The Exile: A novel about Taras Shevchenko

by Zinaida Tulub

  “Go to the Russians, son. They have a doctor there,” Kumish advised.

  “Never mind, apa!” the young herder waved off the advice. “Heat me a bundle with sand. I’ll put it to the shoulder and everything will be all right.”

  During one of his regular visits to the aul Istomin learned of Jaisak’s accident and went to his yurt. After ex­amining Jaisak’s arm and shoulder, he daubed them with io­dine, massaged them, and approved of the poultice.

  While Jaisak was away, Taijan broke five horses with the help of the younger herders.

  A week later Jaisak and Taijan armed themselves with rifles and sharp yatagans, and without explaining anything to the herders, saddled two colts, and galloped far off into the steppe. Rahim followed behind on his Karaigir, holding by the halter another two of Jaisak’s stallions.

  After several trial races the men let the horses rest and returned to the camping site of the herd. In the afternoon they saddled another two pairs of horses, covered the same distance as they had in the morning, and returned when dusk was already falling.

  Thus during the first day they had tried out four pairs of colts for the baiga.

  “We need one more rider,” Taijan said to Jaisak. “Other­wise we’ll fail.”

  “But we don’t know who Djantemir will decide to let in on the secret.”

  “That’ll blast our scheme,” Rahim cut in. “I know what we have to do: my friend Ismagul can keep his mouth shut, and he’s older than me by one year. Also, he knows every­thing about Shauken and Kuljan and can be trusted com­pletely.”

  The jigits fell to thinking. Ismagul was a good boy, brave and honest, but still the venture was too serious: how could they entrust such vicious, half-wild colts to the boy’s care?

  The events that followed erased their uncertainty.

  Back at the aul, the jigits found the family of Djantemir in an extraordinarily agitated state: shortly before dusk sev­eral horsemen came galloping into the aul with loud shrieks and shouts.

  “Oh, our dear Ibrai! Our dear Ibrai!” they carried on, dashing past the bai’s house and the white yurts to the ear-splitting barking of the dogs.

  After riding in between the yurts in two large circles, they stopped at the white yurts of Djantemir. They were the messengers from Zulkarnai, bringing the news of Ibrai’s death.

  Djantemir himself received them. He asked in great de­tail about the last days of the young man who died of tuberculosis of the spine, treated the guests to a lavish meal, put them to bed, and in the morning the messengers set out on their homeward journey, accompanied by Iskhak and Djantemir’s two younger brothers, who went to attend the funeral of Ibrai.

  Kuljan was seized with despair. Her future rose before her in the ugly image of Moldabai, an old, toothless, trem­bling libertine.

  No sooner had the messengers left than Rahim rushed to his sister, but Zeineb blocked his way.

  “Let her be, Rahim. She is smitten with grief. The poor thing wept all night and morning and has only now fallen asleep. Don’t wake her. When somebody is in distress, sleep helps a lot.”

  Rahim disagreed with the kindly baibishe, but kept si­lent, and when the women went into the adjacent room, he sneaked into Kuljan’s room and roused her. The girl woke and extended her hands to him with a tender and joyous smile, but the next moment a cold knife seemed to have slashed her heart, the cheerful smile vanished on her lips, and a grimace of soul-racking pain contorted her face. She wanted to say something, but Rahim put his hand across her lips and whispered in her ear, his words run­ning into each other from excitement:

  “Don’t cry, Kuljan Djan. I will tell you a great secret, but promise you will not breathe a word about it to anyone. Soon there will be a baiga. Jaisak’s horses will win; he will get a lot of sheep as a prize and become rich. Ibrai will be mourned for a whole year, during which no one can marry you off. Then Jaisak will propose and you will be­come his wife and never leave our aul.”

  She looked at her brother with eyes big from surprise, certainly not understanding what he was talking about. Ra­him had to repeat three times everything he knew about the baiga and Jaisak’s racers. At last a smile flashed across her face, pallid after the sleepless night, but then the smile faded as rapidly as it had appeared.

  “I have no luck in life. Kish Ata will probably bear a girl and then there will be no baiga at all.”

