than I to be found in the whole Ssiecha?"
"Go, when thou art told to go!" cried the Zaporoghians. Two of them took hold of his arms, and in vain did he endeavour to stay his feet. He was at last brought into the square, pushed from behind by blows and pokes, receiving such scoldings and admonitions as—"Don't draw back, thou devil's son!" "Take the honour, dog, when they give it to thee!"
In such a manner Kirdiaga was brought into the midst of the Cossack circle.
"Gentlemen!" cried those who had brought him, "are you willing to have this Cossack for your Koschevoï?"
"We are, all of us!" shouted the crowd; and the field resounded far and wide with the cry.
One of the elders took up the mace, and offered it to the newly-elected Koschevoï. Kirdiaga refused it, according to custom. The elder offered it a second time; Kirdiaga refused it again; and only after the third invitation, did he take up the mace. A clamour of approval arose from the crowd, and again far and wide the field resounded with the Cossacks' shout. Now stepped out from the midst of the people four of the oldest Cossacks, with gray crown-locks, and gray mustachios (no very old folks were to be found in the Ssiecha, for no Zaporoghian ever died a natural death); each of them took a handful of earth, which recent rain had turned to mud, and put it upon Kirdiaga's head. Down from his head ran the wet earth, which flowed over his mustachios and cheeks, and soiled all his face with mud. But Kirdiaga remained standing upright, and returned thanks to the Cossacks for the honour they had bestowed upon him.
So ended the clamorous election. It remains unknown whether others rejoiced in it as much as Boolba: first, for having taken his revenge on the late Koschevoï; and secondly, because Kirdiaga was his old comrade, who had been with him in the same campaigns, over sea and land, and had shared the same hardships and labours of warfare. The crowd dispersed immediately, in order to rejoice over the election; and a revel ensued such as Ostap and Andrew had not yet seen. The brandy-shops were ransacked; mead, brandy, and beer were carried off without any payment being made; the masters of the shops were glad to be suffered to escape untouched. The whole of the night passed in noise and songs, and the moon, rising in the sky, shone for a long time over the hands of musicians walking about the streets with bandooras, torbans, and round balalaikas,[18]and over the group of the singers who were kept in the Ssiecha to chant in the church, and to sing the praises of the feats of the Zaporoghians.
At last, tipsiness and fatigue began to get the better of the strong heads; and now began to be seen here and there a Cossack rolling on the ground. Here, two comrades, embracing one another, have grown sentimental, and both roll down weeping. There, a whole crowd has lain down together. There is one, who after fidgetting very much about the most commodious manner of lying down, has stretched himself full length on a log. The last, whose head was somewhat stronger, remained still uttering incoherent sentences; but he, too, finished by submitting to the effects of brandy, and when he fell like the rest, the whole of the Ssiecha was asleep.
The very next day, Tarass Boolba was already in consultation with the new Koschevoï how to raise the Zaporoghians on some war business. The Koschevoï was a clever, cunning Cossack; he knew the Zaporoghians from top to toe, and at once said, "We cannot infringe our oath—we cannot, on any account." But after having kept silence for some time he added, "Never mind, we can; we will keep our oath, but we will find out something or other. Manage somehow to get the people together, not, however, in my name, but as if of their own free will. You understand how to do it; and we, with the other dignitaries, will rush into the square as if we knew nothing of the matter."
Scarcely an hour had passed since this conversation, when on a sudden the kettle-drums were beaten. All the Cossacks, the slightly tipsy as well as those who had not yet recovered their senses, appeared at once. Thousands of Cossack caps all at once covered the square. A rumour arose, "What's the matter? why did they beat the call? on what account?" At last, here and there were to be heard sentences, "Why is the Cossack's strength to be lost? Why is there no war? The officials only think of fattening themselves! Righteousness seems to have left the world!" Other Cossacks began by listening and then joined in also, "Truly, there is no righteousness in the world."
The officials seemed astonished at hearing such things. At last the Koschevoï stepped forward and said, "Gentlemen Zaporoghians! will you let me make a speech?
"My speech will be, gentlemen, about this,—but may be you know it better yourselves;—that many Zaporoghians have gone into debt in the brandy-shops, to Jews as well as to their comrades, and into such debt that no devil will now give credit to any one. Then, again, my speech is about this, that there are many lads who have never so much as seen what war is; whereas you know, gentlemen, that no young man can ever remain without war. What kind of Zaporoghian is he who has never, not even once, vanquished an unbeliever?"
"He speaks well," thought Boolba.
"But do not think, gentlemen, that I am now speaking for the purpose of breaking peace! God forbid! I am only just mentioning facts. Now, with respect to God's temple, it is sinful to tell in what a state it is. Thanks be to God, the Ssiecha has now stood for so many years, and yet till now—I do not speak of the exterior of the church—-but even the images inside have no decorations. No one has ever thought to have even a silver cloth put upon any one of them;[19]the church has only received that which was bequeathed to it by certain Cossacks; but even these donations were very poor, for the donors during their lifetime had spent everything they had in brandy. But all this I do not tell you to induce you to begin war against the misbelievers; we have promised peace to the Sultan, and it would be a great sin not to keep it, because we have sworn by our faith."
"What does he mean by all this nonsense?" said Boolba to himself.
"So, gentlemen, you see that we cannot begin war; knightly honour forbids it. But, according to my poor understanding, what I should say is this—let us send the young people in our boats; let them take a run on the coasts of Anatolia. What do you think of that, gentlemen?"
"Let us all go!" cried the crowd on every side. "Every one of us is ready to die for our faith!"
The Koschevoï was alarmed; he had not at all meant to have raised the whole Ssiecha; he thought it unfair to break the peace. "Let me, gentlemen, say a few words more."
"Enough!" shouted the Zaporoghians; "thou wilt say nothing better!"
