III
Taras Bulba and his sons had been in the Syech about a week. Ostap and Andríi occupied themselves very little with the school of war. The Syech was not fond of troubling itself with warlike exercises and wasting time. The young generation grew up, and learned these by experience alone, in the very heat of battles, which were, accordingly, almost incessant. The kazáks thought it a nuisance to fill up the intervals of this instruction with any sort of drill, except, perhaps, shooting at a target, and, on rare occasions, with horse-racing and wild-beast hunts on the steppe and in the forests. All the rest of the time they devoted to revelry,—a sign of the wide diffusion of spiritual liberty. The Syech, as a whole, presented an unusual phenomenon: it was a sort of unbroken revel; a ball noisily begun, which had lost its end. Some busied themselves with crafts, others kept little shops and traded; but the majority caroused from morning until night, if the wherewithal jingled in their pockets, and if the booty they had captured had not passed into the hands of the shopkeepers and dram-shop keepers. There was a certain fascination about this universal revelry. It was not an assembly of topers, who drank to drown sorrow, but simply a wild revelry of joy. Every one who came thither forgot everything, abandoned everything which had hitherto interested him. He—so to speak—spat on all his past, and gave himself up recklessly to freedom and the good-fellowship of men of the same stamp as himself,—revellers, who had neither relatives nor home, nor family,—nothing save the free sky and the eternal feast of their souls. This gave rise to that wild gaiety which could not have come from any other source. The tales and chatter among the assembled crowd which reposed lazily on the ground were often so droll, and breathed forth such a power of vivid narration, that it required all the indifferent exterior cultivated by a Zaporozhetz to maintain his immovable expression of countenance, without so much as a twitch of the moustache,—a sharply-accentuated peculiarity which to this day distinguishes the Southern Russian from his brethren. It was drunken, noisy mirth; but withal it was no black ale-house, where a man forgets himself in darkly-seducing merriment: it was an intimate circle of schoolboys.
The only difference was, that, instead of sitting under the pointer and threadbare doctrines of a teacher, they made a raid on five thousand horses; in place of the field where scholars played ball, they had the boundless, untrammelled border-marches; and at sight of them the Tatar showed his alert head, and the Turk, in his green turban, gazed phlegmatically, grimly. The difference was, that in place of the forced freedom which had united them at school, of their own free-will they had deserted their fathers and mothers and fled from their parental homes; that here were those about whose necks a rope was already dangling, and who, instead of pale death, had seen life, and life in all its intensity; that here were those who, from patrician habit, could never keep a kopék in their pockets; that here were those who had hitherto regarded a ducat as wealth, whose pockets, thanks to the Jew revenue-farmers, could have been turned wrong-side out without any danger of anything falling from them. Here all were students who could not endure the academic rod, and had not carried away a single letter from the school; but with them, also, were some who knew about Horace, and Cicero, and the Roman Republic. Many of them were officers who afterwards distinguished themselves in the King's armies; and there were numerous educated and experienced partisans, who cherished a noble conviction that it was of no consequence where they fought so long as they did fight, because it was a disgrace to an honourable man to exist without fighting. Many there were who had come to the Syech for the sake of being able to say later on that they had been in the Syech, and were, therefore, steeled warriors. But who all was not there? This strange republic was an inevitable outgrowth of the epoch. Lovers of a warlike life, of golden beakers and rich brocades, of ducats and gold pieces, could always find employment there. The lovers of women alone could find nothing there, for no woman dared to show herself in the suburbs of the Syech.
