The intoxicating scent of roses wafted up to his window. He remembered that spring in Moscow when he had not yet embraced the cause. Youth crowned his forehead and innocence his motives. On hot June mornings, when the sun shone on the white parvis of the city, Moscow was bright and dazzling. Officers dressed in white strolled through the streets in small groups. They laughed and teased each other. In their military posture, they believed they had a bright future ahead of them. Sometimes, on their way to Count K***'s house, they would greet an important person or a member of the court. But it was in the hope of meeting women that they endured the stifling sun. The women of Moscow were the most exquisite creatures in Russia; not as serious as those in Petersburg. Most were hidden behind a shawl or had their hair wrapped in silk, their eyes coy and their cheeks flushed. Others held a polite confidence, their heads bowed unbothered under their delicate umbrellas. But none had caught his eye more than those who were looking at him in supplication. Under the Moscow sky, where the swifts flew over their heads, he only sought women with expressions of despair on their faces. And as their eyes met, he relished the prospect of the beauty that lay ahead. They were eager to be given to him body or soul. What was it that made their eyes so beautiful, so sad? Was it the supreme conviction to be devoted only to the desires of others, without ever belonging to oneself? He thought again of the delicate heads that bowed before him in adoration, in worship. Their scrawled notes, their tears silent and unguarded. Their words told him of their unhappiness at being away from him. Ah, such a sacrifice, so noble, so pure! But what did he know at that time? How could he have known the joys of abandonment, having closed the door to his soul? He who had been taught that the ultimate goal was to live for oneself.
“What a lie."
He sighed, glad to be free from the grip of that lie. After all, he had been chosen by God to see truth. The squeak of the telega echoed through the courtyard. After two days of rain, the horses were desperate for fresh air. So did he, but his wounds were still crippling. He had ordered Tverskov to accompany the Cossack wherever he went. They were going to the nearest village, and they'd be gone all day. Clouds of dust rose as they descended the path with a great clatter of hooves. After a long, heavy silence, the door opened, creaking. The boy was standing there, his face tense. In his hands he held a loaf of bread and a bowl that smelled of stew.
“Sit."
“I must tend the goats."
“You will sit."
Although he never expected the boy to be well behaved when his father wasn't present, he was determined to be respected. The Cossack offspring needed to understand that the cause was pure and noble. And for the sake of this cause, everyone had to do their part.
“You wish to tend the goats and I wish to walk again. What difference does it make? Oh, don’t look at me that way! Like I’m the most horrendous person you’ve ever seen. Know that you are troubling my peace as much as I’m troubling yours. I did not ask to be here. But God brought me here. And whether you like it or not, it is your duty to serve me as much as it is my duty to serve Russia."
He kept on eating, sucking on tiny chicken bones. Outside the sun was slowly setting and Tverskov and the Cossack had not yet returned.
“The sunset bleeds! Blood streams from the heart!
Weep, heart, weep
No peace! The mare of the steppe
Gallops on”
“I suppose you don’t know any poetry."
“No, sir."
“Of course, you don’t. You would not wish to make my staying agreeable anyway. Do you know how to read?"
“No, sir."
“I figured. A son of farmer, knowing poetry. What a peculiar vision."
“One of my uncles could read."
“What then? Farmers and sons are farmers being politicians. Why not? Why don’t we all have our say! It would be a great idea. You would want to tend the goats and I would want to walk again. And we’d all be equals."
He chuckled.
“What a stupid thing to never be able to walk again."
“As a wildflower hangs its head in wilts
Beneath the reaper’s killing scythe,
Ill, I awaited my ultimate end
And thought: the fateful hour’s nigh.”
“Is that why you are here? Do you pity me or do you rejoice at my illness?
“No, sir. My father ordered me to serve you."
“Good. Your father must be a wise man after all. God brought me here. So, He must have a reason. Remember boy, God never does things out of passion. He knows everything. He knows why I’m here. And He even knows what you’re hiding in your heart.
The boy flushed.
— "If I look at your forehead, I see nothing."
“My forehead, sir?"
“Look. On my forehead, you can see glory. It means I’m chosen by God. You can see glory on Nikolai Sebastianovich. But on yours I can’t see anything."
The plate was now empty. He was playing with the fleshless bones without looking at his young host.
“Go away. Since you are of poor company, I allow you to tend the goats."
As the young boy rose from his seat, he looked somewhat hesitant.
“It’s going to be dark soon. I’d rather stay and hear some poetry."
Something in this boy continued to disturb him. Yet, he could not resist the idea of declaiming some stanzas to the glory of his beloved. After nodding reluctantly, the boy obeyed and sat on the floor. He could have told any verses. It would have had the same effect on an ignorant mind. But he chose the best of what he remembered, from Blok to Derzhavin. All chanting the miracles of the steppe, of their utter passion for their homeland. It was already dark when he was done. Through the obscurity, he could not see the young Cossack. A ray of the moon suddenly lit his face bent with emotion.
“Is that a tear? Are you crying?"
He rose to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his leg.
“Get up."
“I’d rather leave sir," he replied with an agitated tone.
“I command you to get up. Face the window, boy."
A soft light poured on his face, illuminating the eyes.
“But you don’t resemble a boy. You look like a pearl."
“I should go now."
“Come closer. But you aren’t a boy. You’re not even a man."
With a quick gesture, he removed the headscarf around her head.
“That’s why I could not see glory on your forehead! That’s why you were judging me!" He chuckled nervously.
“Go! I do not wish to stay alone with you. Leave before I suspect you will betray me. I told you that God knows what’s in your heart! You cannot fool God! Why are you presenting yourself as someone you’re not?"
“You cannot tell my father! Please, Sir."
“Were you planning on betraying me? Did you father send you to spy on me? I am chosen by God remember; you could not have disguised yourself for so long. He would have made me see the truth!"
“I do not wish to betray you, Sir. Not after what I have heard from you. In these parts, men do terrible things to women alone. Men are evil that’s why I conceal myself. Red men, white men, all are dangerous. I figured if I were to be a young man, then they would think that I was as dangerous as they were."
He looked at her with care this time. She was indeed bony and small like a boy. But her face had the indelible expression of resilience. No young man had ever accepted his fate without trying to rebel against it, leaving the mark of frustration engraved forever. For the first time since they arrived in the farm of Fiodr Semionovich, the feeling of uneasiness faded away. Tears kept on pouring down her cheeks.
— "It was wonderful, Sir. What you read to me. To think that there are other creatures in this world who look at the steppe as amorously as I do. To think that there are men who write about love in such a manner. Are there a lot?"
— "A lot of what?"
— "A lot of poets who write about Russia."
He paused, looking at this innocent face. He couldn’t see anything on her forehead, but in the way she was breathing he felt the same passion that moved him.
— "Poets are chosen by God. They are rare creatures, but they can speak to humanity."
— "Oh, I would like to meet one someday!"
When they heard the telega approaching, she glanced at him warily. He had suddenly return to being his enemy. She grabbed her headscarf in a hurry and left the room without a look.
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