The three riders all proceeded in silence. Old Boolba thought of former times; he saw pass before him his youth, his bygone years, those years which are always regretted by a Cossack, who would wish that his whole life were youth only; he thought of the comrades he should meet with at the Ssiecha; he remembered who those were who had died, and those who yet remained alive. A tear might have been seen trembling in his eye, and mournfully did he droop his gray head.
Other thoughts occupied his sons. But more should be said about the sons. At twelve years old they were sent to the College of Kieff, because all' the important nobles of that time found it necessary to give an education to their sons, although it was apparently done merely for the purpose of their entirely forgetting it afterwards. Like all the collegians, they had something wild about them, having been brought up in perfect freedom. At the college, however, they got something of that external polish, which, being common to all collegians, made them so resemble one another. Ostap, the elder of the two, began his career by running away the very first year; he was brought back, mercilessly flogged, and once more set to his book. Four times did he bury his grammar in the ground, and four times, after having him horsewhipped without pity, a new one was bought for him. Yet he would no doubt have repeated the same attempt a fifth time, had not his father pledged him his word that he would have him shut up in a cloister for twenty years, and sworn that he should never see the Zaporoghian Ssiecha till he had been through the whole course of academic learning. It is worth notice that this was said by that same Tarass Boolba, who, as we have seen, laughed at all learning, and advised his children never to trouble themselves about it. From that time Ostap grew intensely assiduous, and was soon ranked among the best pupils.
The education and the practical life of those times afforded the most striking contrast. All the scholastic, grammatical, and rhetorical subtleties were decidedly inappropriate to the epoch, inapplicable to anything, and of no use in after life. Even had the studies been much less scholastic, those who studied would have found nothing to which they could have been adapted. The first rate scholars of that time were the most ignorant people in practice, because they, more than others, were removed from the experience of life. The republican form of the academical administration, as well as the great concourse of full-grown, healthy young men, could not fail to give the pupils' minds a direction quite alien to their studies. At one time bad food, at others oft-repeated punishments by hunger, then, those impulses which arise in fresh, healthy, strong youths—all this combined to give them that enterprising spirit which afterwards attained its full expansion in the Zaporoghian Ssiecha. Hungry collegians rambled about the streets of Kieff, and rendered every one cautious. The market-women who sat in the market, as soon as they saw a collegian coming, quickly covered with their hands their pies, rolls, and pumpkin seeds, just as eagles cover their young with their wings. The consuls, whose duty it was to watch over such of their comrades as were placed under their orders, themselves wore trouser pockets of such frightful dimensions that they could hide in them the whole contents of a tray if the market-woman happened to look aside. These collegians formed a world apart; they were not allowed to mix in the higher circles, which consisted of Polish and Russian nobles. Even the Voevoda,[9] Adam Kissel, notwithstanding the protection which he showed to the college, did not allow the collegians admittance into society, and ordered them to be treated with the greatest severity. This last injunction was, however, quite superfluous, for neither the rector nor the professors spared the rods and whips, and often at their commands the lictors[10] gave their consuls such a sound flogging, that the latter rubbed their trousers many weeks after. Many of them became indifferent to it, and thought it only a little stronger than good brandy and pepper; some found such frictions too frequent and too unpleasant, and at last took flight to the Ssiecha, if they could but find the way to it, and if they happened not to be caught during the journey.
Ostap Boolba, notwithstanding his assiduity in learning logic, and even theology, could by no means escape the inexorable rod. Of course, all this hardened his character, and gave him that firmness which is so peculiar to the Cossacks. Ostap was always reputed the best of comrades. He was not often a leader of the others in daring enterprises, such as to lay waste some orchard or kitchen-garden, but he was always among the first who joined the colours of the daring collegian who was to lead, and never on any occasion did he betray his comrades; no whip, no rods, could make him do so. Nothing but fighting and carousing had any attraction for him; never, at least, did he think of anything else. With his equals he was always open-hearted. He was good, so far as goodness was possible with such a character and at such an epoch. The tears of his poor mother had strongly impressed his mind, and might account for his depressed spirits, and the thoughtful drooping of his head.
The feelings of his younger brother, Andrew, were quicker, and in some degree, more sharpened. He showed more inclination and less difficulty for study than is usually the case with a heavy, robust character. He had more contrivance than his brother, and more frequently became the leader in expeditions of danger, and oftener, thanks to his ready wit, found means to escape punishment; while his brother Ostap, setting aside every subterfuge, took off his coat and laid himself down on the floor, without ever thinking of begging forgiveness. Andrew was as eager as his brother for warlike feats, but his heart was also open to other feelings. When he was scarcely eighteen, he felt to the quick the want of love; thoughts of women would often visit his over-heated fancy; whilst listening to philosophical disputes, he saw every moment a fresh, dark-eyed, tender face; continually there glimmered before him her round smooth bosom, her delicate, beautifully moulded bare arm; even her dress, clinging to her maidenly yet powerful form, his fancy would depict as something indescribably voluptuous. These inspirations of his passionate youthful soul, Andrew carefully hid from his comrades, for in those times it was reputed a shame and a dishonour to a Cossack to think about women, and love, before having gone through a battle. And yet, during the later years, he was no longer so often the leader of collegian parties, but was more frequently to be seen strolling about one of the lonely lanes of Kieff, overshadowed by cherry-tree gardens, which surrounded some low cottages. He also went sometimes into the aristocratic street in that part of Kieff which is now-a-days called the Old Town, where the nobility of Little Russia and Poland used to live, and where the buildings in their appearance showed more refinement.