It seemed exceedingly strange to Ostap and Andríi that, although a crowd of persons had come to the Syech with them, not a soul inquired, "Whence come these men? Who are they and what are their names?" They had come thither as though returning to their own home whence they had departed only an hour previously. A newcomer merely presented himself to the Koshevói, who generally said: "Welcome! Do you believe in Christ?"—"I do," replied the new arrival.—"And do you believe in the Holy Trinity?"—"I do."—"And do you go to church?"—"I do."—"Well, now, cross yourself." The newcomer crossed himself.—"Very good," said the Koshevói.[1] "Enter whichever barrack you like." This comprised the entire ceremony. And the entire Syech prayed in one church, and were willing to defend it to the last drop of their blood, although they would not hear to fasting or abstinence. Only Jews, Armenians and Tatárs, inspired by strong greed, took the liberty of living and trading in the suburbs; for the Zaporozhtzi never cared to haggle, and paid whatever money their hand chanced to grasp in their pockets. Moreover, the lot of these gain-loving traders was pitiable in the extreme. They resembled people who had settled at the foot of Vesuvius; for when the Zaporozhtzi lacked money, the bold adventurers broke down their booths, and seized everything gratis. The Syech consisted of over sixty kuréns, which greatly resembled separate, independent republics, but still more a boys' school or a college, living care-free, with all their expenses paid. No one provided himself with anything; no one retained anything for himself. Everything was in the hands of the atamán of the barrack, who, on that account, generally went by the name of Bátko.[2] In his hands were deposited the money, clothes, all the provisions, dried oatmeal, buckwheat groats, even the firewood. They gave him the money to take care of. Quarrels in the barracks among their inhabitants, were not infrequent; in such cases, they proceeded at once to blows. The inmates of the barracks swarmed out upon the square, and smashed in one another's ribs with their fists until one side finally prevailed and gained the upper hand, when the revelry began. Such was the Syech, which had such an attraction for young men.
Ostap and Andríi flung themselves into this sea of dissipation with all the ardour of youth, and forgot, in a twinkling, their father's house, the seminary, and everything which had hitherto perturbed their souls, and gave themselves up to their new life. Everything interested them,—the jovial habits of the Syech, and the not very complicated laws, which even seemed to them too strict for such a free republic. If a kazák stole the smallest trifle, it was regarded as a disgrace to the whole kazák community: he was tied to a pillar of shame, and an oaken club was laid beside him, with which each passer-by was bound to deal him a blow, until, in this manner, he was beaten to death. He who did not pay his debts was chained to a cannon, where he was forced to sit until some one of his comrades decided to ransom him by paying his debts for him.
But what made the deepest impression upon Andríi was the terrible punishment decreed for murder. A hole was dug in the murderer's presence, he was lowered into it, and over him was placed a coffin which enclosed the corpse of the man whom he had killed, after which earth was heaped upon both. Long afterwards the frightful ceremony of this horrible execution clung to his mind, and the man who had been buried alive appeared to him with his terrible coffin.
Both the young kazáks took a good standing among the kazáks. They frequently went out on the steppe with comrades from their barrack, and sometimes with the entire barrack, or with neighbouring barracks, to shoot the innumerable steppe-birds of every sort, and deer and goats; or they went out upon the lakes, the river and its tributaries, assigned by lot to each barrack, to cast their bag-nets and drag-nets, and draw out rich prey for the enjoyment of the whole kurén. Although a kazák was not tested there by any apprenticeship, yet they were soon remarked on among the other youths for their dogged bravery, and their skill in everything. Vigorously and accurately they fired at a target; they swam across the Dnyeper against the current,—a deed for which a novice was triumphantly received into the circle of kazáks.
But old Taras had planned a different sort of activity for them. Such an idle existence was not to his mind: he wanted actual work. He meditated incessantly how he might stir up the Syech to some bold enterprise, wherein a man could carouse as became a knight. At last he went one day to the Koshevói and said plainly:
"Well, Koshevói, 'tis time for the Zaporozhtzi to make a little excursion."
"Nowhere to go," replied the Koshevói, removing his short pipe from his mouth, and spitting to one side.
"What d'ye mean by nowhere? We can make a raid on the Turks and the Tatárs."