"If such be your will, well you must have it. I am but the servant of your will. It is well known that the voice of the people is the voice of God. Nothing better can be settled than what the whole of the Ssiecha has settled. I consider only this. You know, gentlemen, that the Sultan will not fail to take his revenge for the pleasure that the lads will have. And in the meanwhile we should have kept ourselves in readiness; our forces should have been fresh, and we should have feared nobody—while now, during our absence, the Tartars may fall on the Ssiecha. Tartars are nothing but Turkish dogs; they do not fall on you face to face, and will not come into the house so long as the master is at home; but they may bite our heels from behind and painfully may they bite us. And, as we are now about this matter—to speak the truth, we have not enough boats, and the store of powder is not sufficient if all of us are to go. However, I am ready. I am happy to be the servant of your will."
The cunning Ataman stopped. Groups began to confer together; the atamans of the koorens held council; and, as luckily few remained tipsy, all agreed to follow the prudent course.
Immediately some of the men crossed the Dnieper to fetch the treasure of the Ssiecha, and part of the arms taken from their enemies; they were kept in inaccessible hiding-places, in the reeds along the banks of the river. All the other Cossacks rushed to the boats to inspect them, and to put them in readiness for use. In a minute the banks of the river were covered with people; carpenters came with axes in their hands; young Zaporoghians as well as elderly ones; the latter, sunburnt, broad-shouldered, thick-footed, with gray hair in their mustachios, stood knee deep in the water, and dragged the boats into the river by means of strong cords. Others were bringing timber and balks ready dried. Here some were nailing planks on a boat; there a boat, keel upwards, was being caulked and pitched; in another place, according to the Cossack custom, long bundles of reeds were bound to the sides of the boats, to prevent them from being capsized by the sea waves; and still farther all along the river fires were kindled and tar boiled in copper kettles for tarring the boats. The experienced and elderly Cossacks gave their advice to the young ones. Noise and clamours arose from every side. The banks of the river were all alive with the stir and bustle.
At this moment a great ferry-boat came near the island. The men who were standing in it had already, at a distance, begun to wave their arms. They were Cossacks and dressed in coats falling to rags. The miserable dress which they wore (some of them had nothing about them but their shirt and a short pipe in their mouth) showed at once that they had recently escaped from misfortune, or that they had been feasting until they had spent all that they had about their persons. From among them came forward, a short, thickset, broad-shouldered Cossack, some fifty years old. He shrieked louder than any, and waved his arms in the most discordant manner. But the cries and the talking of the workmen prevented him from being heard.
"What brings you here?" asked the Koschevoï, while the ferry-boat was landing. All the workmen, stopping in their work with raised axes and other instruments, looked on in expectation.
"Misfortune!" shouted the thickset Cossack from the ferry-boat.
"What misfortune?"
"Gentlemen Zaporoghians, let me address you?"
"Speak on!"
"Or, may be, you wish to convoke arada?"
"Speak, we are all here!" cried the people with one accord.
"Have you, then, heard nothing about what has happened in the hetman's dominions?"[20]
"And what is the matter there?" asked the ataman of one of the koorens.
"What is the matter! It seems the Tartars must have well boxed your ears that you heard nothing!"
"Tell, then, whatdidhappen there!"
"Such things have happened that, since you were born and christened, you never saw the like of them!"
"Speak, then, at once; and say what has happened, thou son of a dog!" cried one among the crowd, losing patience.
"Such times are come that even the holy churches are no longer ours!"
"How so?"
"Jews are made landlords thereof.[21]If one does not pay the toll to the Jew no mass can be performed."
"What nonsense art thou saying?"
"And if the cursed Jew does not put, with his damned finger, a mark upon the holy passover, the passover cannot be consecrated!"
"He lies, gentlemen brothers! This cannot be, that an unclean Jew should put a sign upon the holy passover!"
"Listen, only! I have more to tell you. The Latin priests now drive over all Ukraine in chariots. But the evil is not in their driving in chariots: the evil is in the chariots being no longer drawn by horses but by orthodox Christians. Hear me! I have more to tell you:—They say that Jewesses are now making themselves petticoats out of our priests' vestments. These are the things that happen in Ukraine, gentlemen! And you are here resting and carousing in your Ssiecha! Truly, it seems the Tartars have put you into such a fright, that you have no eyes left to see, no ears to hear what passes in the world!"
"Stop! Stop!" interfered the Koschevoï, who had remained standing with his eyes fixed upon the ground, as well as all the Zaporoghians, who in important business never obeyed the first impulse, but kept silent, and in their silence gathered the stern force of indignation. "Stop! let me saymyword, too! And what did you do? you—may your father be beaten by the devil! Had you no sabres, then? Had you none? How did you let such profanations happen?"
"How did we let such profanations happen? I should like to have seen you try to stop them when there were fifty thousand Poles, and—there is no use to conceal it—when there were some among us, the cursed dogs, who went over to the Polish faith, too!"
"And your hetman and your colonels? what did they do?"
"Our colonels did such doings, that God forbid any one else should do the same!"
"How so?"
"Why, so that the hetman now lies roasted in a copper ox at Warsaw, and the arms and heads of our colonels are carried to the fairs to be shown to the people.[22]Such were the doings of our colonels!"
A shudder of horror ran through the whole crowd. A moment's silence reigned among it, like that which immediately precedes a terrible storm, then all at once a murmur arose and every one gave vent to his indignation.
"Jews renting Christian churches! Popish priests to be driving about on orthodox Christians! Such torments to be suffered on Russian soil from accursed Papists! So to treat the hetman and the colonels! This must not be—this shall not be!" Speeches of this kind were heard on all sides.
The Zaporoghians went on shouting and felt their strength. It was no longer the hum of a giddy people; strong and heavy characters were now aroused, who, if they were long before turning red-hot, yet, when once red-hot, kept their internal heat a long time.
"Let us hang all the Jews!" cried a voice from the crowd; "let them not make petticoats for their Jewesses out of our priests' robes! Let them not put signs on holy passovers! We will drown all the accursed race in the Dnieper."