  “No, there will be,” Rahim insisted passionately. “Some days ago I could not fall asleep and heard how baibishe and Kumish said to Shauken that she will have a boy by all means. And then…”

  He stammered into silence, and not knowing how else to console his sister, Rahim suddenly blurted out:

  “And then Taras Aga and the mayirs promised to help Jaisak, if he gets into trouble. The Russians can do every­thing, and they will make ata marry you off to Jaisak.” Again she looked at her brother with big misty eyes, while Rahim told her in a voice choked with emotion how they had been breaking the best horses from the herd, what won­derful stallions Jaisak had, and how rich the mayirs from Kosaral were. For the third month now they were feeding all the poor children of the aul with borshch and porridge, and Taras Aga had drawn him when he was staying in his earth house.

  All this Kuljan had heard before, but now every word of her brother’s was somehow merging in her heart into one string of events, the end of which glimmered in a light of great hope.

  After the departure of Zulkarnai’s messenger, Djantemir prepared to ride into the steppe at long last to have a look at the racers that had been picked for the baiga.

  The first trial races lasted from morning till midday. In the afternoon the rest of the horses were saddled, and it was off into the steppe again.

  “Who do you wish to ride the third pair of horses, aga?” Jaisak asked. “Rahim is still a boy. I permit him to ride only the gray ones you have seen in the morning. The rest are so vicious and strong Rahim won’t stay in the saddle for long, and the day is short now: the third race will fall for the night, and wolves roam in the steppe.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me right away that you needed one more rider?” Djantemir grew angry abruptly.

  “I suggested Ismagul to them, ata, but they did not dare take him without your permission,” Rahim cut in resolute­ly. “We’ve been expecting you any day. Although Tsmagul is only one year my senior, he’s the strongest among the boys of the aul. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut. Jaisak here does not permit me to mount any other horses, as if I were a woman,” he added cautiously.

  “What do you think, Jaisak? Will Ismagul cope with the task or not? He seems not a bad horseman to me.”

  “I think he’s all right,” Jaisak said, seeing Rahim’s des­perate gestures behind his father’s back. “He’s quite a good horseman.”

  “All right, I agree. But if Ismagul breaks his neck or starts wagging his tongue, you’ll be responsible to me for that,” Djantemir concluded. “Now let me have a look at your stallions and let this little devil have a ride.”

  Djantemir was pleased with Jaisak’s job, praised Taijan, and slapped his son’s shoulder, calling him a jigit for the first time. But when he left, Rahim confided to Jaisak:

  “You and Taijan galloped at hot haste, but I kept back your horses so they wouldn’t outrun my father’s. I swear by my honor, Jaisak, that there are no racers to equal yours.”

  26

  The Raffle

  The supply train arrived at the end of January.

  This time it was not a little caravan with two field guns or fifty Cossacks and two guard companies, but a thousand-strong troop with a huge flock of sheep and three hundred sleighs carrying food, men, their belongings, mail, and assorted freight of a military and civilian nature.

  Butakov’s expedition received a sizable part of the sup­plies, along with fresh news.

  All the men congratulated Butakov on receiving the rank of captain-lieutenant. The expedition also learned that he was elected to full membership of the Russian G
eographic Society. This was recognition of his merits as a scholarly researcher, traveler and explorer.

  Werner was also radiant with joy: he had been promoted to the rank of warrant officer, which was the first step on his road to freedom. He ardently thanked Butakov for the recommendation and wonderful reference.

  Shevchenko had his share of pleasant news too. He re­ceived a long and amiable letter from Lizohub, a parcel with warm underwear, a set of oil paints, medicines, and various small personal items. There was also a letter from Lazarevsky and Chernishov mailed from St. Petersburg. They had sent him some money and informed him that they had been to Orlov who at first did not want to hear anything about him, but on reading his letters and learning of his illness, he promised to forward an inquiry to Orenburg and Orsk on the poet’s conduct and attitude “with the object of alle­viating his fate.”

