IX
MASTER DANILO IS sitting at the table in his room, leaning on his elbow and thinking. Mistress Katerina is sitting on the stove seat, singing a song.
"I feel somehow sad, my wife!" said Master Danilo. "There's an ache in my head and an ache in my heart. Something is weighing me down. It must be that my death is straying somewhere nearby."
"Oh, my beloved husband!" thought Katerina, "lean your head on me! Why are you nursing such black thoughts in yourself?" But she did not dare to say it. Bitter it was for her, the guilty one, to accept her husband's caresses.
"Listen, my wife!" said Danilo, "do not abandon our son when I am no more. You'll get no happiness from God if you abandon him, either in this world or in the next. Hard will it be for my bones to rot in the damp earth; but harder still will it be for my soul."
"What are you saying, my husband! Did you not mock us weak women? And now you talk like a weak woman yourself. You must live for a long time yet."
"No, Katerina, my soul senses that death is near. It's growing sad in the world. Evil times are coming. Ah, I remember, I remember the years; they certainly will not come back! He was still alive, the honor and glory of our army, old Konashevich! 10 The Cossack regiments pass as if before my eyes now! It was a golden time, Katerina! The hetman sat on a black steed. A mace gleamed in his hand; around him his hired troops; on both sides stirred a red sea of Zaporozhtsy. The hetman started to speak—all stood as if rooted. The old fellow wept as he began to recall for us the deeds and battles of old. Ah, if you knew, Katerina, what slaughter we did then on the Turks! You can still see the scar on my head. Four bullets went through me in four places. Not one of the wounds has healed completely. How much gold we brought home then! Cossacks scooped up precious stones with their hats. What steeds, if you knew, Katerina, what steeds we drove away with us! Ah, I'll never fight like that again! It seems I'm not old yet, and my body is hale; yet the Cossack sword drops from my hand, I live with nothing to do and don't know myself what I live for. There's no order in the Ukraine: colonels and captains bicker among themselves like dogs. There's no chief over them all. Our nobility have changed everything according to Polish custom, they've adopted their slyness. . . sold their souls by accepting the Unia. Jewry oppresses the poor people. Oh, time, time! past time! where have you gone, my years? . . . Go to the cellar, lad, and fetch me a crock of mead! I'll drink for the old life and the years gone by!"
"How shall we receive our guests, Master? Polacks are coming from the meadow side!" said Stetsko, entering the house.
"I know what they're coming for," said Danilo, getting up from his seat. "Saddle your horses, my trusty servants! harness up! draw your sabers! don't forget to bring some lead buckwheat! We must receive our guests with honor!"
But before the Cossacks had time to mount their horses and load their muskets, the Polacks, like leaves falling from the trees in autumn, were scattered over the hillside.
"Eh, there's a few here to be reckoned with!" said Master Danilo, looking at the fat nobles bobbing imposingly in the front on their gold-harnessed horses. "Looks like we'll have one more round of famous carousing! Sport yourself, Cossack soul, for the last time! Carouse, lads, here's a holiday for us!"
And there was sport on the hills. The feast feasted: swords swing, bullets fly, horses whinny and stamp. The head goes mad from the shouting; the eyes go blind from the smoke. All is confusion. But a Cossack can sense which is friend and which foe; a bullet whistles—a dashing rider tumbles from his horse; a saber swishes—a head rolls on the ground, its tongue muttering incoherent words.
But you can see the red top of Master Danilo's Cossack hat in the throng; the golden belt over his blue jacket flashes before your eyes; the mane of his black horse flows in a whirl. Like a bird he flashes here and there; he shouts and brandishes his Damascus saber, and slashes from the right shoulder and from the left. Slash, Cossack! carouse, Cossack, as your brave heart pleases! but do not stop to gaze at the golden harness and jackets! trample gold and precious stones under your feet! Stab, Cossack! carouse, Cossack! but look back: the infidel Polacks are already setting fire to the cottages and driving the frightened cattle away. And like a whirlwind Master Danilo turns back, and now the hat with the red top flashes near the cottages and the throng around him thins out.
Not for one hour, not for two hours, does the battle between Polacks and Cossacks go on.