These words, uttered by some one from the crowd, flew like lightning from one to another and the people rushed to the suburb with the intention of putting all the Jews to death. The poor sons of Israel, losing the last remains of their almost always diminutive spirit, hid themselves in empty brandy casks, in ovens, and even crept under the petticoats of their Jewesses. But the Cossacks found them out everywhere.
"Most illustrious gentlemen!" shouted a Jew, as tall and as long as a hop-pole, thrusting forth his miserable face, all contorted by fright, from amidst a group of his comrades, "most illustrious gentlemen! let us tell you only one word! We will tell you such a thing as you never heard of before! Such an important thing, that words cannot say how important it is!"
"Let them say it!" said Boolba, who always liked to give a hearing to the accused party.
"Most serene gentlemen!" said the Jew; "such gentlemen nobody ever saw before, by Heavens! never! Such good, such kind, such brave gentlemen never were before in the world!" His voice was choked and trembling with fear. "How could it be that we should ever have thought anything bad about the Zaporoghians! Those that are renting churches in Ukraine are not our people at all! by Heavens, they are not ours! They are no Jews! The devil knows what they are! They are people worthy to be spit at, and nothing more. Here are witnesses for me. Say I not true, Shlema? or thou, Shmool?"
"By Heavens, so it is!" answered Shlema and Shmool, both in ragged caps,[23]and both pale as chalk from fright.
"We have never yet been on the side of your enemies," continued the tall Jew; "and as for the Papists, we do not even wish to know them; may the devil haunt their sleep! We are for the Zaporoghians, like bosom-brothers!"
"You, the brother of the Zaporoghians!" said one from the crowd. "That will never be, cursed Jews! Gentlemen, into the Dnieper with them all! Let us drown every one of the accursed race."
"These words were the signal for seizing the Jews and throwing them into the river. Pitiful shrieks resounded on every side; but the stern Zaporoghians only laughed as they saw the Jews' slippered feet beating the air. The poor orator, who had called down this storm upon his own head, jumped out of his coat, which some one had already laid hold of, and left in a dirty tight waistcoat, grasped the feet of Boolba, and in a whining voice entreated him: 'Mighty lord! Most illustrious lord! I knew your brother, the late lamented Dorosh! He was a warrior who was an ornament to all chivalry! It was I who gave him eight hundred sequins, when he stood in need of his ransom from the Turks.'"
"Didst thou know my brother?" asked Tarass.
"By Heavens, I knew him! a generous lord was he!"
"What is thy name?"
"Yankel."
"Very well," said Tarass; then, after thinking for a while, he turned towards the Cossacks and said, "If we want to do it, we shall always find time to hang the Jew; but, for the present let me have him." After which Tarass took him to his chariots, which were guarded by his own Cossacks, "Crawl under that waggon, lie there and do not move, and you, my lads, keep watch over the Jew."
Having said this, he repaired to the square where the crowd had been for some time assembling. They had all with one accord left off mending the boats, as the campaign now impending was to be led over land; and, instead of boats, chariots and steeds were now required. Now all, both young and old, were to take the field, and by a decision of the elders, of the atamans of all the koorens, and of the Koschevoï, as well as by the common assent of all the Zaporoghian Ssiecha, it was resolved to push straight into Poland, and to avenge the sufferings and humiliation of the Cossack's religion and glory; to pillage every town, set fire to every hamlet and every corn-field, and make the Cossack name once more renowned over all the steppes. Every one donned his war dress and armour. The Koschevoï seemed suddenly to have grown to double his former size; he was no longer the flattering accomplisher of the giddy wishes of a free people; he was now the commander with unlimited authority; he was a despot who knew but to command. All the knights, lately so self-willed and idle, now stood arrayed in ranks, with their heads respectfully bent, not daring so much as to lift their eyes while he was giving his orders without any noise or haste, but slowly and composedly as an old and experienced master of his art, who had more than once accomplished feats cleverly devised.
"Look, look well about you!" Thus he spoke. "Put to rights the waggons and the tar-pail for pitching the wheels. Try your arms. Don't take much clothing: a shirt and two pairs of trowsers for each Cossack, a pot of dried oatmeal, another of pounded millet—more than this no one must have. There will be plenty of provisions in the baggage waggons. Every Cossack must have a couple of horses. Then we must take some two hundred bullocks; because bullocks will be required for passing fords and marshy places. And above all, gentlemen, keep order. I know there are some of you who, directly any booty falls into their hands, are quite ready to seize every rag of nankeen, just as well as costly stuffs, were it but to wrap up their feet.[24]Leave off such devilish habits; throw away all the petticoats, and keep nothing but arms (if good ones come in your way) and gold and silver coins, because these are easy to carry and may be wanted when the time comes. And now, gentlemen, I tell you beforehand if any one is found to be tipsy during the march, no trial will be allowed him: I will have him dragged to the waggons, and—whoever he may be, were he the bravest of the brave—he shall be shot on the spot and thrown without interment to the birds of prey—for a drunkard on march is not worthy of Christian burial. Young men! obey in everything the older ones. If any one is touched by a bullet, or gets a sabre wound in the head or anywhere else, don't pay too much attention to such trifles; mix up a charge of powder in a dram of brandy, swallow it all at once, and all will be over—no fever will ensue. On a wound, if it be not too large, only put some earth, which ought to be first kneaded with spittle in the palm of the hand: the wound will dry at once. Now, to business! my lads; to business, and no hurry!"
So spoke the Koschevoï; and as soon as he had done all the Cossacks went to their business. The whole of the Ssiecha had all at once grown sober, and nowhere could have been found even one tipsy man, as if no such thing had ever existed among the Cossacks. Some mended the hoops of the wheels and put new axle-trees to the carts; others brought sacks of provisions to the waggons; some stowed away the arms; others drove horses and bullocks. On all sides was heard the trampling of horses, the experimental firing of guns, the jingling of sabres, the bellowing of bullocks, the creaking of carts, the talk, the clamours, the shouts of the drivers. Presently the whole of the Cossack army drew up in line along the field, and he who attempted to run from its head to its tail would have had a long run before him.
