The Cossacks

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Chapter I

Quiet reigned in the streets of Moscow. The creaking of wheels upon the snow was heard only at rare intervals. No lights shone from the windows; even the street-lamps had been extinguished. The sound of church-bells was beginning to vibrate over the sleeping city, announcing the approach of dawn. The thoroughfares were deserted, though here and there one perceived a coachman sleepily waiting for a belated passenger, or an old woman making her way to some church, where the candles cast a flickering light over the gilded images. The working classes were gradually waking from slumber to resume their toil after the repose of a long winter's night.

For youthful idlers and pleasure-seekers it was still evening, however.

Though forbidden by law, a gleam of light was yet shining through the closed shutters of a window in the Chevalier Restaurant. A carriage, some sleighs, and a threehorse posfc-sledge were standing in front of the door. The porter, wrapped in his sheep-skin coat, was sheltering himself behind a corner of the house.

“ Do they intend to stay here talking nonsense all night?" wondered a pale and tired waiter in the anteroom. “ It is always my luck to be on duty at such times."

The voices of three young men at supper in the adjoining room were distinctly audible. The table was still strewn with the remains of the feast. One of the occupants of the room, a small, thin, insignificant-looking young man, was gazing affectionately at a youth who was about to depart. The second, a tall young man, was lying on a sofa near a table covered with empty bottles. The third, who was dressed in a short pelisse, was walking up and down the room, pausing from time to time to take some almonds and crush them in his large, strong, but carefully kept hands. This young man, whose name was Olenine, was smiling gayly, his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks were flushed. He was talking feverishly with excited gestures, but it was very evident that he had some difficulty in finding words to express the feelings that filled his heart.

“ I may surely be allowed to speak freely, now,” he remarked. “ I am not trying to justify myself, but I should like you to see the matter as I see it, and not as people in general view it. You think that I have not acted altogether right toward her, I believe,” he added, turning to the plainlooking little man who was gazing at him so kindly but sleepily.

“ Yes, I think you have done wrong,” was the reply, though the speaker's countenance expressed even more affection than weariness.

“ I know your opinion. You think that for a man to be loved is quite enough. That it is even better than to love.”

“ Yes, my dear friend, it is more than enough, I think.”

“ But why should not the love be mutual?” asked the other after a moment's reflection, in which he gazed at his friend with something like pity. “ Why can not one love at will? It is certainly a great misfortune to know that one is beloved, and yet feel wretched because one can not return the love one has inspired; nor is one's remorse lessened by the knowledge that one has not done wrong intentionally. You seem inclined to think that I won the affection of a certain lady under false pretenses. Do not deny it. Nevertheless, whether you believe me or not, I assure

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you that of all the follies I have committed — and their name has been legion — this is the only one for which I have no reason to feel any remorse. I have never willfully deceived either her or my own conscience. I really believed for a time that I loved hen, afterward I found that I was mistaken, that my feeling for her was not love. My affection for her had cooled while hers had increased. Am I, then, to blame because I could not love her? What was I to do?”

‘ 4 It is useless to discuss that question now, as all is over between you,” said his friend, lighting a cigar to keep himself awake. 44 I will tell you one thing, though: that is, you have never loved yet, and you do not even know what it is to love.”

44 Never loved! that is true. I have never loved; but I long to know love — to find out if such a thing really exists as I understand it. My doubts on the subject are not yet satisfied. But what is the use of talking about it? I have spoiled my life, and all is over. You are right. I am going away to begin a new existence. ”

44 That you will spoil afresh,” remarked the young man reclining on the sofa.

His friend did not seem to hear him.

44 1 am sorry and at the same time glad to go, though why I should be sorry I hardly know,” mused the youth who was about to depart.

Then he went on talking about himself without perceiving that the subject had not much interest for his companions. A man is never so egotistical as when under the influence of strong mental excitement. It seems to him then that no subject can be as interesting as himself.

44 The driver will not consent to wait any longer,” said a young servant clad in a sheep-skin coat and heavy woolen muffler, who entered just at that moment. 44 His horses have been waiting ever since midnight, and it is now four o'clock.”

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Olenine glanced at Vania, and fancied he saw in his traveling costume — his heavy fur-lined boots and his stupid face — a summons to a new existence — a life of privation, toil, and ceaseless activity.

