Taras Bulba: a story of the Dnieper Cossacks

Introduction

English people hear and read so much about Russia nowadays that it seems almost presumption to preface Taras Bulba with anything approaching an explanation of the word "Cossack." Indeed, I have only ventured to do so because I know there are some who, though they have heard all about those nomadic men among whom old Taras was, and is, a hero, like to have a few historical facts relating to that remarkable people set before them. It is for such that the following introduction has been written.

Cossack is the English for "kozak," and kozak means a knight or warrior. Every Cossack deserves the name, for he is never happy unless fighting, and lives up to the traditions of his race by crowning the victory with plenty of plunder. They are of Slavonic origin; and though their language is more like Russian than any other, there are many Polish words in it — a fact that is not to be wondered at when we remember how many times they ravaged and sacked the "fair land of Poland." Their creed is now, as in the time of Sietch, that of the Eastern Church. To day their position cramps their energies; but in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries Pole, Turk and Tartar had good reason to fear them. At that time they were divided into two parts, one inhabiting the lower reaches of the Don and Volga, the other the South of Poland and the Ukraine (Little Russia). A glance at the map will show that while the former was Europe's rampart against the Tartar, the latter served the same purpose against the Mussulman. But the Cossacks of Ukraine, brave and savage as they were, had as much as they could do to save themselves from utter destruction at the hands of the Turks. So heavy were their losses in the perpetual struggles against them, that at last, at the end of the fifteenth century, they began to search for an ally. They had not far to look, for to the north and "west of the Ukraine, stretching from the Carpathians to the Baltic, lay a prosperous republic, long since mutilated out of all recognition, but then boasting a large territory and a civilized people. It was to the Polish Republic that the Cossacks of the Ukraine appealed, offering military service in return for protection.

At first all went well: the Cossacks were free to elect their own hetmen, and to lead their own lives, till their new protectors summoned them to arms. Until that summons came they passed their time in occasional raids by land or sea against the Turk, filling their pockets with sequins, and giving their youth something to do. But this harmony did not last long: the Cossacks made a treaty with the Sultan, thereby curbing their energies south of the Black Sea; and what was worse, the Poles tried to deprive them of their civil rights and turn them from the Eastern Church to the Western. Then it was that the men of the Ukraine found leaders like Taras Bulba, and swept in fierce, plundering hordes even to Krakow and the foot of the Carpathians. The struggle dragged on with , varying success down to the year 16 54, when Russia settled the question of righ ts,, _and liberties by putting the Cossacks under her own rule. A long series of revolts and insurrections followed: Russia not only won in the end, but has now succeeded in making the Cossacks her most powerful means of defence.

These hordes, utterly untouched by European civilization, form a separate military force, known as the Cossack Army, and consisting of the Cossacks of the Don, the Cossacks of the Black Sea, the Cossacks of Astrakhan, of the Caucasus, of Orenburg, the Cossacks of the Ural, of Baikal, of Meetcherak (Baskirs), and the Cossacks of Azov. Thanks to the sturdy horses they rear on their steppes, and the rough nomadic life they lead from earliest infancy, they are the best light cavalry in the Russian army. A democratic, republican people, they acknowledge no superiors, except their military officers, whom they elect themselves as in the days of Sietch and Taras Bulba. Their chief, or hetman, however, is nominated by the Tsar, and the heir-apparent to the Russian throne is always entitled the " Hetman-General of the Cossacks."

In Taras Bulba Gogol has given us a Cossack epic. Those savage, pillaging hordes, with their comradeship and fanaticism, their bravery and rough justice, have found a Homer of the steppes to sing their fame; for Gogol, himself a Little- Russian, loved the steppes as they did, and as all the poetry and longing of a Cossack is in that verdant ocean, he has told of them and their lives in words that charm the Anglo- Saxon as well as the Slav, and appeal to all who love a brave deed or a faithful friend.

TARAS

BULBA.

CHAPTER I. ND so thou'rt home, sonnie !

