The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko

by Zinaida Tulub

  The break for a smoke had come to an end. The drums rolled again, and again the heavy footfalls of marching men filled the air. And again, dripping with sweat under the stuffy uniform, Shevchenko went through the motions of the drill, utterly confused and crushed by Meshkov’s words. The feeble hope of having his sentence commuted had snapped like a thin thread.

  Day passed after day, each an exact repetition of the previous one. Shevchenko had a feeling he had been there several weeks, while in fact it was only the first week of his soldier’s life. Then it was Sunday.

  As always, the drum roused him in the morning. As always, they were marched outside for the roll call. After breakfast they were taken to church, after which some went to sleep, while most of the men went whichever way they chose.

  Feeling like be had slept through a racking nightmare, Shevchenko went outdoors and came across Kuzmich who was sorting out a bunch of fishing rods with self-made hooks of wire.

  “Off fishing, Kuzmich?” Shevchenko asked.

  “You guessed right. I’ll go to the Ural or else to the Or. There are some fine sterlets in these waters, and such carp you won’t find anything like them anywhere. In a single day you can catch two pailfuls for a mouth-watering fish soup. I’ve even bought bay leaf for this purpose. Some of the fish I take to the general. His daughter always buys them from me and treats me to a drink into the bargain. Let’s go together!”

  “All right!”

  After going round the church, they walked down a dusty road littered with dung and piles of ashes, passed the new cottage of the priest and the homes which belonged to the officers, as Shevchenko learned from Kuzmich.

  “And where does Ensign Dolgov live?” Shevchenko asked.

  “What Dolgov?”

  “The one I came with.”

  “We haven’t any Dolgov here. Our staff of officers is filled. He must have been transferred to the fourth com­pany at the neighboring fort. An officer is said to have died there.”

  Shevchenko gave a sigh. So this hope had betrayed him, too. The mail, as he had learned, arrived only once a month, when an opportunity occurred. So he would not he able to write to his friends so soon. And the poet’s eyes, re­kindled to life a moment ago, became listless.

  At long last they came to the Ural and ran down its steep bank. The old soldier started immediately sorting out his fishing rods, while Shevchenko pushed his peakless cap to the back of his head, and said:

  “Well, I’ll be moving on so as not to be a bother to you. Fish prefer quiet. I’ll wander around this place and have a swim perhaps.”

  Kuzmich gave a nod silently, preoccupied as he was hooking the worms, and Shevchenko started out along the Ural.

  Orsk was gradually disappearing behind his back, merg­ing into one line with the bare desert. The river bank turned sharply, and Shevchenko kept walking on and on. At last he stopped and looked around.

  The illimitable steppe ringed him like a round flat bowl topped by the blue cupola of the sky. It was quiet and empty here, without a single bird, jerboa, or curious gopher in sight.

  He felt lonely, all on his own, unable to do anything for other people and his oppressed brothers. In banishing Ovidius from Rome to the estuary of the Danube, the heathen Octavius could not have thought up a more subtle pun­ishment. For an artist there is no greater torment than to be deprived of creating the beautiful for the happiness of people.

  He dropped to the ground, buried his face in the wilted grass from despair, and burst into tears.

  His despair seemed to melt in the tears and retreat from his heart like a spent thunder. The despair that was rack­ing his heart gradually gave way to rising hatred, one drop of which could have reduced to ashes Czar Nicholas along with all his satraps from Dubelt and Orlov, Funduklei and Yuzefovich up to Globa and Meshkov.

  His hatred bred a protest, a power and will to fight.

  “I will write! I will! I shall not be broken! You won’t stop my mouth!” he shouted into the empty steppe. “I can­not but write, just like the sun cannot but shine, just like the air cannot become solid and motionless! I will write! And all your prohibitions are impotent against the spoken word! Your sentence has only proved that my word is a weapon as well! And you are afraid of it!”

  Shevchenko got to his feet. There was determination and firmness in his eyes.

