The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko

by Zinaida Tulub

  14

  A Visit to the Bai

  In the evening, Lavrentiev gave Shevchenko a cunning wink, and said:

  “Well, Grigorievich, let’s go on a visit tomorrow.”

  “Where to?” Shevchenko wondered, not too keen about seeing Lavrentiev’s friends: Sergeant-Major Laptev and the two dashing noncoms — the curly-headed Zlintsev and the pock-marked, taciturn Kunitsin.

  “To the Kirghiz. They arrived yesterday and are stay­ing by the Or for the winter. They come every year. The general told their bai several times to set up the aul at least forty versts from the fortress, because we in the fort, as well as the Cossacks and the people from the settlement need the pastures and hay for our own horses and cattle. As soon as I learned about their arrival I reported to the general, but he waved it off. ‘Let them be,’ he said. ‘They’ll stay just one more winter, but next year I’ll chase them away. Djantemir can wander wherever he wishes, but we need the steppe around the fortress.”

  Shevchenko looked forward to the prospect of gaining some new experience.

  They walked straight across the steppe to the distant bend of the Or where the indistinct outlines of the yurts looked like Asian skull caps scattered around the plain.

  “The Kirghiz have their own customs,” Lavrentievex­plained, blind to Shevchenko’s effort to keep up with the pace because of his ailing legs. “Their guests are not sup­posed to come up right to the yurt. They must stop some thirty paces away and wait until the host or someone of his family comes out. The guest is approached, asked his name, what business has brought him here, whether this is a friendly call for a pleasant chat, after which the dogs are chased back and leashed, and only then is the guest invit­ed into the yurt. The dogs they’ve got are real beasts: whoever comes too foolishly near is torn to pieces.”

  “Oh-h!” Shevchenko let out a moan at last. “Just halt for a minute. I can’t keep up with you. My legs are aching so much.”

  Lavrentiev slacked his pace, and then carried on his lecturing.

  “Now mind you, they are outright savages and heathens at that. They must bow to us and submit. When you are inside, sit down in the depth of the yurt opposite the en­trance on a white piece of felt, but not by the threshold where the dogs and falcons sit.”

  Lavrentiev’s way of seeing things annoyed Shevchenko, but any careless comment on what the clerk said could be, even inadvertently, reported to his superiors, and so Shev­chenko kept silent.

  They were now approaching the aul. The first to take note of them were the dogs which rushed toward the unin­vited guests with deafening barks.

  “Company, halt!” Lavrentiev commanded in jest. “Stand at ease!”

  Both stopped in their tracks.

  Djantemir Bai was just then sitting in his reception yurt with the akyn Abdrahman, whom he had not seen since the wedding party, and was treating him to kumiss.

  “It’s a long time since I heard your songs, Abdrahman,” Djantemir said, handing him a bowl filled to the brim with kumiss. “I have missed them, and a good chat too.”

  “There is not much of cheer in the world today to go with a song,” the akyn said with a sigh. “The Russian czar is oppressing us more and more, making us pay the yassak, the ruble and a half for every yurt, for fishing, for wool, for the possession of flocks, for the kerege wood — to pay for everything, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh yes, you are right,” Djantemir gave a nod. “I, too, am being knocked about, sitting here and waiting every minute for Isai Pasha to chase me away from my winter pastures.”

  At that moment the aul dogs broke into a frenzied bark.

  “Hey, people! Have a look what’s going on out there?” Djantemir called, partly getting on his feet. “Iskhak, go and have a look what’s the matter!”

  Iskhak went out of the yurt and was back a moment later.

  “Some Russians from the fortress are coming to us.”

  Shauken who had been sitting by the threshold instantly went into a bustle, hiding something away in the dark corners, and Djantemir went pale as he put on his gown.

  “See, it’s just what I said: they’re after me,” he mum­bled. “Why are you standing here?!” he shouted suddenly, and, whip in hand, came up to Iskhak. “Run over there, and ask what they want and who they are.”

  In the meantime, Shauken was feverishly tearing the gold coins off her sleeveless jacket and hiding them in her pockets with trembling hands; then she grabbed the ivory-inlaid saddle hanging on the kerege and ran outdoors to hide it in one of the black yurts, while Kuljan and Kumish were pulling away a trunk holding the best clothes.