Not many are left of the one or the other. But Master Danilo does not tire: he knocks some out of the saddle with his long lance, and his brave horse tramples the unseated ones. Now the courtyard is clearing, now the Polacks begin to scatter; now the Cossacks strip the golden jackets and rich harness from the slain; now Master Danilo prepares for the pursuit, he looks around to gather his men . . . and boils with rage: Katerina's father appears to him. There he stands on the hill, aiming a musket at him. Danilo urges his horse straight for the man . . .Cossack, you are going to your ruin! . . . The musket boomed—and the sorcerer disappeared over the hill. Only trusty Stetsko caught a flash of the red coat and strange hat. The Cossack staggered and fell to the ground. Trusty Stetsko rushed to his master—his master lay stretched on the ground, his bright eyes closed. Scarlet blood frothed on his breast. But he must have sensed his faithful servant near. Slowly he raised his eyelids and flashed his eyes: "Farewell, Stetsko! Tell Katerina not to abandon our son! You, too, my trusty servants, do not abandon him!" and he fell silent. The Cossack soul flew out of his noble body; his lips turned blue. The Cossack slept, never to awake.
Weeping, the trusty servant beckoned to Katerina: "Come, Mistress, come: your master is done carousing. He's lying drunk as can be on the damp earth. It will be a long time before he's sober!"
Katerina clasped her hands and fell like a sheaf on the dead body. "My husband, is it you lying here with your eyes closed? Get up, my beloved falcon, reach your arm out! arise! glance at least once at your Katerina, move your lips, speak at least one word . . . But you are silent, silent, my bright master! You are blue as the Black Sea. Your heart does not beat! Why are you so cold, my master? It must be that my tears are not hot, they cannot warm you! It must be that my weeping is not loud, it does not awaken you! Who will lead your regiments now? Who will race on your black steed, hallooing loudly and brandishing a saber before the Cossacks? Cossacks, Cossacks! where is your honor and glory? Your honor and glory lie with closed eyes on the damp earth. Bury me, then, bury me together with him! Pour earth on my eyes! press maple boards to my white breast! I have no more need for my beauty!"
Katerina weeps and grieves; and the distance is all clouding with dust: old Captain Gorobets is galloping to the rescue.
X
WONDROUS IS THE Dnieper in calm weather, when freely and smoothly he races his full waters through forests and hills. No rippling, no roaring. You look and do not know if his majestic breadth is moving or not, and you fancy he is all molded of glass, as if a blue mirror roadway, of boundless width, of endless length, hovers and meanders over the green world. It is a delight then for the hot sun to look down from on high and plunge its rays into the chill of the glassy waters and for the coastal forests to be brightly reflected in them. Green-curled! they crowd to the waters together with the wildflowers and, bending down, gaze into them and cannot have enough of it, enough of admiring their own bright image, and they smile to it and greet it, nodding their branches. But into the middle of the Dnieper they dare not look: no one except the sun and the blue sky looks there. Rare is the bird that flies to the middle of the Dnieper! Magnificent! no river in the world can equal him. Wondrous is the Dnieper, too, on a warm summer night, when everything falls asleep—man, beast, and bird—and God alone grandly surveys heaven and earth and grandly shakes his robes. Stars pour from his robes.
Stars burn and shine over the world, and all are reflected at once in the Dnieper. All of them the Dnieper holds in his dark bosom. Not one escapes him, unless it goes out in the sky. The black forest studded with sleeping crows and t
he hills broken up since ancient times, hanging over, strain to cover him at least with their long shadows—but in vain! There is nothing in the world that can cover the Dnieper. Blue, deep blue, he goes flowing smoothly through the night as through the day, visible as far off as the human eye can see. Languidly pressing himself closer to the banks from the night's chill, he sends a silver ripple over his surface, and it flashes like the strip of a Damascus saber; and, deep blue, he sleeps again. Wondrous is the Dnieper then, too, and there is no river in the world to equal him! But when dark blue clouds pass mountain-like across the sky, and the black forest sways to its roots, the oaks creak, and lightning, ripping through the clouds, lights up all the world at once—then terrible is the Dnieper! Watery peaks roar as they beat against the hills, and withdraw with a shining and moaning, and weep and dissolve far away. So a Cossack's old mother grieves as she sends her son off to the army. Rakish and daring he rides on his black steed, arms akimbo and hat cocked; and she runs weeping after him, clings to his stirrup, snatches at his bridle, and wrings her hands over him and dissolves in bitter tears.