But ye look queer indeed !

What may that Iff pope's 1 cassock be that ye've

got on ye ? And do all the Academy walk

dressed like that?"

1 Pope = a priest of the Eastern Church.

With such words did old Bulba greet his sons, bursars of the Kiev Academy, when they came home. They had just dismounted from their horses. They were bigfellows ; both of them looked sheepish, as young men let loose from the Academy are wont to do, and their strong, sturdy faces were covered with a virgin down that had never known the razor. The paternal welcome confused them greatly, and they stood quite still, their eyes fixed on the ground.

"Stand" up, stand up, that I may look right well at ye," the father went* on, turning them about. " Such coats ye've on ! Such long coats ! Never yet were there such coats in the world! Just run a little, one of ye. I would fain see if they fall not on the ground and sweep the field."

"Don't laugh, father,* don't laugh!" cried the elder son at last.

" Ho, ho ! Look ye what dignity ! And why don't laugh ?"

"'WELL THEN, LET IT^BE WITH FISTS,' SAID BULBA." 3

"Yea, I mean it. I'll fight ye, by God I will ; though thou'rt my own father, I'll fight ye if ye mock at me like that."

"Aha! aha! thou'rt such a son! So! Thine own father," exclaimed Bulba, stepping back in astonishment.

"Yea, mine own father. I brook no man's insult, and let no man's affront go by."

"And how wilt thou fight? With thy fists maybe?"

"With aught thou wilt."

"Well then, let it be with fists," said Bulba, baring his arms. " We'll see what ye can do with fists."

And by way of greeting after their long separation, father and son began to exchange blows in the chest, middle and sides. Each paused occasionally to look at his adversary, and then resumed his pommelling.

"Look ye, look ye, good people! The 4 old man's mad! Clean out of his mind," cried the boys' good mother, who stood pale and thin in the doorway, and who had not been able to kiss her long-absent darlings. "The children have but come home, we've not seen them for a year or more, and he must needs be up to God knows what. Fighting indeed!"

"Yea, he fights lustily," observed Bulba, pausing. " Right well, by God ! He'll make a good Cossack. Well, sonnie, welcome to ye! Let's embrace." Father and son fell to kissing one another. " Do ye but drub everybody as ye've drubbed me. Let no man mock 'at ye ! But how funny all thy clothes look ! What does that rope dangle there for ? And thou, young Beibas, why stand there with thy hands at thy sides ? Come now, thou hound's son, art going to fight me too?"

" Bless him ! he must needs think of that now," broke in the mother, who had

5 B been embracing her younger son. "Who'd think of fighting his own begotten children, as if they'd nought better to do now ! The child's come, ever so far ; he's young, and been toiling and tramping [the child was over twenty years old and a good six feet high], and when he ought to be resting and eating a bite, he must needs make them fight !"

"Ay, ay, thou'rt a milksop, I trow," Bulba was saying. " Don't mind the mother, sonnie ; she's but an old woman, she knows nothing. What pampering want ye ? Your pampering must be the open field; yea, a good horse, that's your pampering ! See ye that sword ? — that's your mother. That's all trash they rammed into your heads, and the Academy and all those books, and primers and philosophy and the devil only knows what — I spit on it all!" Here Bulba used a word that is not generally put into print. " There's something better than all that. This very week I'll send you both to Sietch. There's the school for ye ! there's the only place to get understanding ! "

"And only to stay a week at home?" asked the thin old mother, with tears in her eyes. "And not let them run about, and not let them know their own nest, and not even let me look at them ? "

" Have done with thy whining, have done, old hag ! A Cossack's not for dangling after women. Thou wouldst be hiding them under thy petticoat and sitting on them like a sitting-hen on her eggs. Away with ye ! away ! Yea, put all thou hast upon the board. We want no cakes, nor gingers, nor poppy-pasties or other fangles; drag us a whole sheep or a goat, yea, hundred-year-old honey, yea, plenty of brandy; not faked with raisins and rubbish, but clear, sparkling brandy that can pinch and prickle like mad."