  All these letters had been written in spring and had been lying at Orsk throughout the summer and autumn, but for Shevchenko the most important thing was that his friends remembered him and were doing everything they could to have him freed. Repnina’s letter was also filled with warm sincere words of sympathy; she prayed for him every day and promised to intercede for him with Orlov and others as soon as she went to St. Petersburg.

  He reread these lines with tears of gratitude, and in his heart there mounted a hope he was still afraid to cling to — the hope of a bright future.

  Maksheiev was in an excited mood, because he was being recalled to Orenburg. He quickly took to processing his surveys and sketching the maps of the islands and parts of the shorelines he had plotted. One copy of the maps had to remain in the files of the expedition, and the other was to go to the headquarters of the Orenburg Military Dis­trict where work on a military-topographical map was underway.

  The days were extremely short, Maksheiev worked only in the daytime; he got up at dawn, while Shevchenko left the earth house lest he interfere with his friend’s work.

  Fort Raïm was the farthest point the supply train had to reach. On arrival, the people, horses and even camels were usually so exhausted by the long trek that they had to rest three weeks before returning to Orenburg.

  But this time the respite had been doubled, because a general came with the train to make an inspection and a full audit of the fort. Accompanying him was a tax inspector who had to impose the yassak on the auls in the area and levy it. A full infantry battalion arrived as well to relieve the one that had been there for the past two years.

  The tax inspector Korsakov was a clear-eyed man. Con­cerned with the interests of the state though he was, he did not forget his own interests either. The covered wagon he rode in was followed by two pairs of sleighs loaded with pig-iron and bronze cauldrons, samovars, basins and drink­ing bowls, sacks with flour and sugar, crates with rolls of calico, cheap silk, velveteen, knives, lace, large glittering buttons the Kazakh women used to adorn their sleeveless jackets, needles and other small wares. This cargo was under the charge of his serf, lackey and steward Trokhimovich.

  On seeing that Raïm was full of Orenburg officials in whose presence it was awkward to ply his trade, Korsakov at first traveled to the most outlying auls and only after two weeks did return to the outskirts of Raïm.

  Maksheiev stretched himself wearily. Midday was nearing, and from eight o’clock in the morning he had been keeping his shoulder to the collar on an elaborately detailed military-topographical map of Barsa Kelmes Island.

  Suddenly heavy footfalls came from behind the door of the earth house; he heard a voice he did not recognize, and the next moment Korsakov, in a coat of wolf fur and a cap, literally tumbled through the open door, followed by Trokhimovich with two suitcases.

  Maksheiev looked at him in surprise.

  “Hallo, mon cher! Don’t you recognize me? I’m Alexandr Ivanovich Korsakov. From St. Petersburg. I met you many a time at the home of Baroness Pritwitz.”

  “Oh, do excuse me! But you’ve come so unexpectedly… and we met such a long time ago,” Maksheiev said and extended his hand, showing no particular joy at such an intrusion.

  The guest threw off his coat and cap and applied his handkerchief to his mustache, eyelashes and brows turned gray with rime.

  “Shove those suitcases under the table and come here,” he ordered Trokhimovich and sat down opposite Maksheiev without ceremony. “It’s my third day back from the auls. I have been wandering about Raïm… Abominable condi­tions of life here for sure! I have been sleeping on floors, with hay for bedding. I just could not stand it and ran away! On learning that you were here I was overjoyed. An old acquaintance would not refuse to take me in.”

  “I am afraid you will suffer discomfort here too. I do not live alone here, but with two comrades from the expedi­tion.”

  “Well, well, I have been told you have let some soldiery into your place. They won’t be worse off living in the bar­racks. After all, I am here only temporarily and on official business at that. I am no longer with the Board of Guard­ians in St. Petersburg. Now I am a tax inspector, guarding the interests of the state, so to speak.”

  Maksheiev felt a wave of rage rising in him at the words and tone of Korsakov, but he checked himself and asked just for the sake of propriety:

  “You seemed to want to marry the daughter of the bar­oness. How are they — alive and healthy?”

