Taras Bulba. A Tale of the Cossacks. Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol
did not show due respect for their superior officers, and stood with their caps on in the latter's presence; or when any one made light of the Orthodox Faith[8] and did not observe the customs of his ancestors; and, finally, when the enemy were Mussulmans or Turks, against whom he considered it permissible, in every case, to unsheath the sword for the glory of Christianity.
Now he rejoiced in anticipation at the thought of how he would present himself with his two sons in the Syech, and say: "See what fine young fellows I have brought you!" how he would introduce them to all his old comrades, steeled in war; how he would watch their first exploits in the art of war, and in carousing, which was regarded as one of the chief qualities of a knight. At first he had intended to send them forth alone; but at the sight of their freshness, stature and robust personal beauty, his martial spirit flamed up within him, and he resolved to go with them himself, the very next day, although there was no necessity for this except his obstinate self-will. He began at once to bustle about and give orders; he selected horses and trappings for his young sons, inspected the stables and storehouses, and chose servants to accompany them on the morrow. He delegated his power to Captain Tovkach, and gave, along with it, a strict command to appear with his entire troop the very instant he should receive a message from him at the Syech. Although he was half-seas over, and the effects of his drinking-bout still lingered in his brain, he forget nothing; he even gave orders that the horses should be watered, their cribs filled, and that they should be fed with the largest and best wheat; and then he came into the house, fatigued with all his labours.
"Well, boys! We must sleep now, but tomorrow we shall do as God appoints. Don't prepare a bed for us! We need no bed; we'll sleep out doors."
Night had only just clasped the heavens in her embrace, but Taras always went to bed early. He threw himself down on a rug, and covered himself with a sheepskin coat; for the night air was quite sharp, and Bulba liked to be warmly covered when he was at home. He was soon snoring and the whole household speedily followed his example. All snored and grunted as they lay in different corners. The watchman went to sleep the first of all, because he had drunk more than any one else, in honour of his young masters' homecoming.
The poor mother alone slept not. She bent over the pillow of her darling boys as they lay side by side; with a comb she smoothed their carelessly tangled young curls, and moistened them with her tears. She gazed at them with her whole being, with her every sense; she merged herself wholly in that gaze, and still she could not gaze enough. She had nourished them at her own breast, she had reared them and petted them; and now to see them only for an instant! "My sons! my darling sons, what will become of you? what awaits you?" she said, and tears stood in the furrows which disfigured her once beautiful face. In truth, she was to be pitied, as was every woman in that valorous epoch. She had lived only for a moment in love, only during the first fever of passion, only during the first flush of youth; and then her grim betrayer had deserted her for the sword, for his comrades and his carouses. She had seen her husband for two or three days in the course of a year, and then for a period of several years there had been no news of him. And when she had seen him, when they had lived together, what sort of a life had been hers? She had endured insults, even beatings; she had seen caresses bestowed merely out of pity; she had been a strange object amid that mob of heartless cavaliers, upon which the dissolute life of the Zaporozhe had cast a grim colouring of its own. Her pleasureless youth had flitted swiftly by; and her beautiful rosy cheeks and her bosom had withered away unkissed, and become covered with premature wrinkles. All her love, all her feeling, everything that is tender and passionate in a woman had, in her case, been converted into the one sentiment of maternal love. With ardour, with passion, with tears, she hovered over her boys, like a gull of the steppe. Her sons, her darling sons, were being taken from her,—taken from her in such a way that she might never see them again! Who knows? Perchance a Tatár would cut off their heads in the very first skirmish, and she would never know where their deserted bodies lay, torn by the beasts of prey; and yet for each drop of their blood she would gladly give her whole self. Sobbing, she gazed into their eyes, even when all-powerful sleep began to close them, and said to herself: "Perhaps when Bulba wakes he will put off their departure for a brief day or two; perhaps he took it into his head to go so soon because he had been drinking hard."
The moon, from the height of heaven, had long since illuminated the whole courtyard filled with sleepers, the dense clump of willows, and the tall steppe grass which hid the wattled hedge. She still sat by the heads of her beloved sons, never removing her eyes from them for a moment, or even thinking of sleep. Already the horses, divining the approach of dawn, had ceased eating, and lain down upon the grass; the topmost leaves of the willows began to rustle softly, and little by little the rippling rustle descended to their very bases. She sat there, unwearied, until daylight, and wished in her heart that the night might last as long as possible. From the steppe came the ringing neigh of a stallion; red tongues darted brightly athwart the sky.
Bulba suddenly awoke and sprang to his feet. He remembered perfectly well all that he had ordered the night before. "Now, my lads, time's up! you've slept enough! Water the horses! And where's the old woman?" (This was what he generally called his wife.) "Hurry up, old woman, get us something to eat; we've a long trip ahead of us."
The poor old woman, deprived of her last hope, slipped sadly into the cottage. While with tears she prepared what was needed for breakfast, Bulba issued his orders, went to the stable, and himself selected his best trappings for his boys.
The collegians were suddenly transformed. Red morocco boots with silver heels replaced their dirty old foot-gear; trousers wide as the Black Sea, with thousands of folds and plaits, were supported by golden girdles; from the girdles hung long, slender thongs, with tassels and other jingling things for pipes. The kazák coat, of brilliant scarlet cloth, was confined by a flowered belt; embossed Turkish pistols were thrust into the belt; their swords clanged at their heels. Their faces, already slightly sunburned, seemed to have grown handsomer and whiter; their little black moustaches now set off more distinctly both their pallor and their strong, healthy, youthful complexions. Very handsome were they, beneath their black sheepskin caps, with golden crowns.
When their poor mother saw them she could not utter a word, and tears stood in her eyes.
"All ready there, now, sons! No time to waste!" said Bulba, at last. "Now we must all sit down together, In accordance with our Christian custom before a journey."
All seated themselves, not excepting the servants, who had been standing respectfully at the door.
"Now, Mother, bless your children," said Bulba. "Pray God that they may always fight bravely, always uphold knightly honour, always defend the faith of Christ; and if not, that they may perish, and their breath be no longer in the world.—Come to your mother, my boys; a mother's prayer saves on land and sea."
The mother, weak as all mothers are, embraced them, drew out two small holy images, and sobbing, hung one round each neck—"May God's Mother… keep you! My dear little sons, forget not your mother… send some little word of yourselves…" she could say no more.
"Now boys, let's go!" said Bulba.
By the porch stood the horses, ready saddled. Bulba sprang upon his "Devil" which jumped madly rearward, feeling upon his back a load of twenty puds,[9] for Taras was extremely stout and heavy.
When the mother saw that her sons also were mounted on their horses, she flung herself toward the younger, whose features expressed somewhat more gentleness than those of his brother. She grasped his stirrup, clung to his saddle, and, with despair in her eyes, would not loose him from her hands. Two husky kazáks seized her carefully, and carried her into the cottage. But when they had already ridden through the gate, with all the agility of a wild goat, utterly out of keeping with her years, she rushed through the gate, with irresistible strength stopped a horse, and embraced one of her sons with a sort of senseless vehemence. Then they led her away once more.
The young kazáks rode on sadly, repressing their tears out of fear of their father who, on his side, was somewhat agitated, although he strove not to show it. The day was grey; the greenery shone brightly; the birds twittered rather discordantly. They glanced back as they rode away. Their farm seemed to have sunk into the earth. All