Savagely black between the battling waves are the charred stumps and stones on the jutting bank. A boat, pulling in, knocks against the bank, rising and falling. Who among the Cossacks has made so bold as to go in a boat while the old Dnieper is angry? He must not know that he swallows men like flies.
The boat pulls in, and from it steps the sorcerer. He is unhappy; he is bitter about the wake the Cossacks held for their slain master. The Polacks paid no small fee: forty-four nobles, with all their harness and jackets, cut to pieces, along with thirty-three servants; the rest rounded up with their horses as prisoners to be sold to the Tartars.
Down the stone steps he descended, between the charred stumps, to where he had a dugout shelter deep in the ground. He went in quietly, without creaking the door, placed a pot on the cloth-covered table, and with his long hands began throwing some unknown herbs into it; he took a mug made of some strange wood, scooped up some water, and began pouring it out, moving his lips and performing incantations. A rosy light appeared in the room; and terrible was it then to look into his face: it seemed bloody, only the deep wrinkles showed black on it, and his eyes were as if on fire. Impious sinner! his beard had long since turned gray, his face was furrowed with wrinkles, he was all dried up, yet he still carried out his godless design. A white cloud came to hover in the middle of the room, and something resembling joy flashed in his face. But why did he suddenly stand motionless, mouth gaping, not daring to stir, and why did the hair bristle on his head? In the cloud before him some strange face shone. Unasked, unbidden, it had come to visit him; it grew more distinct and fixed its gaze on him. Its features, its brows, eyes, lips—all were unfamiliar to him. He had never seen it in his life. And it seemed there was little in it that was terrible, yet an invincible horror came over him. And the strange, unfamiliar head kept looking at him fixedly through the cloud. Now the cloud was gone; yet the unknown features showed still more sharply, and the keen eyes would not tear themselves away from him. The sorcerer turned white as a sheet.
He cried out in a wild voice not his own and overturned the pot. . . Everything vanished.
XI
"CALM YOURSELF, MY beloved sister!" said old Captain Gorobets. "Dreams seldom tell the truth."
"Lie down, sister!" his young daughter-in-law said. "I'll send for an old woman, a fortuneteller, and she'll pour out a flurry for you." 11
"Have no fear," said his son, grasping his saber, "no one will harm you."
Gloomily, with dull eyes, Katerina gazed at them all and could find no words. "I myself arranged for my own ruin," she thought. "I let him go." At last she said:
"He won't leave me in peace! For ten days now I've been with you in Kiev, and my grief has not lessened at all. I thought I might at least quietly raise my son for revenge . . . Terrible, terrible he looked in my dream! God forbid that you should see him, too! My heart is still pounding. 'I will stab your baby, Katerina,' he shouted, 'if you do not marry me!'" and, bursting into sobs, she rushed to the cradle, and the frightened baby reached out his arms and cried.
The captain's son seethed and blazed with wrath, hearing this talk. Captain Gorobets himself became furious.
"Let him try coming here, the cursed antichrist; he'll taste whether there's strength in an old Cossack's arms. God sees," he said, lifting up his clairvoyant eyes, "did I not fly to give my brother Danilo a hand? His holy will! I found him already lying on a cold bed, where many a Cossack lay. Still, was his wake not magnificent? Did we let even one Polack go alive? Calm yourself, my child! No one will dare to harm you, unless I and my son are no more."
Having spoken, the old captain went over to the cradle, and the baby, seeing the red pipe with its silver trim and the pouch with the gleaming tinderbox hanging from his belt, reached out to him and laughed.
"He'll take after his father," said the old captain, removing the pipe and handing it to him.
"He's still in the cradle and already wants to smoke a pipe."
Katerina quietly sighed and began to rock the cradle. They all decided to spend the night together, and soon afterwards they fell asleep. Katerina, too, fell asleep.
Out in the yard and inside the house everything was quiet; only the Cossacks standing guard were not asleep. Suddenly Katerina gave a cry and woke up, and after her everyone woke up. "He's been slain, he's been stabbed!" she cried as she rushed to the cradle.