  “The marriage did not materialize. We fell out on busi­ness matters. As it proved, her estate was a majorat, and the exclusive right of its inheritance belonged to her eldest son. I am not a rich man, though. Why should I be counting coppers for the rest of my life? My wife is a Muscovite, born Solodnikova. She is pretty, studied at a finishing school, and has considerable money. Of course, every girl coming from a merchant’s family finds it pleasant to be­come a noblewoman. I’ll suffer in Orenburg for a year or two and then return to the capital again. I am sick of the provinces.”

  Maksheiev realized that it would be not that easy to get rid of Korsakov. He removed the drawing board from table, and on seeing Shevchenko entering just at that moment, made a sweeping gesture in his direction, and said: ‘Let me introduce you to Mr. Shevchenko, Professor of Painting at the University of Kiev and currently artist with the Aral scientific expedition.”

  Such an unexpected introduction confused Shevchenko, and he silently bowed to the guest.

  “I am very pleased to meet you. Korsakov is my name, and I am an old friend of Alexei Ivanovich,” Korsakov said, flashing his jagged, nicotine-stained teeth. “Dear Taras Grigorievich,” Maksheiev addressed Shevenko with exaggerated politeness. “You are still in your coat, so would you please do me a favor: make arrangements to have lunch served as quickly as possible. Our guest must be very hungry after the journey, and I, frankly speaking, am too tired after this drafting business. During the meal I’ll have some rest — and then it’s back to the drawing pen again. You see, I am being recalled to Orenburg,” he explained to Korsakov. “So I am in a hurry to have the drawings done, because otherwise I won’t be able leave. Time flies and I have a good month to work yet.”

  In fifteen minutes a rich naval borshch and a tin of marinated fish appeared on the table, and Maksheiev poured out strong starka vodka. The guest did not leave the gesture unanswered and produced a bottle of zubrovka vodka. A conversation began. Korsakov told how a pack of wolves had shadowed the supply train along its trek. Maksheiev recalled the tiger hunt. The borshch was followed by a roasted hare Istomin had bagged the day before, then a boiling samovar was put on the table, and Shevchenko solemnly produced a bottle of real Jamaica rum.

  “Where did you get that?” Maksheiev asked, surprised.

  “I earned it. I did a portrait of one of the newly arrived officers, and apart from the agreed fee, he gave me this bottle and a wonderful frame for watercolors.”

  After the meal Shevchenko sat aside to finish his land­scape of the bay with the ice-bound schooner on a sand­bank, while Maksheiev continued the conversation with Korsakov.

  “My office
is a really nasty one, mon cher,” Korsakov complained, sipping his tea flavored with rum. “Here I’ve been wandering about the steppe for a whole year, levying taxes on the local savages. I’m slaving away, with no hope of earning any gratitude. And the main thing: I cannot make them pay the taxes in full. That’s what I got from lis­tening to my dear father-in-law. ‘You go into the civil ser­vice,’ he said, ‘and rise to the rank of councilor of state, so that my daughter becomes the wife of a general. Then I’ll load you with money!’ And that’s what he has a lot of, being a millionaire. But how can I achieve that rank when those Kirghiz devils never get out of debt? I’ve already gone so far as to have the debts cut almost by half, for which his Excellency recommended me for the Order of St. Anne.”

  “Oh? But how did you achieve such brilliant results?” Maksheiev asked, pouring some more rum into the guest’s cup of tea.

  Korsakov had one cup too many during the meal and was talking too much.

  “Very simply: by applying the whip. Imagine, there are such scoundrels that are prepared to die under the whip rather than pay taxes.”

  Shevchenko sat upright, blood gushed to his head, his fists balled against his will, but he restrained himself with great effort and picked up a brush again.

  “Don’t you really understand that no whip can wrest out of the beggars something they don’t have?” Maksheiev asked.

  “Oh, my dear chap, that’s where you are wrong! All of them just pretend to be beggars. Believe me, my office is really a nasty one: I am sick of hearing their complaints, screams and the like. That’s not what you officers have to deal with! You return from a military raid as rich men, whereas I have to live on my salary alone.”

  Maksheiev raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “What has a military raid got to do with levying taxes?”