“ It is indeed time , 9 9 he replied. 4 ‘ Farewell, my friends . 9 9

He buttoned his pelisse. His friends urged him to send some drink-money to the driver of the post-sledge and ask him to wait still longer, but he refused, and putting on his fur cap he paused in the middle of the room. His friends took leave of him, embracing him two or three times. He walked to the table, poured out a glass of wine, drained it, then taking the hand of his insignificant-looking friend, and blushing deeply, he said:

“ Tell me — I can, I must speak frankly to you; my friendship surely warrants it — tell me — did you love her? I always suspected it — Yes?”

“ Yes,” replied the small young man, smiling gently.

“ Then perhaps — 99

‘ 6 I have orders to put out the lights, sir,” said the waiter, who could not understand why these young men were saying the same thing over and over again. “ To whom shall I give the bill — to you, sir?” he added, turning to the tall young man, for he knew in advance to whom he was to deliver it.

“ Yes. How much is to pay?”

“ Twenty-six roubles. ”

The tall young man reflected a moment, but made no reply, and put the bill in his pocket. The others were still talking.

“ Once more farewell. You are truly a brave fellow,” said the little man, with a sad smile.

The eyes of both young men were moist. They all walked down-stairs. The traveler turned to the tall young man and said, blushing a little:

“ By the way, will you have the goodness to settle my account with Chevalier and send it to me?”

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“ Yes, yes,” replied the other, drawing on his gloves; then in an entirely different tone he added: “ How I envy you!”

“ Come on, then,” said Olenine, moving along in the sledge so as to make room for his friend, who evinced no desire to accept the invitation, however.

“ Well, I must be ofi^” said the traveler, wrapping himself in a huge cloak. His voice trembled, however.

“Farewell, Mitia,” said his tall friend. “God grant you—”

He paused. He was chiefly anxious for his friend to get away as soon as possible, so he did not finish the sentence.

There was a moment’s silence; then some one again cried:

“ Farewell!” and the driver whipped up his horses.

“ Elizar, my carriage,” cried one of those who remained.

The coachmen jerked their reins, and the wheels creaked noisily upon the snow.

“ What a good fellow Olenine is!” said one of the young men; “ but what a strange idea to go to the Caucasus, and to go in such a capacity. I wouldn’t do it for anything. Will you dine at the club to-morrow?”

“Certainly.”

And the young men separated.

The trayeler felt uncomfortably warm, so seating himself in the bottom of the sledge, he unbuttoned his fur coat. The three horses bore him swiftly from street to street, passing houses he had never seen, in the darkness. Olenine said to himself that only those who were departing forever would pass through such streets. Everything around him was gloomy, silent, and lugubrious; and his soul was filled with tender recollections, emotions and regrets.

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Chapter II

“What kind hearts they have! how I love them!” he repeated again and again, and his tears were ready to flow. But why? And whom did he love so devotedly? He would have found it difficult to say. He glanced mechanically at a house he was passing, and wondered that it was so badly constructed; then he asked himself why Vania and the driver, who were utter strangers to him, should be so near him and obliged to accompany him; then he repeated again: “How kind they were! how I love them!” Once he even said to himself: “It is truly wonderful!” then recollecting himself he wondered if he were not drunk. He had really taken two bottles of wine; but his state of mind was not due to the wine alone. He was thinking of the affectionate words that had been said to him at the moment of departure — of the warm pressure of his hand, of the affectionate looks, and of the tone in which that “ Farewell, Mitia!” had been uttered. He recollected, too, his own confession, and the deep interest in him which relatives and even casual acquaintances had manifested at the time of his departure, and how cordially they had seemed to forgive all offenses as on the eve of one’s first communion or of death.

“ It may be that I shall never return,” he thought; and it seemed to him that his heart too was filled with a profound affection and regret for some one.

It was not his affection for his comrades, however, that had so softened his heart as to extort these incoherent words from him, nor a love for any woman, for he had never loved; no, it was a love of self, or rather of all that he considered best and noblest in himself, that made him weep and murmur these rambling words.

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Olenine had never completed any college course, nor had he ever filled any official position, though registered for awhile in one of the government departments. He had spent the greater part of his fortune; and though he was now twenty-four years of age, he had not yet decided upon any career or turned his attention to any business. He was merely what is known in Moscow as a young society man. At eighteen he had enjoyed all the freedom that was allowed in Russia twenty years ago to youthful members of wealthy families who were left orphans at an early age. He was subjected to no mental or moral restraint whatever, but was allowed to think and act precisely as he pleased. He was no philosopher, nor was he a bore or easily bored; on the contrary, he was an easy victim to influences of every kind. He had decided that love was an empty word; nevertheless he trembled at the sight of a young and handsome woman.