A priest was saying mass in the small wooden chapel. He sprinkled all the people with holy water: they all kissed the cross; and, as the army set in motion, and was leaving the Ssiecha, all the Zaporoghians turned back their heads and said, almost in the same words, "Farewell, our mother! may God preserve thee from every impending evil!"
As Tarass Boolba rode through the suburb, he saw that his Jew, Yankel, had already set up a tent and was selling flints, turnscrews, powder, and various other requisites of war likely to be needed on the way—even rolls and loaves.
"What a devil of a Jew!" thought Tarass, and riding up to him said, "Fool! why art thou sitting here? dost thou wish to be shot like a sparrow?"
Yankel, instead of answering, drew nearer to him and making a gesture with both his hands, as if he were about to disclose some mystery, said, "Let my lord only hold his peace and not tell it to any one. Among the Cossack waggons there is one which is mine. I bring every requisite provision for the Cossacks, and during the march I will sell everything at such reduced prices that no Jew has ever sold at such before! By Heavens, I will! by Heavens!"
Tarass Boolba shrugged his shoulders, astonished at the Jewish nature, and rode away to the army.
In a short time the whole of the south-east of Poland became a prey to terror. Everywhere the news had spread, "The Zaporoghians! the Zaporoghians are coming!" All those who could save themselves by flight, used to run away in those times, so disordered, so astonishingly careless, when no fortresses, no castles were built, but when men set up some temporary thatched dwelling, thinking it useless to lose either money or labour on what was doomed to be destroyed in the next Tartar invasion! The alarm was general: one changed his oxen and his plough for a horse and a gun, and repaired to the regiments; another hid himself, driving away his cattle and carrying off everything possible. Now and then were to be found some who encountered the strangers with armed hands, but always with a bad result; the greater part hurriedly took flight. Every one knew how hard it was to contend with the Zaporoghians, warriors hardened in warfare, and who, even in their self-willed licence, kept a pre-concerted order in battle. The mounted Cossacks rode without encumbering or over-exerting the horses; the infantry steadily followed the waggons, and the whole army moved only during the night, taking rest by day in open places, uninhabited tracts and forests, of which there were then plenty. Spies were sent in advance to gather information and to reconnoitre. And oftentimes the Zaporoghians appeared where they were the least expected; then the only thing was to bid farewell to life; the hamlets became the prey of flames; the cattle and horses, which could not be carried off by the Cossacks, were slaughtered on the spot. They seemed rather to be carousing than carrying on a campaign. But the hair would stand on end at the relation of the terrible feats of cruelty of those half-savage times which were everywhere accomplished by the Zaporoghians. Children were put to the sword; women's breasts cut away; the skin torn from the leg as far as the knee of those who were left free—such was the terrible payment of the Cossacks for past debts.
The abbot of a monastery, hearing of their approach, sent two monks to them to say they had no right to act thus, as the Zaporoghians and Poland were at peace; that they were infringing their duty towards the king, and at the same time violating the law of nations.
"Tell the reverend father from me and from all the Zaporoghians," answered the Koschevoï, "that he has nothing to fear; the Cossacks are as yet only just lighting their pipes."
And soon after, the majestic abbey was enshrouded in devastating flames, and its gigantic Gothic windows looked with severe aspect through the occasionally disunited waves of the conflagration. Crowds of flying monks, Jews and women, soon found those towns where there was any hope to find any protection in the number of the garrison and in the thickness of the walls. At times the government sent help; but these few detachments, coming too late, either could no longer find the Cossacks or took fright, turned back at the first encounter and fled away on their swift horses. It happened, however, that some of the king's captains, who had been victorious in previous battles, resolved to unite their strength and put a stop to the progress of the Zaporoghians. It was on such occasions that our young Cossacks were put to the trial: they were strangers to pillage, careless about booty, or about fighting a weak foe; but they were inflamed with the desire of exhibiting their prowess before their older comrades—of fighting hand to hand with the brisk and boastful Pole, who came dashing upon his fiery steed, the flowing sleeves of his cloak flying behind him in the wind. The school was amusing to them. They had already taken a great many horse-trappings, costly swords and guns. One month ago they were but half-fledged nestlings; their nature was now quite changed; they were grown men; even their features, which till then had the meekness of youth, now bore a menacing and strongly marked expression.
Old Tarass was delighted to see both his sons always among the foremost. Ostap seemed to have been born to tread the path of war, and to accomplish difficult feats of arms. Never losing his presence of mind—on no occasion alarmed; but with a coolness quite unnatural in a young man of twenty-two, he understood at the first glance the whole of the danger and the position of things, and on the spot found the means of avoiding difficulty, but avoided it only to be the more sure of surmounting it. His movements were now stamped with the certainty of experience, and the propensities of the future captain might unerringly be traced in him. His body breathed forth strength—his knightly qualities already made him like the mighty lion.
"Oh! that fellow will make in time a good colonel!" said old Tarass; "by Heavens, he will be a good colonel, and such a one, that he will excel his father!"
Andrew gave himself up to the bewitching music of bullets and swords. He understood not what it is to consider, or to calculate, or to measure the strength on one side and on the other. In battle he saw but a frantic luxury and delight; he found something festive in those moments when his brain was on fire—when everything glimmered confusedly before his eyes—when heads flew about—when horses fell with a crash on the ground, and he himself went galloping amidst the whistling of bullets and the clashing of swords, striking on every side and never feeling the strokes which he received. And old Tarass more than once was amazed at seeing Andrew, induced only by his own vehemence, rush on such deeds as no cool-minded and reflective man would have ever undertaken, and achieve solely by the madness of the attack, which could not but astonish the oldest warriors. Old Tarass wondered at Andrew and said, "This one, too, is a good warrior—may the fiend not take him! Not such a one as Ostap; but still a good—yes, a very good warrior."