They all stood around the cradle, frozen with fear, seeing the dead baby lying in it. No one uttered a sound, not knowing what to think of the unheard-of evildoing.
XII
FAR FROM THE Ukrainian land, past Poland, beyond the populous city of Lemberg, stretch rows of high-peaked mountains. Mountain after mountain, like a chain of stone, they push back the earth to right and left and clothe it in thick stone to keep the loud and stormy sea from seeping through. Chains of stone stretch to Wallachia and the region of the Seven Cities, and stand in a massive horseshoe between the Galician and Hungarian peoples. There are no such mountains in our parts. The eye dares not survey them; no human foot has stepped on the tops of some.
Strange, too, is their look: Is it that the eager sea overflowed its shores in a storm, heaved up its shapeless waves in a whirl, and they, petrified, remained motionless in air? Is it that heavy clouds dropped down from the sky and encumbered the earth with themselves? for they are also gray in color, and a white peak glistens and sparkles in the sun. Up to the Carpathian Mountains you still hear Russian speech, and just beyond them familiar words can be heard here and there; but then the faith is no longer the same and the speech is no longer the same.
There lives the not inconsiderable Hungarian people; they ride horses, wield sabers, and drink no worse than the Cossacks; and they do not stint in producing gold coins from their pockets to pay for harness and costly caftans. Great vast lakes lie between the mountains. They are still as glass and, mirror-like, reflect the bare tops of the mountains and the green at their feet.
But who is it, in the dark of night, whether the stars shine or not, that comes riding on a huge black horse? What knight of inhuman stature gallops below the mountains, above the lakes, reflected with his gigantic horse in the still waters, his endless shadow flitting terribly over the mountains? Plate-armor gleaming, lance on his shoulder, saber clanking against his saddle, helmet pulled down, black mustache, eyes closed, eyelashes lowered—he sleeps. And, asleep, he holds the reins; and behind him on the same horse sits a child page, who also sleeps, and asleep holds on to the knight. Who is he, where is he going, and why? Who knows? Not for one day, not for two days, has he been crossing the mountains. Day breaks, the sun rises, he is not to be seen; only now and then the mountain people notice a long shadow flitting over the mountains, though the sky is clear and there is not a cloud in it. But as soon as night brings darkness, he is visible again and is reflected in the lakes, and behind him, trembling, rides his shadow. He has already crossed ma
ny mountains and gone up Krivan. There is no higher mountain in the Carpathians; like a tsar it rises above the rest. Here steed and rider have stopped, and sunk still deeper into sleep, and the clouds have descended and covered him.
XIII
"SH . . . HUSH, WOMAN! don't knock so, my baby's fallen asleep. For a long time my son cried, but now he's asleep. I'll go to the forest, woman! Why are you staring at me like that? You're terrible: iron tongs reach out from your eyes . . . such long ones, ohh! they burn like fire! You must be a witch! Oh, if you're a witch, vanish from here! you'll steal my son. He's so muddle-headed, this captain: he thinks I like living in Kiev. No, my husband is here, and my son—who is going to look after the house? I left so quietly, not a cat or a dog heard me. You want to grow young, woman? It's not hard at all, you only have to dance. Look how I dance . .."
And having uttered these incoherent words, Katerina started rushing about, looking crazily from side to side, her hands on her hips. She stamped her feet with a shriek; her silver-shod heels rang without time or measure. Unbraided black tresses scattered over her white neck.
Like a bird she flew without stopping, waving her arms and nodding, and it seemed she would either drop strengthless to the ground or fly out of this world.
The old nurse stood by sorrowfully, and tears filled her deep wrinkles; heavy stone lay on the hearts of the trusty lads as they watched their mistress. She was already quite weak and lazily tapped her feet in one spot, thinking she was dancing the Turtledove. "And I have a necklace, boys!" she said, stopping at last, "and you don't. . . Where is my husband?" she suddenly cried out, snatching a Turkish dagger from her belt. "Oh! this isn't the kind of knife I need." Here tears and anguish showed on her face. "My father's heart is far away: this won't reach it. His heart is forged of iron. A witch forged it for him in hellfire. Why doesn't my father come? Doesn't he know it's time to put a knife in him? He must want me to come myself. . ."
The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol Page 12