at once in the Dnieper. All of them the Dnieper holds in his dark bosom. Not one escapes him, unless it goes out in the sky. The black forest studded with sleeping crows and the hills broken up since ancient times, hanging over, strain to cover him at least with their long shadows-but in vain! There is nothing in the world that can cover the Dnieper. Blue, deep blue, he goes flowing smoothly through the night as through the day, visible as far off as the human eye can see. Languidly pressing himself closer to the banks from the night's chill, he sends a silver ripple over his surface, and it flashes like the strip of a Damascus saber; and, deep blue, he sleeps again. Wondrous is the Dnieper then, too, and there is no river in the world to equal him! But when dark blue clouds pass mountain-like across the sky, and the black forest sways to its roots, the oaks creak, and lightning, ripping through the clouds, lights up all the world at once-then terrible is the Dnieper! Watery peaks roar as they beat against the hills, and withdraw with a shining and moaning, and weep and dissolve far away. So a Cossack's old mother grieves as she sends her son off to the army. Rakish and daring he rides on his black steed, arms akimbo and hat cocked; and she runs weeping after him, clings to his stirrup, snatches at his bridle, and wrings her hands over him and dissolves in bitter tears.
Savagely black between the battling waves are the charred stumps and stones on the jutting bank. A boat, pulling in, knocks against the bank, rising and falling. Who among the Cossacks has made so bold as to go in a boat while the old Dnieper is angry? He must not know that he swallows men like flies.
The boat pulls in, and from it steps the sorcerer. He is unhappy; he is bitter about the wake the Cossacks held for their slain master. The Polacks paid no small fee: forty-four nobles, with all their harness and jackets, cut to pieces, along with thirty-three servants; the rest rounded up with their horses as prisoners to be sold to the Tartars.
Down the stone steps he descended, between the charred stumps, to where he had a dugout shelter deep in the ground. He went in quietly, without creaking the door, placed a pot on the cloth-covered table, and with his long hands began throwing some unknown herbs into it; he took a mug made of some strange wood, scooped up some water, and began pouring it out, moving his lips and performing incantations. A rosy light appeared in the room; and terrible was it then to look into his face: it seemed bloody, only the deep wrinkles showed black on it, and his eyes were as if on fire. Impious sinner! his beard had long since turned gray, his face was furrowed with wrinkles, he was all dried up, yet he still carried out his godless design. A white cloud came to hover in the middle of the room, and something resembling joy flashed in his face. But why did he suddenly stand motionless, mouth gaping, not daring to stir, and why did the hair bristle on his head? In the cloud before him some strange face shone. Unasked, unbidden, it had come to visit him; it grew more distinct and fixed its gaze on him. Its features, its brows, eyes, lips-all were unfamiliar to him. He had never seen it in his life. And it seemed there was little in it that was terrible, yet an invincible horror came over him. And the strange, unfamiliar head kept looking at him fixedly through the cloud. Now the cloud was gone; yet the unknown features showed still more sharply, and the keen eyes would not tear themselves away from him. The sorcerer turned white as a sheet. He cried out in a wild voice not his own and overturned the pot… Everything vanished.
XI
'Calm yourself, my beloved sister!' said old Captain Gorobets. 'Dreams seldom tell the truth.'
'Lie down, sister!' his young daughter-in-law said. 'I'll send for an old woman, a fortuneteller, and she'll pour out a flurry for you.' 11
'Have no fear,' said his son, grasping his saber, 'no one will harm you.'
Gloomily, with dull eyes, Katerina gazed at them all and could find no words. 'I myself arranged for my own ruin,' she thought. 'I let him go.' At last she said:
'He won't leave me in peace! For ten days now I've been with you in Kiev, and my grief has not lessened at all. I thought I might at least quietly raise my son for revenge… Terrible, terrible he looked in my dream! God forbid that you should see him, too! My heart is still pounding. 'I will stab your baby, Katerina,' he shouted, 'if you do not marry me!'' and, bursting into sobs, she rushed to the cradle, and the frightened baby reached out his arms and cried.
The captain's son seethed and blazed with wrath, hearing this talk. Captain Gorobets himself became furious.
'Let him try coming here, the cursed antichrist; he'll taste whether there's strength in an old Cossack's arms. God sees,' he said, lifting up his clairvoyant eyes, 'did I not fly to give my brother Danilo a hand? His holy will! I found him already lying on a cold bed, where many a Cossack lay. Still, was his wake not magnificent? Did we let even one Polack go alive? Calm yourself, my child! No one will dare to harm you, unless I and my son are no more.'
Having spoken, the old captain went over to the cradle, and the baby, seeing the red pipe with its silver trim and the pouch with the gleaming tinderbox hanging from his belt, reached out to him and laughed.
'He'll take after his father,' said the old captain, removing the pipe and handing it to him. 'He's still in the cradle and already wants to smoke a pipe.'
Katerina quietly sighed and began to rock the cradle. They all decided to spend the night together, and soon afterwards they fell asleep. Katerina, too, fell asleep.
Out in the yard and inside the house everything was quiet; only the Cossacks standing guard were not asleep. Suddenly Katerina gave a cry and woke up, and after her everyone woke up. 'He's been slain, he's been stabbed!' she cried as she rushed to the cradle.
They all stood around the cradle, frozen with fear, seeing the dead baby lying in it. No one uttered a sound, not knowing what to think of the unheard-of evildoing.
XII Far from the Ukrainian land, past Poland, beyond the populous city of Lemberg, stretch rows of high-peaked mountains. Mountain after mountain, like a chain of stone, they push back the earth to right and left and clothe it in thick stone to keep the loud and stormy sea from seeping through. Chains of stone stretch to Wallachia and the region of the Seven Cities, and stand in a massive horseshoe between the Galician and Hungarian peoples. There are no such mountains in our parts. The eye dares not survey them; no human foot has stepped on the tops of some.
Strange, too, is their look: Is it that the eager sea overflowed its shores in a storm, heaved up its shapeless waves in a whirl, and they, petrified, remained motionless in air? Is it that heavy clouds dropped down from the sky and encumbered the earth with themselves? for they are also gray in color, and a white peak glistens and sparkles in the sun. Up to the Carpathian Mountains you still hear Russian speech, and just beyond them familiar words can be heard here and there; but then the faith is no longer the same and the speech is no longer the same. There lives the not inconsiderable Hungarian people; they ride horses, wield sabers, and drink no worse than the Cossacks; and they do not stint in producing gold coins from their pockets to pay for harness and costly caftans. Great vast lakes lie between the mountains. They are still as glass and, mirror-like, reflect the bare tops of the mountains and the green at their feet.