Bulba bade his sons follow him into the little guest-chamber, whence two pretty serving-wenches, who had been arranging the room, ran out. They pretended to be afraid of the young masters, not liking men to look at them; anxious, in short, to maintain feminine customs — scream and fly at the sight of a young man, and cover their faces for shame. The room they entered was furnished in the taste of those times, those days which remain now but in songs, and in the people's thoughts ; in the taste _p f those times that even the blind minstrels, with their three-stringed guitar, have ceased to sing of to the listening crowds ; in the taste of those stern, turbulent times when the struggles and battles for the Greek Church were being played in the Ukraine .

The furniture was clean and painted with coloured clay. The walls were hung with swords, knouts, bird and fish nets, firearms, horns cunningly arranged for holding powder, a golden bit, and fetters with silver fastenings. The windows were small, and fitted with those dull, round-cut panes — only to be met with now in old-world monasteries — which it is impossible to see through. There were shelves in the corners, filled with ewers, bottles, and flasks of green and blue glass, engraved silver goblets, gilded cups of all manner of workmanship — Venetian, Turkish, and Circassian, which had found their way to Bulba's farm by many hands, as was the custom in those days. The birchwood forms round the room, the large table under the sacred pictures in the altar-corner, the wide stove built with many an ingle and projection, and faced with variegated tiles— all these things were familiar enough to the two youngsters, who spent their annual holidays at home. They always used to walk, because bursars were not supposed to ride in those days. They had but their long forelocks, which any armed Cossack was welcomed to pull. Bulba had sent them a pair of young horses from his own drove just before they left the Academy.

Bulba ordered all the centurions and officers who happened to be at home to be summoned in honour of his sons' home-coming, and when two of them came with Captain Dmitro Tookatch, his old comrade, he introduced his boys to them, saying, "Look ye, what youngsters! I'll send them to Sietch very soon." The guests congratulated both Bulba and his sons,, telling the latter there was good work in store for them, and no better school for a youngster than Sietch-beyond-the-Rapids.

" Now, brother-gentlemen, sit ye all down, where ye will, by the table. Come-to, my lads, first of all we'll drink some brandy,'' said Bulba. " God bless ye, lads, and ye. Ostap and Andrew ; God give ye luck in war, that ye may beat the Mussulmans, and beat the Turks, and beat the Tartars— yea, and when the Poles begin aught against our faith, that ye may beat the Poles too. Hold out your cup! It's right good brandy, what? And how's the Latin for brandy? Well, well, lads, the Latins were fools; they knew not if there was brandy or not in the world. What did they call him who wrote the Latin verses? I'm not very strong in learning, and so I'm rot sure : Horace, was't not?"

" Look ye, what a cunning old father it is," thought Ostap, the elder son. " He knoweth all the classics, the dog, and still he must needs sham."

" The archimandrite did not let ye so much as smell brandy, I trow," Taras ran on; "but confess now, did they not lash ye lustily with birches and fresh cherry-sticks, about the back, yea, and about all a Cossack hath? And maybe, as ye waxed all too clever, they ripped ye with the lash as well?

n

They doled it out not only on Saturdays maybe, but on Wednesdays and Thursdays as well?"

" It booteth not to think on what is past, father," coolly answered the elder son. "What hath been is done with."

"Let them try now," said Andrew; "let any man provoke me, let a Tartar show himself: he'll know what manner of thing a Cossack sword is."

"Well said, sonnie, by God, well said! Yea, when it cometh to that I too will go with ye! By God, I'll go with ye. What manner of a devil keeps me here? That I may become a reaper of buckwheat, a housewife, a minder of sheep, yea, and of swine, yea, to dangle after the wife ? The plague take her! I'm a Cossack, I will not! And what if there be no war ? I'll go with ye ibeyond the rapids for all that — and see the World again. I'll go, by God, I will!" And old Bulba went on working himself into a passion, sprang up from the table, looked dignified and stamped his feet on the ground. " We will away in the morning. Why tarry here ? What enemy awaiteth us here ? What do we want with this hut ? What do we want with it all ? What are all these pots for ? " And he began to knock down the mugs and flasks, and hurl them about the room.