He pretended to despise rank and position, yet he experienced no little satisfaction when Prince Serge approached him during a ball, and addressed a few friendly words to him. Still he did not yield to such influences to such an extent as to become a slave; on the contrary, whenever he perceived a difficulty he lost no time in overcoming the obstacle and recovering his liberty, and was ever asking himself how he could best utilize the forces of his youthful manhood — not the power of intellect, heart, or of moral training, but the irresistible enthusiasm which youth alone can impart to a man, and which makes him master of the universe in his own estimation. There are men who are ignorant of this irresistible power — men who accustom themselves to the curb from their entrance into life to their death, and toil on honestly and placidly until death; but Olenine was profoundly conscious of the possession of this potent auxiliary which concentrates all our faculties upon a single desire — to will and to act — and makes one throw one's self head first into an abyss without even knowing i4 THE COSSACKS.

why. He rejoiced and gloried in this conscious power, these strivings after the unknown. Up to this time he had loved only self; he believed himself capable of the noblest deeds, and had not yet had time to become undeceived. Though aware of his faults, he persuaded himself that they were merely the result of circumstances; that his intentions had always been good, and that he was about to begin a new life in which he would have no cause for repentance, and surely find happiness.

When one starts upon a long journey one retains for several hours a vivid recollection of the place one has just left; then one wakes with new impressions. One thinks only of one’s destination, and begins to build castles in the air anew. This was Olenine’s experience. After leaving the city he cast his eyes over the snow-clad fields and rejoiced at the thought of being alone in this wilderness, then he wrapped himself more closely in his pelisse and soon fell asleep.

It was daylight when he reached the third station. Here he assisted Yania in transferring his portmanteau and trunks to another sledge, where he enthroned himself in the midst of his possessions, content to know that everything was safe and in its proper place. This feeling of satisfaction and the thought of the long journey before him made his heart feather-light.

He spent most of the day in calculating the distance he must travel before reaching the next station — the next city, the place where he was to stop for dinner, for tea in the evening, and the distance he had already traveled. He went over his debts, too, and calculated how many of them he could pay, and how much money he would have left afterward, and what part of his income he could spend each month. After he had taken tea that evening he said to himself that he would still have seven elevenths of the distance to travel after leaving Stavropol, that he would have to economize closely for seven months to pay all his

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debts, and that they would swallow up about one eighth of his fortune. After that he laid down in the bottom of the sledge and was soon sound asleep.

The voice of Vania and the sudden pausing of the sledge aroused him. Half asleep, he tumbled into another sledge and continued his journey.

The following day there were more stations and more tea, the same panting of swiftly moving horses and short conversations with Vania; the same vague dreams and the profound slumber of youth during the night.

Chapter III

Oh reaching the Cossack territory on the Don, Olenine exchanged his sledge for a carriage, and after passing Stavropol the air became so mild that he laid aside his pelisse. It was springtime in this region — an unexpected springtime that delighted the young man. He no longer traveled at night, nor was he allowed to leave the stations after dark — that would be dangerous. Vania was evidently uneasy, and kept his gun loaded. Olenine felt more and more pleased. At one of the places where he stopped to change horses there was a great deal of talk about a frightful murder that had been committed a short time before. The men they met on the road were all armed.

“ This is the beginning of a new life,” Olenine said to himself; and he waited impatiently for a glimpse of the snow-topped mountains of which he had heard so much. One evening the driver pointed with his whip to a mountain-chain dimly visible above the clouds. Olenine strained his eyes to obtain a better view of them, but they were almost hidden by the clouds. He saw something vague and gray and wavy, but not at all beautiful, and he said to himself rather petulently that mountains and clouds differed but little in appearance, and that their pretended beauty was

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all a humbug, like the music of Bach and love, and he ceased to think of them.

An unusual coolness in the air roused him the next morning at dawn, and he glanced carelessly around him. The morning was beautiful and serene, and he suddenly perceived, apparently only about twenty miles from him, enormous masses of dazzling whiteness outlined against the distant . sky. When he realized how far these imposing heights were from him he felt their incomparable beauty, and seized with a secret terror, he almost believed himself the victim of a dream. Indeed, he shook himself roughly to satisfy himself that he was really awake. Yes, the mountains were really and truly there before him.

“ What is that? What do I see?” he exclaimed.

“ The mountains/' replied the driver in an indifferent tone.

“ I have been admiring them a long time,” said Vania. “ How beautiful they are!”