"Impossible to raid either the Turks or the Tatárs," returned the Koshevói, putting his pipe coolly into his mouth again.
"Why is it impossible?"
"Because it is. We've promised the Sultan peace."
"But he's a Mussulman; and God and the Holy Scriptures command us to slay the Mussulmans."
"We have no right. If we had not sworn by our holy Faith then, perhaps, it might be done; but now 'tis impossible."
"How is it impossible? How can you say that we have no right? Here are my two sons, both young men grown. Neither one has been to war; and you say that we have no right, and you say that there is no necessity for the Zaporozhtzi to set out on an expedition."
"Well, 'tis not fitting."
"Then it must be fitting that kazák strength should be wasted in vain, that a man should disappear like a dog without having done a single good deed, without having been of any use to his country or to Christianity! Then why do we live? What the devil do we live for? Just tell me that. You're a sensible man, you were not elected as Koshevói without reason: just explain to me what we live for?"
To this question the Koshevói made no reply. He was a headstrong kazák. He remained silent for a while, then said: "Anyway, there shall be no war."
"There shall be no war?" Taras repeated.
"No."
"Then there's no use in thinking about it?"
"No; no use."
"Just wait, you damned pigheaded brute!" said Taras to himself: "I'll teach you to know me!" and he immediately resolved to revenge himself on the Koshevói.
Having entered into an agreement with one man here, another man there, he gave a drinking-bout for everybody; and several of the kazáks, in a state of intoxication, staggered straight to the square where on a post hung the kettle-drums which were generally beaten to summon the Council; not finding the sticks, which were always kept by the drummer, they seized a billet of wood, and began to thump. The first to respond to the drumbeat was the drummer, a tall man with but one eye, and a frightfully sleepy eye, at that.
"Who dares to beat the drum?" he shouted.
"Hold your tongue! Take your sticks, and beat when you're ordered!" replied the drunken men.
The drummer immediately took from his pocket the sticks which he had brought with him, being very well aware what would be the result of such proceedings. The drums began to thunder, and ere long black bunches of kazáks began to collect, like swarms of bees, in the square. All formed in a ring: and, at last, after the third summons, the chiefs began to arrive,—the Koshevói with his mace, the symbol of his office, in his hand; the Judge, with the seal of the Army; the Scribe, with his inkhorn; and the Yesaúl with his staff. The Koshevói and the chiefs doffed their caps, and bowed on all sides to the kazáks, who stood proudly, with their arms akimbo.
"What means this assemblage? What is your wish, noble sirs?" said the Koshevói. Shouts and abuse interrupted his speech.
"Give up your mace! Give up your mace this moment, you son of the Devil! We'll have no more of you!" shouted kazáks in the crowd. Some of the sober ones appeared to wish to oppose this, but the barracks, sober and drunken, fell to blows. The shouting and uproar became general.
The Koshevói made an attempt to speak; but knowing that the headstrong multitude, if enraged, might beat him to death, as almost always happened in such cases, he bowed very low, laid down his mace, and hid himself in the crowd.
"Do you command us, noble sirs, to resign our insignia of office?" said the Judge, the Scribe and the Yesaúl; and they prepared to give up the inkhorn, the seal of the Army and the staff, on the spot.
"No, remain!" was shouted from the crowd. "We only want to drive out the Koshevói because he's a woman, and we want a man for Koshevói."
"Whom do you elect as Koshevói?" asked the chiefs.
"Elect Kukubenko," shouted some.
"We won't have Kukubenko!" yelled another party: "he's too young; the milk isn't dry on his lips yet."
"Let Shilo be atamán!" shouted some: "make Shilo the Koshevói."
"None of your Shilo!" yelled the crowd; "a nice sort of kazák he is! that son of a dog is as thievish as a Tatár! To the devil in a sack with your drunken Shilo!"
"Borodaty! let's make Borodaty Koshevói!"
"We won't have Borodaty! To the devil's mother with Borodaty!"