It was decided that the army should push its march straight to the city of Doobno, where, as the rumour went, there was much money and many rich inhabitants. The march was accomplished in a day and a half, and the Zaporoghians appeared under the walls of the town. The citizens resolved to defend it to the last, and preferred dying in the squares and in the streets before their houses to letting the foe enter their city. A high earthen rampart surrounded it; where the rampart was lower there projected a stone wall, or a house converted into a battery, or at least a strong wooden palisade. The garrison was strong, and felt the importance of its duty. The Zaporoghians at first rushed at the ramparts, but were stopped by murderous volleys of grape-shot. The burghers and citizens of the town seemed also not to wish to remain idle, and stood in crowds on the town wall. Their looks expressed the desperation of resistance. Even women took part in the contest; and stones, casks, and pots flew down on the Zaporoghians; pitch and sacks of sand blinded their eyes.
The Zaporoghians did not like fighting against fortresses; sieges were not their business. The Koschevoï gave orders for a retreat, and said, "Never mind, gentlemen brothers, let us withdraw; but may I be rather a cursed Tartar, and not a Christian, if we allow any one to escape from the town. Let them, the dogs, perish Dy hunger!"
The army after retreating surrounded the town, and, having nothing to do, began to lay waste the country around; setting fire to the neighbouring hamlets and corn-ricks; driving herds of horses into the unreaped corn-fields, where, as if on purpose, stood the full waving ears, the produce of an abundant crop which this year had brought to all labourers. The besieged watched with horror the destruction of their means of subsistence. The Zaporoghians, in the mean time, drew up their waggons into two files all round the town, and, after dividing their encampment into koorens, as in the Ssiecha, played at leap-frog, at pitch and toss, and looked with killing coolness at the town. Bonfires were lighted at night; the cooks of each kooren boiled buckwheat in enormous copper kettles; sleepless sentinels stood all night long by the bonfires.
The Zaporoghians, however, soon began to grow weary of inactivity, principally from the tediousness of sobriety unconnected with any exertion. The Koschevoï found it even necessary to double the proportion of brandy—a practice sometimes used with the Cossacks when they were not engaged in any difficult enterprise. The young Cossacks, especially the sons of Tarass Boolba, were displeased with this mode of life. Andrew evidently was overpowered by its dulness.
"Stupid boy," said Tarass to him, "the Cossack who knows how to wait, becomes an Ataman.[25]He is not a good warrior who merely does not lose his presence of mind in danger; but he is a good warrior who does not become dull even in inactivity, and who, notwithstanding all impediments, will end by attaining his aim."
But fiery youth is no match to an old man. Both have different natures, and both look with different eyes at the same thing.
While the siege was going on, the regiment of Tarass came to join the besiegers. The Essaool Tovkach brought it; two more essaools, the secretary, and the other officials of the regiment, also came with it; the whole of this reinforcement numbered more than four thousand Cossacks. Many of them were volunteers who had come of their own accord without being summoned, as soon as they had heard of the impending business. The essaools had been intrusted by the wife of Tarass to bring her blessing to her sons, and to forward to each of them a cypress image brought from one of the monasteries of Kieff. The two brothers hung the holy images round their necks, and involuntarily gave way to their fancy at this remembrance of their old mother. What omen did this blessing bring them? Was it a blessing for vanquishing the foe, and a pledge of their gay return to their native country with booty and glory, which should be the subject of eternal songs for the players of the bandoora? or was it.... But unknown is the future! and it stands before man like the autumn fog which rises over marshes: birds are flying in it upwards and downwards, flapping their wings and seeing not one another —the dove without seeing the hawk, the hawk without seeing the dove—and every one without knowing how near he may be to death.
Ostap had long since resumed his occupations, and was going to his kooren; but Andrew, without being able to account for it, felt a heaviness at his heart. The Cossacks had already finished their supper; evening had long closed in, and a beautiful July night had encircled the earth in its embrace. Still, Andrew did not return to his kooren—did not go to sleep—but stood gazing at the picture before him. Numberless stars glimmered with a bright translucent twinkling over the skies. The field was covered with carts, placed without order, from which hung tar-pots all dripping with tar; the carts were loaded with all the booty and provisions taken from the enemy. Near the carts, beneath the carts, and at a great distance from the carts, might be seen Zaporoghians sleeping on the grass in different picturesque attitudes; one had laid his head on a corn sack, another on his cap, a third had simply chosen the ribs of his comrade for his pillow. Almost every one wore, suspended to his belt, a sabre, a matchlock and a short pipe with brass plates, wires for cleaning it, and a steel for kindling fire. The massive bullocks were reclining with their feet under their bodies; and the great white spots which they formed looked at a distance like so many grey stones thrown about the acclivities of the field. From every spot in the grass the noisy snoring of the sleeping army had begun to rise, and it was answered from the field by the sonorous neighing of the horses, indignant at having their feet tied.
A magnificent and terrific sight was now added to the beauty of the summer night. It was the blaze of the conflagration of the neighbouring country. At one place the flames went slowly and majestically along the sky; at another, meeting with something combustible in their progress, they whirled suddenly round, hissed and flew up to the very stars, and their fiery tongues disappeared in the most distant clouds. Here a burnt cloister, blackened by the fire, stood like a hard-featured Carthusian monk, showing its stern gloomy outlines at every blaze; next to it a garden was burning. It seemed as if one might hear how the trees hissed wrapt in smoke; and as the fire happened to catch some new place its phosphoric violet light shone suddenly on the ripe bunches of plums, or threw a brilliant golden hue on the yellow pears; and in the midst of all this was to be seen, dangling from the wall of the building or from the bough of a tree, the corpse of some poor Jew or monk, doomed, like the building itself, to become the prey of the flames. Over the conflagration, hovering far away, were to be seen birds looking like so many dark diminutive crosses on a fiery field. The city seemed to be slumbering; its spires, its roofs, its palisades and its walls were sometimes illuminated by the reflection of the distant conflagration.