The chain appeared to flee toward the horizon before the rapid approach of the troi/ca , and the snow-clad peaks assumed a lovely roseate hue beneath the rays of the rising sun. Profoundly impressed with their beauty, Olenine’s recollections of the past, his misdemeanors, his repentance, and his mad illusions, all faded away in the majestic presence of these lofty peaks.

“ It is only now that you are really beginning to live,” a mysterious voice whispered in his ear. The winding Terek, now visible in the distance, the stanitsas and the Cossacks he met, all assumed an almost sacred aspect in his eyes. He looked at the sky, but could think only of the mountains; he looked at Vania, and could think only of the mountains — always of the mountains.

Two Cossacks passed on horseback with guns on their shoulders; the blue smoke from two cottages was curling up in the air beyond the Terek; the rising sun crimsoned the tall reeds that bordered the river; several young and

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handsome women suddenly appeared on the side of the road, and in the distance some Abreks could be distinctly seen riding swiftly oyer the plain.* But Olenine did not fear them. He was young, strong, well-armed, and he was dreaming of the mountains — always of the mountains.

Chapter IV

That portion of the valley of the Terek inhabited by the Grebenskoy Cossacks is about eighty verstes in extent, and of the same general character. The Terek is a rapid and turbid river; but here it becomes more calm, and its bed is considerably wider. The right bank of the stream is low and sandy; the left rugged and precipitous, and shaded with venerable oaks and plane-trees. On the right bank are the villages of the more friendly though still rather dissatisfied tribes, and on the left, about half a mile from the river, and about five or six miles apart, are the post stations. In former years these stations were on the very bank of the stream, but the river, which moved .further and further northward with each succeeding year, has undermined them, and there now remain only a few overgrown gardens, in which fruit-trees are closely woven together by a thick network of brambles and wild vines. No one lives there now; the sandy soil bears the tracks of only the deer, wolves, and hares that have taken up their abode there.

A road has been cut straight through the forest from station to station. Along this road are outposts garrisoned by Cossacks. A narrow strip of fertile and densely wooded land constitutes the domain of the Cossacks. North of this begin the sandy plains of the Nogai, which are finally lost in the Turkoman, Astrakhan, and Khirgiz steppes. South of the river are the Great Tchetchnia and Black

* Circassians on hostile terms with Russia.

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Mountains, and beyond them, in the far off horizon, a snowy chain Which no one has yet ventured to explore. This belt of fertile and well-wooded land has been peopled from time immemorial by a handsome and warlike race known as the Grebenskoy Cossacks, or Cossacks of the mountain-tops.

Centuries ago their ancestors left Russia and settled among the Tchetchna Mountains. Here they intermarried with the Circassians, and gradually adopted their habits and customs, though they preserved their mother tongue and their religious faith unsullied. Tradition claims that Ivan the Terrible once visited this region and gave them the land upon this side of the river on condition that they would remain on friendly terms with Russia, promising them, in return, entire liberty of action and conscience. The Cossacks even now consider themselves closely related to the Circassians; and a love of liberty, of war and of rapine are their chief -characteristics. The power of Russia is felt only in tampering with their elections, stationing troops in their midst, and forbidding the use of bells in their churches.

The Cossack in his secret heart hates the bandit who has killed his brother much less savagely than he hates the soldier who has been sent to protect his village. He respects his enemy, the mountaineer, and despises the soldier, whom he considers an intruder. The Russian peasant is a savage and despicable creature in the eyes of the Cossack. To him true elegance in dress consists in a close imitation of the Circassians. The weapons he prizes most are procured from them; his best horses are bought or stolen from them; still this little Christian tribe, located in an isolated corner of the globe, and surrounded by half-savage Mussulmen, has a most exalted idea of its own importance, and heartily despises all the rest of mankind.

The Cossack spends most of his time at the outposts or in hunting and fishing excursions. He very rarely works at home; when he is there he usually spends his time in

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drinking. The Cossacks manufacture their own wine, and drunkenness is not considered a vice, but a custom that must he strictly observed.

The Cossack regards woman as the source of his prosperity. A young girl may be idle and enjoy herself, but a married woman must work as long as she lives, and be as submissive and obedient as the women of the Orient. Under this severe regime the Cossack woman, though apparently an inferior, really has even more influence and authority in the household than the women of the Occident. Though the Cossack may consider it beneath his dignity to talk familiarly with his wife in the presence of strangers, he recognizes her supremacy when alone with her, and realizes that she supports the household by her exertions. Though he considers work humiliating, and leaves it to his hireling or his female slave, he vaguely realizes that he owes his comfort and prosperity to his wife, and that she has the power to deprive him of it.