  The barracks was almost empty. A number of utterly drunken men were snoring on their bunks, the orderly was nowhere in sight. Shevchenko opened his locker, pulled out his suitcase, took a number of sheets of paper, bosomed them, and went into the steppe beyond the ramparts. There, on the bank of the quiet river Or overgrown with dense reeds, he made himself a little notebook out of the sheets of paper, and wrote in it his first poem in exile.

  10

  Where the Alatau Sleeps Under the Ice

  Djantemir’s aul passed the cheerful and clear waters of the river Ili and stopped for its last night on a plain. The sun slipped slowly behind the black mass of the Suuk Tiube Mountains and twilight descended on the plain, while a foamy strip of sun-tinted clouds glowed high over the horizon for a long time thereafter.

  Kuljan was seeing mountains for the first time and admired them with fascination. Three weeks had passed since the sandstorm, but she felt so weak that even Shauken did not pick on her and force her to work. While recuperating, the girl looked on everything she met with the joy of a person who had been brought back to life, and together with her brother Rahim she rejoiced at every­thing that was new and strange to her.

  Rahim loved his sister with a particular, gentle and deep love as orphans do their elder sisters who give them the motherly tenderness that has been lost. Now he rode the same camel with her and whenever they halted, brought her a lump of sugar he had stolen from his father, or else a strange colorful butterfly, or a splinter of rock with a silvery glitter.

  “You know, Kuljan,” he told her quietly once. “I’ll love Jaisak like a brother for him having saved you. That’s a real jigit! He’s a batyr, just like Koblanda. I’ll ask him to teach me fight with a soyil, shakpar and yatagan. I, too, will become a batyr and always protect you against any danger.”

  Kuljan gave him a tender smile.

  “You might save me from a tiger or a poisonous snake, but hardly from Shauken. She poisons my life much more than the witches from the fairy tale the old Bukharan told us when he brought Father the carpets and dried apricots.”

  “I hate her!” Rahim said with flashing eyes. “She chased you out of her yurt to certain death. I’ll never forgive her that. Once you’re married to Ibrai, I’ll run away from our aul and join you so as not to see her anymore. But I’ll be sorry to part with Jaisak,” he added with a sigh.

  The next morning the aul set off at dawn. It was hot already and spring reigned supreme. The terrain was get­ting hilly. It seemed that a sea had once raged here and its huge waves had suddenly frozen. Through the mist in the distance showed the faint outlines of the mighty moun­tain ridge of the Zailiysky Alatau.

  The aul reached the valley it had been seeking. The scouts Djantemir had sent ahead met him at the intermontane plain and took him to the sheer granite cliff where they had left the tamga of his kin three months ago.

  It was an exceptionally well chosen place. Two mountain streams, swollen enough to water twice as many sheep as Djantemir’s, crossed the placid valley where the aul pitched their summer yurts on the leeward side. All around were luxuriant alpine meadows of fragrant grasses, many of them medicinal herbs.

  At the mountain camp Shauken seemed to become aware of Jaisak’s existence for the first time. Either she had been impressed by the young jigit’s courage or else was sick of breaking her head over her household affairs all the time and having to while away her days with the old and grouchy Djantemir, because she invited Jaisak to her white yurt again and again, treating him to kumiss or fresh mutton. Jaisak thanked her for the treat, did not refuse to accept an extra piece of food, but he never abused this favor from his cunnin
g and talkative hostess and was always restrained, polite and chilly.

  “You must value such a man,” Shauken told Djantemir. “Jaisak has done you more than all the other shepherds and herders taken together. He saved the herd from the wolves, tried to keep up order during the trek, and saved your Kuljan from death. The girl’s mischievous and foolish: the shaitan knows why she had to traipse around the camp during the storm, and if it had not been for him, you would have lost the big bride money you will get for her. Jaisak can be useful to us yet. You must arouse his inter­est in something, do something for him.”

  “I know,” Djantemir retorted gruffly. “What’s made you so generous all of a sudden? Isn’t it enough that I gave him a camel, sheep and a new sheepskin coat? I won’t give away the last thing I have! Such a lot of cattle died, and that barimta proved to be a miserly gain. We got no more than four hundred head. I suspect that your Jaisak blinded my eyes, because Iskhak swore there had been twice as many sheep.”