The poor old wife, long since accustomed to her husband's ways, sat on the bench and sadly watched him. She was afraid to say a word, but could not restrain her tears when she heard the fatal decision. As she gazed at the children she was doomed so soon to part with, nobody could have described all the dumb strength of bitterness that was in her eyes and compressed lips.

Bulba was terribly dogged. His was one of those natures that could only exist during the boisterous fifteenth century and in that semi-nomadic corner of Europe, when the whole southern portion of primitive Russia, neglected by its princes, was left prey to, and ravaged from end to end by hordes of untamable Mongolians. Thus men who were bereft of house and hearth made a firm stand, settling on the ashes of their burned homes in the very eyes of their threatening foes, amidst perpetual dangers grew used to looking them straight in the face, and forgot to know that there was such a thing as peril. A warlike flame had kindled in the once peace-loving Sclavonic heart, begetting Cossackism, that nomadic trait in the Russian character. Every river country and ferry, every strand and inhabitable spot was sown with Cossacks, whose very sum no man knew, and whose bold comrades truly answered the Sultan who asked their numbers: "Who knoweth them? They are spread o'er every steppe ; where a hillock is, there will ye find a Cossack."

Truly this was a marvellous effort of Russian strength, and the miseries of war had begotten it. Instead of the old holdings and small towns, crowded with hunter and hound, instead of the petty princes' rivalry, menacing settlements, Cossack - huts and enclosures, bound together by common danger and common hatred of the heathen spoilers, sprung up everywhere. It is now a matter of history that their perpetual struggles and restless lives saved Europe from those savage hordes that at one time threatened to swamp it. The Kings of Poland, who succeeded the petty princes as masters, weak and distant though they were, well understood the Cossacks' value, with the advantages obtained by those warlike, vigilant lives, and encouraged and flattered them. Under their remote authority, hetmen, chosen from amongst the Cossacks themselves, soon transformed the huts and settlements into regiments and regular districts. This was no standing army, and no one would ever have remarked it ; but in time of war or tumult, within eight days, all mustered, horsed and fully equipped, drawing but a ducat's pay and swelling in two weeks' time to such an army as no amount of recruiting could have brought together. When the campaign was over, the warrior returned to his meadows and pastures by the Dnieper fofds — went a fishing, bought and sold, brewed beer, and was, in short, an independent Cossack. Foreigners of the time were astonished at their aptitude, and not without reason. There was no craft the Cossack did not know ; he could make wine, build a cart, grind powder, do a farrier's or a gunsmith's work, and last but not least, riot and drink and feast as only a Russian can; it all came natural to him. Besides these enrolled Cossacks, bound to appear in time of war, scores of volunteers could always be had in time of urgent need. A captain had but to enter the squares and marketplaces of the settlements and villages, and standing up in a cart cry out —

" Hark ye ! ye beer swillers and brewers. Enough of this ale-brewing, yea, and wallowing on stoves, yea, feeding the flies with your greasy bodies ; come-to and win knightly fame and honour ! And ye ploughmen and mowers, sheep-minders and women lovers, enough of following the plough ; yea, shoving your greasy boots in the earth, yea, dangling after women and wasting knightly strength ! "

And these words were ever as sparks falling on dry wood. The ploughman broke his plough, the brewers and beer-vendors left their vats and smashed their barrels, the craftsman and trader sent their craft and shop to the devil, broke all the pots in the house, and sprang into the saddle. The Russian character had taken a wide, strong oscillation, and gained a powerful front.