Once, as he was gazing about the street, he was nearly caught by the wheels of the carriage of some Polish lord, and received a well-aimed cut of the whip from the frightfully mustachioed figure, who sat on the box of the carriage. The young collegian took fire at once; with inconsiderate audacity he grasped with his powerful hand the rear wheel, and stopped the carriage. But the coachman, fearing the result, whipped the horses; they started forward, and Andrew, who fortunately had time to withdraw his arm, fell flat on the ground, with his face in the mud. The most sonorous and harmonious laughter resounded above him. He lifted up his eyes, and saw, standing at a window, a beauty, the like of whom he had never seen before. Her eyes were dark, and the whiteness of her complexion was like the snow, lighted by the rosy-coloured rays of the morning sun; she laughed with all her heart, and laughter gave additional splendour to her beauty. He remained riveted to the spot. Unconscious of everything around him, he looked at her, and, absent in mind, wiped the mud from his face, soiling it still more. Who could that lovely girl be? He tried to learn her name of the servants, who, in rich dresses, were assembled in a crowd at the gate, round a young musician, playing on the bandora[11] But the servants burst out laughing on seeing his dirty face, and no one condescended to answer him. He succeeded at last in ascertaining that the young lady was the daughter of the Voevoda of Kovno, who had come to Kieff for a certain time. Next night, with an audacity peculiar to collegians, he crept through a palisade into the garden, climbed a tree whose branches were widely spread, and leaned on the very roof of the house; from the tree he got on to the roof, and gliding down a chimney, came straight into the room of the beauty, who was just then sitting before a light, and taking her costly ear-rings out of her ears. The beautiful girl was so terrified at seeing before her a strange man, that she could not utter a word; but when she saw that the collegian remained standing, his eyes bent on the ground, and not daring, from bashfulness, to move even his hand; when she recognised him to be the same person who had fallen in the street beneath her eyes, she once more gave vent to her laughter. Besides, Andrew's features had nothing alarming in them; he was very handsome. She laughed with all her heart, and continued a long time amusing herself at his expense. The beauty was as flighty as only a Polish woman can be; but her eyes, her beautiful, her piercingly bright eyes, threw glances as lasting as constancy. The collegian remained motionless, and seemed as if all his limbs were tied up in a sack, when the Voevoda's daughter came boldly up to him, put her brilliant diadem upon his head, hung her ear-rings on his lips, and threw on his shoulders a transparent muslin chemisette with gold embroidered festoons. She dressed him out in different ways, and played with him a thousand silly tricks with the childish ease so characteristic of the giddy Poles, and which added still more to the confusion of the poor collegian. His mouth wide open, his looks riveted on her brilliant eyes, he made the most laughable figure. A noise which was heard at the door, aroused her fears. She ordered him to hide himself under the bed, and as soon as the noise was over, she called for her maid, a Tartar prisoner, and ordered her to conduct him cautiously into the garden, and thence to see him over the palisade. But this time our collegian was not so fortunate in getting over the palisade. The watchman awaking, gave him a vigorous blow over the legs, and the servants assembled by the noise, beat him in the street, long before his swift feet carried him out of their reach. After this, it was very dangerous to pass near the house of the Voevoda, the more so as his servants were numerous. Andrew saw his beauty once more in a Latin Church; she noticed him, and gave him a pleasant smile as to an old acquaintance. Once more, but only en passant, did he see her, and then the Voevoda left Kieff, and after that, instead of the beautiful dark-eyed Polish girl, a broad, coarse face looked out of her windows.
This is what Andrew was thinking about, with his head bent down, and his eyes fixed on the mane of his horse.
Meanwhile, the steppe had long ago received them in its green embrace, and its high grass, encircling them, had hidden them so that only their black Cossack's caps were now and then to be seen above it.
"Eh! eh! eh! What are you about, lads? Why so silent?" said Boolba, recovering from his meditation. "Just like monks! Come now, all at the same time! All sad thoughts to the devil! Take your pipes between your teeth, light them, set spurs to your horses, and let us take such a gallop, that no bird shall get the better of us!"
And the Cossacks slightly bending towards the manes of their horses, disappeared in the high grass. Not even their black caps were now to e seen; their course could only be followed by looking at the furrow in the grass, which they crushed with the rapidity of lightning.