  The shrewd Lavrentiev noticed immediately that his appearance had caused a stir, and smiled facetiously. At long last a tall young jigit emerged from the yurt and quickly walked toward the guest.

  “As’salam alaikum,” he said with a respectful bow. “What do the brave Russian askars wish?”

  “Hello, Iskhak! Don’t you recognize me?” Lavrentiev extended his hand. “Is your father at home?”

  Iskhak’s dazzling white teeth flashed on his swarthy face in recognition, and he shook the clerk’s hands respectfully.

  “He’s home! He’s too old and too fat. Can’t run fast enough to meet his guests, so he sent me. Do come in, please. We have an akyn with us today. He’s drinking kumiss and is about to sing us his songs. Will you listen to him?”

  “Of course! Did you hear that?” the clerk turned to Shevchenko. “We’ve come just at the right moment to hear an akyn sing. And this is my friend,” Lavrentievpointed at Shevchenko. “Meet him and leash your dogs,” he added cheerfully, anticipating a lavish treat.

  Presently Djantemir came out of the yurt and saw the clerk from afar.

  “Stop fussing around,” he snapped at Shauken. “These are simple soldiers. There’s no need to slaughter a second sheep. One is enough.”

  Turning to Abdrahman, he spread out his arms in exas­peration, saying: “See, I have to kowtow to every cur. This soldier keeps company with Isai Pasha and the others and can put in an occasional word for the aul.”

  Wearing a false, sugary smile, Djantemir went to meet the guests.

  “Oi boi, what a joy it is to me! Such fine guests have come!” he said, shaking Lavrentiev’s hands with both of his. “Come into the yurt. There is an akyn inside who will sing for us,” Djantemir carried on, as he shot sidelong glances at Shevchenko and could not pluck up his courage to ask Lavrentiev who he had brought along.

  “This is a new man we’ve got,” the cunning clerk inter­cepted the bai’s glance and understood his alarm. “He used to live in the capital, was a big chief, but then he quarreled with some general, for which he was sent here for some time. He’s staying at my home,” he put Djantemir’s mind at rest finally.

  Djantemir also shook hands with Shevchenko ceremoni­ously, saying that a guest was a blessing from Allah. Smil­ing as exaggeratedly as before, he invited both guests to sit in the place of honor behind the fire.

  Shevchenko sat at Lavrentiev’s side and looked around with interest. He had never been inside a yurt before.

  Lavrentiev sat at Djantemir’s side with the mien of an ambassador of the Russian Empire in the land of the Papuans. Djantemir still did not know the purpose of his visit and smiled ingratiatingly at him, trying to get a con­versation going.

  “How did you fare here throughout the summer?” he asked.

  “Not bad,” the clerk replied, twirling his mustache. “Yesterday I was told you arrived, so I reported to the general about it this morning.”

  At this point Lavrentiev made an eloquent pause to lend his words the greatest possible import and create the impression that it was not the general who decided the fate of the aul, but that it was he, Lavrentiev, who had told Isaicv what to do. For all his restraint, Djan­temir involuntarily straightened up, trying in vain to conceal the alarm behind his mask of attentiveness and pol­iteness.

  “‘Our Djantemir has arrived at his old winter encamp­men
t,’ I said. ‘So he probably has no other place to pass the winter. His cattle are many, and the steppe around is occupied by other auls. It’s a pity,’ I said, ‘because he makes a good neighbor. Will he really have to leave this place?’”

  Lavrentiev paused again, and Djantemir could not hold himself in check any longer and clasped the clerk’s hand. Lavrentiev gave a smile and continued:

  “The general just waved his hand and said, ‘All right, Lavrentiev. If you’re so concerned about the man, let him stay this time, but next year he must look for another place.’”

  Djantemir breathed with relief: so he could quietly sit out the winter on the Or till spring. Djantemir bared his sparsely set yellow teeth in a smile of undisguised joy.

  “Oi boi, how well you reported to Isai Pasha! A great many thanks to you. Visit me more frequently to eat mut­ton, listen to the akyn, drink kumiss, and have a pleasant chat.”