The Cossack woman, in spite of her onerous burden of toil and anxiety, or possibly by reason of it, acquires remarkable physical strength and a vast amount of good sense and decision of character. She is stronger, more clever, and much handsomer than the men. Her beauty is a striking union of the purest Circassian type of face with the more powerful physique of our northern women. She wears the Circassian costume— a Tartar shirt, embroidered jacket, and full drawers, but she also wears a handkerchief tied around her head in the Russian style. Women, and especially young girls, are allowed the greatest freedom in their relations with men, and an elegance of attire and the most exquisite neatness in their home life are necessities of existence with them.

Novomlinska is considered the most important station in the territory of the Grebna Cossacks. Here the manners and customs of the ancient Cossacks are carefully pre-

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served; and the women of this station have always been remarkable for their beauty.

The Cossack’s principal means of livelihood are his vineyards, orchards, fields of watermelons, millet and maize, his hunting and fishing expeditions and the booty gained in war.

Novomlinska is separated from the Terek by a dense forest about three miles wide. On one side of the road leading to the station is the river, on the other orchards and vineyards, and beyond them the Nogai steppes. In front of the station is a tall stone porte-cochere covered with a thatched roof. Near it, mounted on a wooden carriage, is an antiquated cannon upon which the rust of a century has gathered. Sometimes a Cossack armed with saber and gun is on guard at the gate, and sometimes not; sometimes he salutes a passing officer, and sometimes he does not.

A strip of board affixed to the gate gives us this information:

“ Houses, 266. Population — males, 897; females, 1,013 . **

The houses are all built upon piles four or five feet above the ground. The roofs are high and carefully covered with reeds. All are neat and in excellent repair. They are not crowded together, but picturesquely grouped on either side of the wide street. The majority have large windows, shaded by luxuriant vines and trees of all kinds. The public square in the center of the village is adorned by three shops, well stocked with calicoes, sunflower seed, ginger-bread, and other dainties.

The house of the colonel is surrounded by a high wall. It is larger than the others, and boasts of double windows.

There are very few persons visible in the street in the summer time. The young Cossacks are at the outposts or in the country. The old men are hunting or fishing, or assisting their wives in their gardens or vineyards. Only the sick or the very young remain at home,

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CHAPTER Y.

It was one of those evenings that are seen only in the Caucasus. The sun had disappeared behind the mountains; but it was still light. The air was clear, calm, and sonorous, and the snow-clad mountains stood out in bold relief against the rich crimson of the western sky. The river, the road, and the steppes, all wore a lonely and deserted air. If a horseman occasionally appeared in sight returning from the outpost, those who saw him anxiously asked themselves if he was not an enemy. All the inhabitants of the village were slowly making their way homeward. The women, who had been tying up vines all day, now turned their steps villageward; the gardens were fast becoming deserted. Young girls with long switches in their hands ran merrily out to meet the cattle that were coming leisurely toward the station enveloped in a thick cloud of dust. Gay laughter and merry sallies mingled with the lowing of the kine. A Cossack on horseback taps at a cottage window without alighting. The beautiful face of a young woman appears, and a few tender words are uttered in a low tone.

A Tartar laborer, who has just brought a load of rushes from the steppes, drives his cart into his employer’s court-yard and begins a loud-voiced conversation with his master in his native tongue.

In the middle of the street is a large pool, which one can avoid only by keeping close to the fences on either side. A bare-footed Cossack girl, with a bundle of fagots on her back, wades through it with skirts uplifted. A Cossack horseman, 'who is just returning, laughingly cries out to her: “ Raise them higher, you wench!” and levels his gun at her. She drops her skirts, throws down her burden,

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and runs away. An old Cossack, returning from fishing, with his fish still gasping on a string, crawls through a gap in a neighbor’s hedge, scratching himself sadly. An old woman passes, dragging a dry branch after her; the sound of wood-chopping is heard on every side. Children shout noisily as they toss their balls; the smoke is pouring from every chimney; in every cottage preparations for the evening repast are going on.

Oulita, the wife of the cornet, and likewise the school-master, is standing in the door- way of her cottage, like the other women, waiting for the cattle, which her daughter Marianka is driving home. She had not had time to open the gate when an enormous buffalo-cow, driven nearly frantic by a crowd of gnats, plunges against the gate, breaking it down. She is followed by several cows, whose large eyes turn tranquilly toward their mistress.

The lovely Marianka follows them, replaces the gate, throws away her switch, and runs with all the swiftness of her light feet to drive the cattle to their proper places.