Andrew walked round the Cossacks' encampment. The bonfires at which the sentries were sitting were going out, and the sentries had fallen asleep; having, it would seem, too much indulged their Cossack appetites. Andrew marvelled at such carelessness, and thought it lucky that no strong forces of the enemy were at hand, and that there was nothing to fear. At last, he went to one of the carts, climbed into it and lay down on his back, bending his arms backwards and putting them under his head. He could not yet sleep, and remained a long time looking at the sky. It appeared all open to him; the air was pure and transparent; the compact mass of stars forming the milky way seemed to be all overflowing with light. At times, Andrew felt a sort of oblivion, and slumber, like a light fog, hid for a minute the sky from his sight; but the next moment it cleared away, and again he saw the heavens.
At this time, it seemed to him that a strange human face had passed before him. Thinking that it was nothing but an illusion of sleep, which would disappear, he opened his eyes wider, and saw that really an emaciated dried-up face bent over him and looked straight into his eyes. Long and coal-black locks of hair, uncombed and dishevelled, stole from beneath a veil thrown over the head. The strange brightness of the eyes, and the deathlike swarthiness of the strongly marked features, would almost have led to the supposition that it was a phantom. Andrew convulsively seized a matchlock and exclaimed, "Who art thou? If thou be an evil spirit—disappear; if thou be a human creature, thy joke is out of place. I'll kill thee at once!"
The figure answered only by putting its finger to its lips, and seemed to be imploring silence. Andrew let go his hold, and began to look attentively at it. The long hair, the neck, and brown half-naked bosom showed it to be a woman, but she was not a native of the country; her face was sunburnt, and bespoke suffering; her wide cheekbones stuck out over her shrunken cheeks; her narrow eyes were cut obliquely, with the outer corner raised. The more Andrew looked at her features, the more he found in them something which he knew. At last he could not refrain from asking, "Tell me, who art thou? It seems to me that I know thee, or have seen thee somewhere."
"Two years ago, in Kieff."
"Two years ago—in Kieff!" repeated Andrew, endeavouring to bring to mind all that his memory had retained of his collegian's life. He took once more an attentive survey of her, and suddenly exclaimed aloud, "Thou art the Tartar! the servant of that lady! of the voevoda's daughter!"
"Hush!" said the Tartar, imploringly, folding her hands, shuddering in all her frame, and at the same time turning her head to see that no one had been awakened by the shriek of Andrew.
"Tell me—tell me—why—wherefore art thou here?" said Andrew in a whisper almost choked, and interrupted at every moment by his internal agitation; "where is the lady? is she alive?"
"She is now in the town."
"In the town?" exclaimed he, again almost shrieking aloud, and he felt that all his blood rushed at once to his heart. "Why is she in the town?"
"Because the lord, her father, is there; it is now more than a year that he has been voevoda[26]in Doobno."
"Well—is she married? Speak! how strange thou art! Say—what is she now?"
"She has not eaten for two days."
"How is that?"
"For a long time not one of the citizens has had a piece of bread; it is long since they were all eating earth."
Andrew remained speechless.
"The lady saw thee among the Zaporoghians from the town wall. She said to me, 'Go, tell the knight that if he recollects me he will come to me; and if not, that he will give thee a morsel of bread for my old mother, for I cannot see my mother die before my eyes. Let me rather die first and she afterwards. Entreat him—embrace his knees and his feet. He, too, may have an old mother, for her sake he must give a bit of bread.'"
Many and different were the feelings that awakened and stirred in the young Cossack's breast.
"But how art thou here? How didst thou come?"
"By a subterranean passage."
"Is there any subterranean passage, then?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Thou wilt not betray me, knight?"
"No; I swear by the holy cross!"
"Behind the ravine, after crossing the rivulet, where there are some reeds growing."
"And it leads straight into the city?"
"Straight into the cloister of the city."
"Let us go! let us go directly!"
"But, in the name of Christ and of his holy mother, a loaf of bread?"
"Thou shalt have it. Stay here by this cart, or rather lie down in it; nobody will see thee—all are sleeping. I'll be back directly."
And he went to the waggons where the provisions of his kooren were kept. His heart beat high. All the past which had been hidden, stifled by his present Cossack life and by the hardships of warfare, rose once more to the surface, drowning in return all the present. Again he saw emerging before him, as if from the depths of some ocean cavern, the form of the glorious lady; again his memory brought back the recollection of her fine arms, of her eyes, of her smiling lips, of her thick dark chestnut hair (whose locks hung curling over her bosom), and of all those elastic limbs which so well harmonised with her maidenly figure. No; these recollections were never extinguished in his breast; they had, only for a time, given place to other mighty impressions. But often—often had they disturbed the young Cossack's slumber, and often did he long lie sleepless on his bed without knowing how to explain the cause of his sleeplessness.
He went on, and his heart beat higher and higher, and his young knees shook at the mere thought of seeing her again. When he reached the waggons he had entirely forgotten why he had come, and, raising his hand to his brow, remained some time trying to recollect what he had to do. At last he shuddered, and felt terror-stricken: the thought flashed across his mind that she might be dying from hunger. He rushed to one of the waggons, and took some great rye loaves under his arm; but then he thought that this food, which suits the unspoiled taste of the strong Zaporoghians, would be too coarse and unsuited to her tender person. He remembered that, the day before, the Koschevoï had scolded the cooks for taking the whole of the buckwheat flour to makesalamata[27], when the quantity would have been quite sufficient for more than three days. Certain of finding enough salamata left in the coppers, Andrew took the travelling kettle of his father and went with it to the cook of his kooren, who was sleeping beside two enormous cauldrons, under which the ashes were not yet extinguished. Looking into the cauldrons, he was astonished to find both of them empty. It ought to have required more than human exertions to eat up all their contents; the more so as their kooren was not so numerous as the others. He peeped into the kettles of the other koorens—there was nowhere anything left. Involuntarily he recollected the saying that Zaporoghians are like children:—Is there but little food? they will eat it; is there much? they will still leave nothing. What was to be done? There was yet somewhere, he thought, in the waggons of his father's regiment a sack of white bread, which the Cossacks had found while pillaging the cloister kitchen. Andrew went straight to his father's waggon: the sack was not there! Ostap had taken it to rest his head upon, and, stretched on the ground, he made the whole field resound with his snoring. Andrew with one hand seized the sack and pulled it away with a jerk, so that Ostap's head fell on the ground, and he himself started up in his sleep, and sitting with his eyes shut, shouted, "Hold! hold! the devil of a Pole! catch his horse! catch it!"