  “All right, we’ll be visiting you now and then!” Lavrentiev grinned. “I’ve brought here a friend of mine. He’s a good and learned man. He taught my boys to read and write in no time. They’re reading books now so quickly you’d be surprised.”

  “My Iskhak is also a learned man, and Rahim has start­ed to study too,” the bai boasted. “I’ve sent him to a mad­rasah. He can read the Koran and other books.”

  From the moment the Russians appeared in the yurt, Abdrahman did not speak a single word. He did not like the way Lavrentiev bit crunchingly into the lump sugar, but Shevchenko caught his interest. What sort of man was he, why was he looking so intently around the yurt, at the people and the things that were so usual for every nomad?

  Shevchenko sat with a bowl in his hand, forgetting to drink the tea he had been served: everything around him was so interesting. Suddenly the eagle on his perch roused himself from sleep and let out a shrill scream, spreading his huge wings.

  “An eagle!” Shevchenko said, astonished. “What a beauty!”

  “A golden eagle,” Djantemir confirmed gravely. “He hunts wolves and fox. A good eagle — big and strong. Jaisak caught him.”

  The eagle got up on his strong tall feet with big hooked talons, stood like that for a minute, jangling the chain and settled on the tugir again, the thin films of his eyelids clos­ing over his keen yellow eyes.

  Shevchenko’s heart gave a start: here was a mighty proud creature but — fettered, a perpetual prisoner.

  It was only Abdrahman who noticed the bitter smile which barely twitched Shevchenko’s lips, and he under­stood the meaning of that smile.

  “So you are the akyn?” Lavrentiev suddenly asked Abdrahman, putting down the empty bowl.

  The akyn gave a nod, having understood only one word, akyn.

  “Sing something for us then,” the clerk went on with gracious consideration. “My friend here loves to sing, too. He’s a kobzar, for short.”

  “Kobyz?” the old man became animated. “We don’t play the kobyz. We play the dombra,” he said clearly and touched his simple instrument.

  On seeing that the akyn was about to sing, the women took away the samovar and dishes. Abdrahman tuned up the dombra and, after a moment’s thought, addressed Shevchenko:

  “I will tell you a kyui, my brother, because I see that the song is your soul.”

  Swaying rhythmically, he started to retell the message of he kyui.

  “Wait a minute,” Lavrentiev stopped him. “My friend does not understand a word of your tongue. Call the boy who knows Russian so well.”

  Abdrahman fell silent, and without stirring, dropped his yes, while Kuljan darted off like a whirlwind to Jaisak’s new jurt; a minute later she was back with Jaisak, her face flushed from the run. Jaisak greeted Abdrahman politely, then he bowed to the Russian soldiers and sat down at the akyn’s side. Abdrahman again passed his fingers across the strings, and swaying in time to an inner rhythm, retold the message of his kyui: how a bird, on a motherly impulse, saved her nestling from a wiper and died from its poisonous sting. Jaisak diligently, but rather clumsily, interpreted the kyui into Russian. When he fell silent, tumbling over the last phrase, Abdrahman turned to Shevchenko.

  “And now listen how the dombra sings it.”

  Shevchenko was deeply impressed and moved both by the music and the message of the kyui, and the sound of the dombra proved to be much mellower than any other instrument he knew.

  Lavrentiev, however, made a wry face and said:

  “Such music is no good. We’re not boys to listen to songs about little birdies. Better sing us a real song and with a voice, not with this soundless balalaika.”

  “Do sing, brother,” Shevchenko asked, putting a hand on the old akyn’s shoulder.

  Abdrahman looked at him in indecision, realizing that he had failed. At that moment the women brought in a bowl with steaming meat and manty and placed it in front of Djantemir. He rolled up his sleeves and cut each guest a piece of meat. Then he gave Shauken an order, and a bottle of vodka and little china cups appeared before the guests.

  “The Prophet has forbidden us to drink this,” Djantemir said. “We buy it from the Russians. Drink, please, as much as you want!”

  Lavrentiev imbibed the vodka liberally, glad that the whole bottle was his, and quickly became muddle-headed. After eating a second piece of mutton, Shevchenko turned to the akyn again.