"Shout Kirdyaga," whispered Taras Bulba to several.
"Kirdyaga, Kirdyaga!" shouted the crowd.
"Borodaty! Borodaty! Kirdyaga! Kirdyaga! Shilo! Away with Shilo! Kirdyaga!"
All the candidates, the moment they heard their names mentioned, stepped out of the crowd, in order not to give any one a chance to suppose that they were taking a part personally in their election.
"Kirdyaga, Kirdyaga!" rang out more strongly than the rest.
"Borodaty!"
They proceeded to decide the matter by a show of fists, and Kirdyaga won.
"Go for Kirdyaga!" they shouted. Half a score of kazáks immediately stepped out from the crowd,—some of them could hardly keep their feet, so intoxicated were they,—and went directly to Kirdyaga to notify him of his election.
Kirdyaga, although very old, was a very shrewd kazák, and had been sitting in his barrack for a good while already, as though he knew nothing about what was going on.
"What is it, noble sirs?[3] What is your will?" he inquired.
"Come, you are elected Koshevói."
"Have mercy, noble sirs!" said Kirdyaga. "How am I worthy of such an honour? Why should I be made Koshevói? I haven't sufficient sense to discharge such a duty. Could no better man be found in all the Army?"
"Come along, as you're bid!" shouted the Zaporozhtzi. Two of them seized him by the arms; and, although he planted his feet firmly, they finally dragged him to the square, accompanied by shouts, thrusts from the rear with fists, kicks and exhortations.—"Don't hold back, you son of the Devil! Accept the honour, you dog, when 'tis given to you!" In this manner was Kirdyaga conducted into the ring of kazáks.
"Well, noble sirs," yelled those who had brought him, "are you agreed that this kazák shall be your Koshevói?"
"All agreed!" shouted the throng, and the whole plain reverberated for a long time afterward with that shout.
One of the chiefs took the mace and handed It to the newly-elected Koshevói. Kirdyaga, in accordance with custom, immediately refused it. The chief offered it a second time; Kirdyaga again declined it, and then, at the third offer, accepted it. A shout of approbation rang through the crowd, and again the whole plain resounded afar with the shout of the kazáks. Then there stepped forth from among the people, the four oldest of all, white moustached kazáks with white scalp-locks (there were no very old men in the Syech, for none of the Zaporozhtzi ever died a natural death), and taking each a handful of earth, which recent rains had converted into mud, they laid it on his head. The wet earth trickled down from his head, ran on his moustache and cheeks, and smeared his whole face with mud. But Kirdyaga stood motionless in his place, and thanked the kazáks for the honour they had shown him.
Thus ended the noisy election, as to which one cannot say whether It was as pleasing to the others as it was to Bulba: by means of it he had taken his revenge on the former Koshevói. Moreover, Kirdyaga was an old comrade of his, and had been on expeditions with him by land and sea, sharing the toils and hardships of war. The crowd immediately dispersed to celebrate the election, and such revelry ensued as Ostap and Andríi had not yet beheld. The dram-shops were attacked: mead, corn-brandy and beer were seized quite simply, without payment; the owners were glad enough to escape with whole skins themselves. The whole night passed amid shouts, and songs which celebrated war-like feats—and the rising moon gazed long at troops of musicians marching about the streets with banduras, round balaláikas[4] and the church choir, who were kept to sing in church and to glorify the deeds of the Zaporozhtzi. At last drunkenness and fatigue began to overpower their strong heads, and here and there a kazák could be seen to fall upon the earth, and, comrade embracing comrade in fraternal fashion, maudlin and even weeping, both rolled upon the earth together. Here a whole group tumbled down in a heap; there a man chose the most comfortable position, and stretched straight out on a log of wood. This last, who was stronger, was still giving utterance to incoherent speeches; at last even he yielded to the power of intoxication, flung himself down—and all in the Syech slept.