Bulba was one of th ° nnVinn l 'H^n ^s, born for fighting and turbulen ce, and knnvm for his rough, straightforward nature, Polish influences were already at work among the Russians ; many had adopted their neighbours' customs and introduced luxuries, such as servants, hawks, huntsmen, banquets, and large houses. But Taras did not approve of all these things ; he loved the simple Cossack life, and quarrelled with those ot his comrades who adopted Warsaw customs, calling them the Polish noble's slaves. Ever turbulent, he counted himself a lawful defender of Orthodoxy ; he would march into any settlement where the inhabitants complained of newly-levied taxes, or of the lease-holders, and taking the law into his own hands, would sit in judgment on them, aided by his own men. He deemed it his duty ever to draw swords in three cases— when the commissaries failed to respect their i elders and stood before them with covered heads; when any man sneered at Orthodoxy or the memory of his forefathers ; and lastly, when he found himself face to face with Turk or Mussulman, against whom he judged it justifiable to take up arms to the glory of Christianity under all circumstances. And now he rejoiced at the thought of taking his boys to Sietch, with a " Look ye, what lads I've brought ye!" to his old battleworn comrades, and of watching over their early lessons in war and carousal, which latter he counted one of the first knightly qualities. He had intended to send them alone, but the sight of their fresh, wellgrown, strong beauty aroused the old fighting spirit in him, and he was determined to start with them on the morrow, though the need of haste existed only in his own stubborn imagination. He lost no time, but began to give orders at once, choosing horses and equipments for his sons, going over stable and storehouse, and picking out the servants who were to start with them. He deputed his authority to Captain Tookatch, together with strict orders to appear in every part of the regiment should a message come from Sietch. Though he was still tipsy and his head full of drink, nothing, down to orders to water the horses and feed them with the best, large-grained wheat, was forgotten. This done, he rejoined his sons, tired out. ~" " Now, my children, it's time to sleep, and to-morrow we'll do what God putteth to our hands. Nay, make us no beds; we need no beds, we will sleep outside."

Night had barely covered the sky, but Bulba always went to bed early. He lay down on a rug and covered himself with a sheepskin cloak, for the nights were fresh and he liked to sleep warm when at home. It was not long before he began to snore ;

all those in the courtyard followed his example, and grunts and snorts were to be heard on all sides. The first to fall asleep was the watchman, for he had drunk more than anybody in honour of the young masters' home-coming.

The poor mother alone slept not ; she bent over her sons' heads as they lay side by side, she combed their tangled locks and moistened them with her tears. She gazed at them with all her soul, gazed at them with all her senses turned into sight, and yet she could not gaze her fill. She had fed them with her own breast, had reared and fondled them, and now she might not have them with her. " My sons, my sweet lads, what will become of ye ? What awaiteth ye ?" she cried, and the tears lodged in the wrinkles that had changed her once fair face. Verily, her lot was a bad one, as was every woman's in those distant times. She had been loved but for an instant, in the first heat of youth and passion ; then her stern charmer had cast her aside for his sword, his comrades, and his carousals. She would see him for three days in two years, and then probably not even hear of him for years again. Ay, and when she did, and they lived together, what a life was hers ! She suffered insults and even blows whilst she dreamed of caresses, bestowed in the fulness of love. Hers was a strange existence amid the crowd of wifeless knights on whom dissolute Sietch had thrown its stern mantle. Her joyless youth faded before her ; her fair, fresh cheeks and bosom lost their bloom for lack of tenderness, and became covered with premature wrinkles. All love, all sentiment, all that is tender and passionate in woman was turned into maternal instinct. She hovered over her children like some solitary lapwing of the steppes, full of pain and passion and tears. Her sons, her sweet sons, they are taking them away from her, that she might never see them more : who can say ? Maybe the Tartar will slash off their heads in their first battle, and she will not even know where their forsaken bodies, the prey of every passing vulture, lie. She would give the last drop of her blood to save one of theirs. Sobbing, she gazed on their eyes, sealed by heavy sleep, and thought, " Maybe Bulba will tarry a day or two. He thought to start so soon because he drank too much." The moon had long since lightened the crowded court, the clump of willows, and the high grass that buried the hedge ; but she still sat on at her dear sons' heads, neither did she raise her eyes from their faces, nor think of sleep. The horses, feeling dawn's approach, ceased eating and stretched themselves on the grass ; the topmost willow leaves began to rustle, and little by little the rustling wave spread to the lowest branch. Not a whit weary, and only wishing the night might last, the mother sat on ... a colt's shrill neigh came from the steppes ; red bands appeared across the sky. . . .