  Djantemir realized dimly that he had been deceived, but he could not prove anything. He did not dare make a re­peated raid: what he had permitted himself during the trek would now only dishonor him as a gross violation of an ancient custom, so Djantemir decided to occupy himself with other matters.

  He had Iskhak and two elder sons ride round the moun­tains and valleys to discover the whereabouts of Zulkarnai whose son Ibrai was engaged to Kuljan. A week later his elder sons returned without finding out anything, but the acute Iskhak heard people say that Ibrai was terribly ill now and would hardly be ready for this summer’s wedding.

  The news made Djantemir gloomier than ever, and when Shauken mentioned Jaisak once, he bared his yellow teeth at her and madly waved the whip in front of her face.

  “You’ve gone mad, woman! Here I’m grappling with failure after failure, while you can’t get that swindler out of your head! Have you fallen in love with him, or what?!”

  The next day he unexpectedly called for Iskhak and two axakals and rode off to Zulkarnai’s camp.

  Left on her own, Shauken felt herself the sole mistress of the situation and started fulfilling her schemes step by step. Djantemir’s angrily dropped remark was not fruitless conjecture. The handsome herder Jaisak had really stirred her blood, and his dry restraint teased and fired her more than if he had met her flirtations halfway and responded to them with off-color and frank jokes. But no opportunity offered itself to simply invite him to her yurt. So Shauken ordered one of her servant girls to call Jaisak’s mother Kumish.

  “Did you call me?”

  “Yes, Kumish. I want you to ask one of the women to take charge of milking the mares while you assist me in sorting out the pieces of felt. Since your son saved Kuljan and a lot of sheep, I want to present him with a new warm winter yurt; your old one is being blown through by the winds on all sides.”

  Keeping up her role of benefactress and proficient keeper of her kin, she added:

  “Tell Jaisak to see me tomorrow. We’ll think of what should go on the kerege and what else would be needed. If it’s a question of putting up a new yurt, everything must be done properly.”

  Kumish hurried to bring the good news to her son.

  “A new yurt is a good thing, of course,” Jaisak said. “But don’t let Shauken get the idea that she and Djantemir are going to tether me to their will like a dog to a chain. We have to throw off their yoke. Taijan and I are seriously thinking about it. I won’t go to Shauken. Djantemir is away now, and I don’t want any gossip and trouble. By the way, Taijan and I agreed to try and catch a royal eagle tomorrow.”

  “How can you without the bai’s permission?”

  “I had a talk with him about it. He asked me to get an eaglet for him, too. As to Shauken, I don’t want to have anything to do with her. If you like, you can tell her that I am very happy to receive the present, and in gratitude I’ll bring an eagle for the bai by all means. But don’t you say more than that. Do you hear me, apa?” Jaisak said with determination, lay down on his bedding, pulled the blanket over his head and turned toward the kerege to indicate that he wanted to sleep.

  The horses went slowly and warily down the rocky slope of the narrow valley which cut the huge mountain ridge in a twisting crack. This was not the first time Taijan visited these gorges and so he rode confidently up front, followed by a horse loaded up with food, lariats, sacks, fur-lined mittens, and thick padded robes. All this was abso­lutely necessary for catching royal eagles and camping in the mountains for the night.

  Rahim and Jaisak rode behind, taking in and listening to everything going on along the way. At their side trotted two wolfhounds. Jaisak regretted having taken along the boy who could fall prey to his inquisitiveness and inexperience but it was too late to correct the mistake, and now the only thing that remained was to be on guard.

  Suddenly Taijan saw two bird feathers slowly drifting in the air. This meant that somewhere high up a bird of prey was clawing its catch. In this place, the opposite side of the valley was sloping, and after he had climbed the slope, he saw the crest of a sheer cliff from which the feathers had fallen. To the right, almost on the very top of the cliff, was an eagle’s nest clinging to a ledge. From there several feathers were slowly drifting down.

  There it was — the nest of a golden eagle. But even an ibex would have been unable to clatter up such a steep cliff.

  “We’ll have to go round the mountain, and there we’ll think up something,” Jaisak said, as if reading Djantemir’s thoughts.