  “Sing something for me, brother. Sing about people, about the bitter lot of those who slave for the rich. You must have such songs, don’t you?”

  The akyn understood almost next to nothing of what he had been asked. The only thing that was clear to him was the guest was asking him to sing. After Jaisak interpreted the request, Abdrahman looked inquiringly at Shevchenko, and replied after a pause:

  “I will sing. But first explain me why you, an akyn, be­came a soldier? Do you get pleasure from killing?”

  For Shevchenko the question had the effect of a whip lash. Looking at the drunken clerk snoring by the empty bottle of vodka and at Djantemir whose senses had been blunted by the plenteous food and strong kumiss, Shev­chenko suddenly replied frankly:

  “It’s because my homeland, Ukraine, is bathed in tears and blood under the heel of Czar Nicholas. It’s because I composed songs about Cossack freedom and the bitter fate of the peasants. My songs spread across my native land. That is why the czar forced me into the army and prohibited me from composing songs. So here I walk with a sealed heart and with the frozen songs on my lips — a living corpse that has not been buried.”

  The old man was shocked. Jaisak looked fascinated at Shevchenko, while Kuljan, sitting in a far comer amid me carpets and cushions, furtively wiped away a tear.

  Abdrahman sat silent for several minutes, then he seemed to have shaken off the burden of years, and plucking an unexpectedly vibrant chord, said:

  “We, too have such akyns. They honestly serve their people, singing about those who rouse them against sultans, khans, the czar and such as him” — he motioned with his lead at the dozing Djantemir. “Have you heard anything about our Srym Datov? No? He called on the people to fight. Together with Pugachev he fought against your czarina. I will sing to you about him, about the unforgetable Srym, and you, Jaisak, interpret well to my brother akyn so that he knows that we, too, had heroic souls amongst us.”

  Shevchcnko was all ears to every sound and every word of the song which Jaisak interpreted quickly and almost unhaltingly. He vividly imagined this whirlpool of the people’s wrath, with auls ablaze, horses neighing, weapons clanging, and then shared with the legendary rebel the wholly familiar feeling of bitter exile, abuse and humiliation. When the akyn fell silent, Shevchenko clasped him in his embrace.

  “How wonderful! My friend and brother, it’s simply wonderful. But you must keep reminding the people about that. Reminding, rousing, kindling their yearning for freedom like a spark under the ashes of a dead fire,” Shevchenko aid passionately.

  Suddenly he saw that a crowd had gathered at the entrance to the yurt. Jaisak looked reverently at Abdrahman,
and the people in the crowd whispered with enthusiasm and nodded approval of the akyn’s singing, as they shot sidelong glances at Djantemir. The bai slept through almost all of the song and opened his eyes only when the akyn stopped singing and the last note of his accompaniment died away.

  Shevchenko did not let the old akyn out of his embrace immediately. Touched by such a hearty response, the akyn bowed low to the poet.

  “Thank you, Russian brother, for not mocking our songs.” Then he handed him his dombra. “Now it is your turn. Let me, too, taste the sweet honey of your soul.”

  Shevchenko was perplexed.

  “You see, I write my songs on paper, I do not sing them and I cannot play the dombra. If it were a kobza…”

  “We have a kobyz!” Kuljan jumped to her feet and rushed to a trunk. “I’ll find it right away.”

  “It seems there is nothing I can do but play and sing,” Shevchenko said, accepting an old Kazakh kobyz from Kul­jan. He still wavered, but in the back of his mind he was already choosing from the inexhaustible treasure trove of his nation’s songs the one which by its rhythm and mood would fit the occasion. Then he plucked the first tentative chord on the kobyz and sang the verses from his Testament in a melodious recitative:

  When I am dead, then bury me

  In my beloved Ukraine,

  My tomb upon a grave mound high

  Amid the spreading plain,

  So that the fields, the boundless steppe,

  The Dnieper’s plunging shore

  My eyes could see, my ears could hear

  The mighty river roar.

  When from Ukraine the Dnieper bears

  Into the deep blue sea

  The blood of foes… then will I leave

  These hills and fertile fields —

  I’ll leave them all and fly away

  To the abode of God,

  And then I’ll pray… But till that day

  I nothing know of God.

  Oh bury me, then rise ye up