Suddenly Bulba woke and sprang to his feet. He remembered the events of the night before quite well.

" Now, my lads," he cried. " Enough sleep, enough, enough ! Water the horses ! Where's the old wench!" (So he always spoke of his wife.) " Hark ye, old one ! hasten to get us something to eat ! The road lieth long before us."

The poor old woman, thus bereft of her only hope, wearily dragged herself into the cottage. As she tearfully prepared the morning meal, Bulba gave final directions, making no end of a stir in the stables, and choosing the best clothes for his sons' wear.

The bursars were suddenly transformed. Instead of their muddy shoes, they wore red morocco boots with silver heels; their trousers. wjdp as thp RlarTr .Spa , and with a thousand pleats and folds, were cnnfmpd. at the waist by a gold cord, from which hung little straps, tassels, and pockets for pipes. Their casaques were of the best red cloth, and fastened with ornamented belts, from which chased Turkish pistols were suspended ; swords hung at their sides. Their faces, scarcely flushed as yet, seemed paler and handsomer than the day before, whilst their black moustaches gave a somewhat deeper shade to their young, sturdy bloom. They looked very handsome in their black astrachan gold-topped caps, and their mother could not say a word when she saw them. She stood looking at them, and her eyes filled with tears.

" Come now, my sons, there's nought to tarry for, all's ready," said Bulba, at last. "And now we must needs all sit down before we start, as is the Christian custom."

All sat down, not excepting the yokels who had been standing respectfully in the doorway.

"And thou, mother, must give the children thy blessing," he went on. " Pray God they may fight lustily, defending knightly honour and the Christian faith, and if not — better they should perish, and their breath not hamper the earth. And do ye go to your mother, children ; a mother's prayers can save by land and sea."

Their mother embraced them with maternal weakness, and threw two small images round their necks.

" May the Mother of God preserve ye. . . . Forget not your mother . . . my sonnies. Send me a little word now and then. ..."

She could say no more.

"Well, now we must away, my children," said Bulba.

The horses stood saddled at the door. Bulba sprang on his Devil, who shook with rage when he felt a staggering pounds'- weight on his back, for Bulba was stout and remarkably heavy.

When the mother saw her children had mounted, she flung herself on the younger one, whose face seemed the more softened, grasped his stirrup, clung to the saddle and, her eyes full of despair, refused to let him go.

It took two big Cossacks to carry her into the cottage. When they had ridden away, in spite of her advanced years, she ran out lightly as a wild she-goat, stopped the horse with abnorm al strength, and embraced her son with mad, uncontrollable passion. They dragged her away again.

It was a grey morning, but some glare seemed to be upon the verdure, some discord in the birds' song. The boys looked behind them as they rode. The farm had disappeared into the ground, and two chimneys were all they could see of the modest cottage.

There were the tops of the trees which, squirrel-like, they had so often climbed ; still stretched before them lay the meadow whereon all their life-history, from the time they used to roll in its luxuriant grass to the days they hunted the black-bearded Cossack, was written. And now nought remains but the pole over the well, with the cart-wheel fastened at the top, outlined against the sky; already the valley they have ridden over is beyond the hill which has hidden everything. Farewell — childhood — and play, and all, and all !

Chapter II

All three rode in silence. Old Bulba

was thinking of the past. His whole youth,

those fleeting years that any Cossack mourns

over, wishing his life were all such, passed