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This is the first time you have slept quietly. Be silent if you don't wish to do yourself an injury." But Taras still tried to collect his thoughts and to recall what had passed. "Well, the Lyakhs must have surrounded and captured me. I had no chance of fighting my way clear from the throng."
Before reaching the place where Taras sat Nekhludoff stopped between the seats near a reverend-looking old man with a white beard and nankeen coat, who was talking with a young woman in peasant dress. A little girl of about seven, dressed in a new peasant costume, sat, her little legs dangling above the floor, by the side of the woman, and kept cracking seeds.
"By the way, Luba, turn your attention to the fact," began Taras, standing with his back toward the table and scrutinizing the clock, "that pessimism is perfectly foreign to the Anglo-Saxon race. That which they call pessimism in Swift and in Byron is only a burning, sharp protest against the imperfection of life and man.
Taras stood in the crowd with bowed head; and, raising his eyes proudly at that moment, he said, approvingly, "Well done, boy! well done!" But when they took him to the last deadly tortures, it seemed as though his strength were failing. He cast his eyes around. O God! all strangers, all unknown faces! If only some of his relatives had been present at his death!
He had been to town and found employment for the young ones, and was now going to the country to see the people at home. After hearing the old man's story, Nekhludoff went to the place that Taras was keeping for him. "It's all right, sir; sit down; we'll put the bag here," said the gardener, who sat opposite Taras, in a friendly tone, looking up into Nekhludoff's face.
Another friend, Jukovski, exercised a powerful influence, and gave invaluable aid at several crises of his career. Jukovski had translated the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey;" his enthusiasm for Hellenic poetry was contagious; and under this inspiration Gogol proceeded to write the most Homeric romance in Russian literature, "Taras Bulba."
sang the Deacon in low tones embracing Aleksei Maksimovitch, who was smiling kindly into his face. Paltara Taras giggled voluptuously. The night was approaching. High up in the sky the stars were shining ... and on the mountain and in the town the lights of the lamps were appearing. The whistles of the steamers were heard all over the river, and the doors of Vaviloff's eating-house opened noisily.
"You have nothing then to discuss with me?" asked Taras again. "I am very pleased." He turned sideways to Foma and inquired of Lubov: "What do you think will father return soon?" Foma looked at him, and, feeling something akin to respect for the man, deliberately left the house.
'You give me five roubles, and I'll get her out, says he. He agreed to do it for three. Well, and what do you think, friend? I went and pawned the linen she herself had woven, and gave him the money. As soon as he had written that paper," drawled out Taras, just as if he were speaking of a shot being fired, "we succeeded at once. I went to fetch her myself.
*Translated by Isabel Hapgood. The whole book is dominated by the gigantic figure of old Taras Bulba, who loves food and drink, but who would rather fight than eat. Like so many Russian novels, it begins at the beginning, not at the second or third chapter.
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