Taras Bulba, and Other TalesGogol, Nikolai Vasilevich
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Taras Bulba, and Other Tales
Gogol, Nikolai Vasilevich
Russia -- Fiction; Short stories
The upper stories of the houses were filled with people. From the
windows in the roof peered strange faces with beards and something
resembling caps. Upon the balconies, beneath shady awnings, sat the
aristocracy. The hands of smiling young ladies, brilliant as white
sugar, rested on the railings. Portly nobles looked on with dignity.
Servants in rich garb, with flowing sleeves, handed round various
refreshments. Sometimes a black-eyed young rogue would take her cake or
fruit and fling it among the crowd with her own noble little hand. The
crowd of hungry gentles held up their caps to receive it; and some tall
noble, whose head rose amid the throng, with his faded red jacket and
discoloured gold braid, and who was the first to catch it with the
aid of his long arms, would kiss his booty, press it to his heart, and
finally put it in his mouth. The hawk, suspended beneath the balcony in
a golden cage, was also a spectator; with beak inclined to one side,
and with one foot raised, he, too, watched the people attentively. But
suddenly a murmur ran through the crowd, and a rumour spread, “They are
coming! they are coming! the Cossacks!”
They were bare-headed, with their long locks floating in the air. Their
beards had grown, and their once handsome garments were worn out, and
hung about them in tatters. They walked neither timidly nor surlily, but
with a certain pride, neither looking at nor bowing to the people. At
the head of all came Ostap.
What were old Taras’s feelings when thus he beheld his Ostap? What
filled his heart then? He gazed at him from amid the crowd, and lost
not a single movement of his. They reached the place of execution. Ostap
stopped. He was to be the first to drink the bitter cup. He glanced at
his comrades, raised his hand, and said in a loud voice: “God grant
that none of the heretics who stand here may hear, the unclean dogs, how
Christians suffer! Let none of us utter a single word.” After this he
ascended the scaffold.
“Well done, son! well done!” said Bulba, softly, and bent his grey head.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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