"Be silent! or thou art a dead man," cried the terrified Andrew, raising the sack on his head. But Ostap did not proceed with his speech, for he was already asleep, and snored with such violence that his breath waved the grass on which he was tying.
Andrew looked warily round, to ascertain if the ravings of Ostap had awakened any of the Cossacks. In fact, a crown-tufted head was seen rising in the nearest kooren; but, after looking around, it soon dropped on the ground. After waiting some two or three minutes, Andrew departed with his sack; the Tartar woman was crouching in the waggon, hardly daring to breathe.
"Arise! let us begone! every one sleeps; do not be afraid! Canst thou take but one of these loaves, if I cannot carry them all?" Saying this, he lifted the sacks upon his back, drew another sack with millet from a cart on his way, took even in his hands those loaves which he had wished the Tartar to carry, and bending a little went boldly through the ranks of the sleeping Zaporoghians.
"Andrew!" said old Boolba, as Andrew was passing near him.
Andrew's heart sank within him; he stopped trembling, and slowly uttered, "What?"
"There is a lass with thee! I'll give thee a famous thrashing to-morrow! The lasses will bring thee to no good!" and thus saying he reclined his head upon his elbow, and began to scrutinize the veiled form of the Tartar.
Andrew stood riveted to the spot, without daring to lift his eyes upon his father; but at last he raised them and looked at old Boolba: he saw him already sleeping, with his head resting on the palm of his hand.
He made the sign of the cross. Fear quitted his heart still faster than it had overpowered it; and as he turned round to look at the Tartar, he saw her standing behind him like a dark granite statue all muffled in her veil, and the glare of the distant conflagration, brightening into a sudden flash, lighted only her eyes, dull as those of a corpse. He pulled her sleeve and both proceeded together, looking back at every step. Descending a declivity, they came at last to a ravine, at the bottom of winch there rolled heavily along a rivulet overgrown with sedge, whose banks were all uneven. The field on which the Zaporoghian encampment stood was now entirely hidden from them. At least, as Andrew looked back, he saw an eminence, as high as a man's head, which rose behind him; on it were waving some blades of grass, over which the moon rose in the sky in the shape of a curved sickle of bright red gold. A light wind, which blew from the steppe, foreboded the approach of dawn; but nowhere was to be heard the distant crowing of the cock, for neither in the town nor in the surrounding country had a cock for a long time been left. They passed the rivulet on a log thrown across it; beyond it rose the opposite shore, which seemed to be higher than that which they had left, and had a steep ascent. The wall was here lower: yet the spot seemed a sure stronghold, for behind it rose the cloister wall. The steep hill was covered with long grass, and in the narrow ravine between it and the rivulet grew reeds nearly as tall as a man; on the summit of the hill might be seen the remains of a palisade, which formerly enclosed a kitchen garden; before it grew the large leaves of the butter burr, from behind which stuck out the goosefoot, wild prickly plants, and the sunflower, which reared its top above them. Here the Tartar took off her shoes and went barefoot, carefully lifting her dress, for the place was marshy and covered with water. Making their way through the reeds, they stopped before a heap of brushwood, which formed a fascine; they removed it and found a sort of arch made of earth, whose opening was not wider than the opening of a fireplace. The Tartar, bending her head, went in first; then followed Andrew, stooping as much as he could, to be able to carry his sacks. They were soon quite in the dark.
Andrew could hardly move with his sacks in the dark and narrow subterranean passage, through which he closely followed the Tartar. "Weshall soon see our way," said the guide; "we are near the place where I left my lamp." A ray of light soon stole over the dark earthen wall. They reached a small square, which seemed to have been a chapel; at least a narrow table, like an altar, stood against the wall, and over it hung a Latin image of the Madonna, the painting of which had faded away and could hardly be traced. A email silver lamp, which hung before it, threw over it an uncertain light. The Tartar bent down and took up from the floor a brass candlestick, on a high thin foot, with snuffers, a nail for trimming the wick, and an extinguisher hung round it on chains. Taking up the candlestick, she lighted the candle at the lamp. The light grew brighter and they proceeded, lighted at one time by a blaze of the candle, at others enshrouded in a coal-black shadow, like the figures to be seen in the paintings of Girardo della Nette. The robust, fine features of Andrew, beaming with health and youth, offered a strong contrast to the emaciated pallid face of his companion. The passage had grown wider, so that Andrew could now hold himself erect. He looked with curiosity at the earthen walls. As in those of Kieff,[28]there were excavations, and coffins stood in them from distance to distance; at some places, even human bones were to be met with, grown soft by the dampness of the air and mouldered into powder. Here, too, seemed to have lived holy men, who had sought a refuge from the tempests of the world, from pain and temptation. At times the dampness was very perceptible, and sometimes they even had their feet in water. Andrew was often obliged to stop to give rest to his companion, whose lassitude immediately returned. A little morsel of bread which she had swallowed only caused pain to her stomach, which had become unaccustomed to food, and she often remained motionless for some minutes. At last they saw before them a small iron door. "Thanks be to Heaven! we are there!" said the Tartar in a fainting voice; she tried to raise her hand to knock and had not the strength to do it. Andrew, in her stead, gave a heavy blow on the door; it resounded with a rumbling noise, which indicated that there was a wide empty space behind the door, the sound changing its tones as if met by high arches. At length the door was opened; they were admitted by a monk, who stood on a narrow staircase with the key and a light in his hand. Andrew involuntarily stopped at the sight of a Latin monk, whose garb aroused the most bitter feelings of hatred and contempt in the Cossacks, who behaved towards them with still greater cruelty than towards the Jews. The monk also drew back a step at seeing a Zaporoghian Cossack. But a word indistinctly muttered by the Tartar quieted his fear. He shut the door after them, lighted them up the staircase, and they found themselves under the dark vaulted roof of the cloister church.