  Rahim intercepted the look of the men and said with a tone that brooked no objection: “I will stay with the horses.”

  When they had crawled almost up to the nest, Taijan suddenly muttered a curse: a she-eagle was sitting on the eggs, while her mate was wheeling over her with some small prey in his talons.

  Angry and disappointed, the jigits descended into the valley.

  “How did it go?” Rahim cried merrily. “Did you catch it?”

  “There was nothing to catch. She’s still sitting on the eggs,” Taijan grumbled, annoyed.

  “Really? I spied another two nests here, both of them a little bit lower,” Rahim’s eyes flashed cheerfully. “Let’s go, I’ll show them to you.”

  Chasing away the wolfhounds which wagged their tails eagerly, Rahim jumped on his horse.

  “There is an eaglet,” the boy insisted heatedly. “I saw the eagle bring it some food.”

  In the nest, as was usually the case with golden eagles, sat only one eaglet, already big, with a long bare neck and bald head. When Taijan had lowered himself on a rope to the nest, the eaglet hissed viciously, gave a pierc­ing cry, and was ready to peck and tear him with its talons. Taijan unfolded a heavy, sturdy piece of cloth and threw it on the nest and eaglet with one precise movement. The eaglet thrashed under the cloth, but Taijan did not give it time to come to its senses and tear the cloth: he quickly rolled it up in a thinner cloth, tied it strongly with twisted string, and put it into a sack tied to the rope hang­ing at his side. The noose of the rope he slipped down to his hips, settled in it like in a swing, and called to his companions:

  “Pull me up! I’m ready!”

  Jaisak and Rahim were anxiously waiting for the call. Now they started pulling up Taijan slowly, while Taijan, lest he hit against the cliff, carefully moved his feet up the rock face. At last his head appeared over the ledge. Jaisak gave another pull, Rahim stretched out his hand and helped Taijan scramble to the top and bring up the sack with the catch.

  The hunters knew that a male eagle did not always fight for his nestling: they were more afraid of the mother which, on returning to the nest and finding it empty, could attack the thieves, and so they hurried to get away from the danger as fast as they could.

  About three versts from the empty nest they stopped un­der an overhanging cliff to decide what to do next. To leave Rahim with such a restless catch and look for another eaglet was hardly expedient. Besides, no other nest was in sight.

  “Let’s go home,” Rahi
m suggested. “I’ll tell Father how you caught the eaglet and he’ll let me go with you again. We might take another jigit along. Then we’ll shoot some game on the way back. Father just loves roasted game. He’ll be very pleased.”

  The hunters agreed that the boy’s advice was sound enough, and after a good rest set off back for the aul.

  11

  The Consolation

  For the third week now Shevchenko was going through his exhaustive life as a soldier. Now he knew all the commands well, and brought his whole sole down onto the ground when he marched in the ranks. During firing practice and soldiers’ “colloquy” he even earned a com­mendation. But he himself was far from having developed that stalwart bearing which Meshkov demanded of him so insistently.

  He lived a double life. One was for everyone to see: on the parade ground, in the stenchy, noisy barracks, and during the soldiers’ “colloquy.” Yet he also had another, deep-bosomed, sustaining love which only his friends could have surmised. An outsider did not suspect that in his heart inaudible songs rang out, verses rhymed into poems, images were conjured up, and observations crowded his mind. Even on the parade ground the dry and rattling roll of the drums generated ironic verse inside him in time to the blasted beating.

  At such moments the toe of Shevchenko’s boot stuck out mockingly above the rest in the line, and Globa would run up to him and yell madly:

  “Where are you looking, you dolt! Don’t you see your toe is higher than the others’ again?”

  “Your Excellency,” Shevchenko said in justification, “be­lieve me it protrudes like that from birth! I try as hard as I can but…”

  “Shut up, you fool! No gabbing in the ranks!” Globa shouted and flourished his hairy fist in front of Shevchen­ko’s eyes, not daring, though, to cuff him. It was not for nothing that Dolgov had told Meshkov that some high-placed persons were interceding for the poet in St. Peters­burg. Globa thought it better not to put his career in jeop­ardy for the sake of a number of knocked-out soldier’s teeth.