At one of the altars, decked with tapers in high candlesticks, knelt a priest in the attitude of prayer; on either side of him, also kneeling, were two young choristers, clad in violet mantles, with white lace capes, holding censers in their hands. The priest was imploring a miracle from Heaven: he prayed that God would preserve the city, strengthen the failing courage, send down patience and resignation to the hearts of the timid and pusillanimous, to support them under the misery He had sent. Some women, like so many phantoms, were on their knees, reclining and even drooping their heads on the backs of the stools and of the dark wooden benches before them. Some men, leaning against the columns which sustained the side arches, mournfully knelt also. A window with coloured glass, which was over the altar, was now lighted by the pink hue of morning, and from it fell, down upon the floor, blue, yellow, and variegated circles of light, which suddenly brightened the darkness of the church. The whole of the altar in its distant niche, seem drowned in light; the smoke of the incense hung in the air like a cloud beaming with all the hues of the rainbow. Andrew was fain to look from the dark corner where he was standing, on this remarkable phenomenon produced by light. At this moment the sublime pealing of the organ suddenly filled the whole of the church; it grew deeper and deeper, increased by degrees into the heavy rollings of thunder, and then, all at once, turning into a heavenly melody, sent up, higher and higher beneath the vaulted roof, its warbling notes, which recalled the delicate voices of maidens; then once more it changed into the deep bellow of thunder, and then it was silent; but the rollings of the thunder long after tremulously vibrated along the aisles, and Andrew with open mouth stood marvelling at the sublime music.
And now he felt somebody pull the skirt of his coat. "It is time," said the Tartar. They went across the church without any one paying attention to them, and came out on the square which was in front of it. The dawn had long ago spread its rosy tint over the sky; everything showed that the sun was about to rise. There was nobody in the square; in the middle of it remained some tables, which showed that, not longer than perhaps a week before, there had here been a market of victuals. As pavements were not used in those times, the ground was nothing but dried mud. The square was surrounded by small stone and clay houses, one story high, with walls, in which might be seen from top to bottom, the wooden piles and pillars, across which projected the wooden beams: houses such as used to be built then, may till now be seen in some towns of Lithuania and Poland. Almost all of them were covered by disproportionately high roofs, pierced all over with numbers of dormer windows. On one side, almost next to the church, rising above the other buildings, was an edifice quite distinct from the others, which seemed to be the town-hall of the city, or some other public establishment. It was two stories high, and above it rose a two-arched belvidere, where stood a sentry; a large sun-dial was fixed in the roof. The square seemed dead; but Andrew thought he heard a faint moaning. Looking on the other side, he saw a group of two or three men, who were lying quite motionless on the ground. He looked more attentively, to see if they were asleep or dead, and at the same time his foot stumbled against something which lay in his way. It was the corpse of a woman, who seemed to have been a Jewess. Her figure bespoke her to have been still young, though the macerated disfigured outlines of her face did not show it. Her head was covered with a red silk handkerchief; a double row of pearls or beads adorned the coverings of her ears;[29]two or three curling locks fell from under them on her shrivelled neck, on which the tightly drawn veins showed like sinews. Beside her lay a child, whose hand convulsively grasped her lank breast and twisted it with his fingers, in vain anger at finding there no milk. The child had ceased weeping and crying, and the slow heaving of its chest alone showed that it was not yet dead or, at least, that its last breath was yet to be drawn. Andrew and his companion turned into a street, and were suddenly stopped by a frantic man, who, seeing the precious burthen of Andrew, flew at him like a tiger and grasped him in his arms, shrieking aloud for bread; but his strength was not equal to his frenzy. Andrew shook off his grasp, and he fell on the ground. Moved by compassion, he threw him a loaf; the other darted like a mad dog upon it, gnawed and bit it, and, at the same moment and on the very spot, died in horrible convulsions from long disuse of taking food. Almost at every step they were shocked by the sight of hideous victims of hunger. It seemed that many could not endure their sufferings in their houses, and had run out into the streets, as if in hope to find something strengthening in the open air. At the doorway of a house sat an old woman, and one could not tell whether she were dead, asleep, or swooning; at least, she neither heard nor saw anything, but, with her head bent down over her chest, sat motionless on the same spot. From the roof of another house there was hanging from a rope a stretched and dried corpse. The miserable man had not been able to endure to the last the sufferings of hunger, and had chosen rather to quicken his end by voluntary suicide.
At seeing such horrifying evidences of the famine, Andrew could not refrain from asking the Tartar, "Had they, indeed, found nothing to lengthen their lives? When man comes to the last extremity, when nothing more remains, well, then he must feed upon what, till then, had appeared disgusting to him; he may even feed upon animals forbidden by the law—everything is then to be used for food."
"All is eaten up," answered the Tartar; "thou wilt not find a horse, a dog—no, not even a mouse left in the town. We never kept any provisions in town; everything was brought from the country."
"How, then, dying such fearful deaths, can they think of defending the town?"
"May be the voevoda would have surrendered it; but yesterday the colonel who garrisons Boodjiang sent a hawk into the town with a note saying not to surrender, as he is coming with his regiment to relieve it, and is only waiting for another colonel that they may come together. Now, we are expecting them every minute—but here we have reached the house."
Andrew had already noticed from a distance a house unlike the others, 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!"