Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Cossacks by graf Tolstoy Leo (leveled readers .txt) 📖
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‘I have all I want. I have victuals, thank God!’ he said proudly.
‘Well, and what of Mosev?’ he added.
Lukashka, evidently wishing to know the old man’s opinion, told
him how the officer had taken the gun from him.
‘Never mind the gun,’ said the old man. ‘If you don’t give the gun
you will get no reward.’
‘But they say. Daddy, it’s little reward a fellow gets when he is
not yet a mounted Cossack; and the gun is a fine one, a Crimean,
worth eighty rubles.’
‘Eh, let it go! I had a dispute like that with an officer, he
wanted my horse. “Give it me and you’ll be made a cornet,” says
he. I wouldn’t, and I got nothing!’
‘Yes, Daddy, but you see I have to buy a horse; and they say you
can’t get one the other side of the river under fifty rubles, and
mother has not yet sold our wine.’
‘Eh, we didn’t bother,’ said the old man; ‘when Daddy Eroshka was
your age he already stole herds of horses from the Nogay folk and
drove them across the Terek. Sometimes we’d give a fine horse for
a quart of vodka or a cloak.’
‘Why so cheap?’ asked Lukashka.
‘You’re a fool, a fool, Mark,’ said the old man contemptuously.
‘Why, that’s what one steals for, so as not to be stingy! As for
you, I suppose you haven’t so much as seen how one drives off a
herd of horses? Why don’t you speak?’
‘What’s one to say. Daddy?’ replied Lukashka. ‘It seems we are not
the same sort of men as you were.’
‘You’re a fool. Mark, a fool! “Not the same sort of men!”’
retorted the old man, mimicking the Cossack lad. ‘I was not that
sort of Cossack at your age.’
‘How’s that?’ asked Lukashka.
The old man shook his head contemptuously.
‘Daddy Eroshka was simple; he did not grudge anything! That’s why
I was kunak with all Chechnya. A kunak would come to visit me and
I’d make him drunk with vodka and make him happy and put him to
sleep with me, and when I went to see him I’d take him a present—
a dagger! That’s the way it is done, and not as you do nowadays:
the only amusement lads have now is to crack seeds and spit out
the shells!’ the old man finished contemptuously, imitating the
present-day Cossacks cracking seeds and spitting out the shells.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Lukashka; ‘that’s so!’
‘If you wish to be a fellow of the right sort, be a brave and not
a peasant! Because even a peasant can buy a horse—pay the money
and take the horse.’
They were silent for a while.
‘Well, of course it’s dull both in the village and the cordon,
Daddy: but there’s nowhere one can go for a bit of sport. All our
fellows are so timid. Take Nazarka. The other day when we went to
the Tartar village, Girey Khan asked us to come to Nogay to take
some horses, but no one went, and how was I to go alone?’
‘And what of Daddy? Do you think I am quite dried up? … No, I’m
not dried up. Let me have a horse and I’ll be off to Nogay at
once.’
‘What’s the good of talking nonsense!’ said Luke. ‘You’d better
tell me what to do about Girey Khan. He says, “Only bring horses
to the Terek, and then even if you bring a whole stud I’ll find a
place for them.” You see he’s also a shaven-headed Tartar—how’s
one to believe him?’
‘You may trust Girey Khan, all his kin were good people. His
father too was a faithful kunak. But listen to Daddy and I won’t
teach you wrong: make him take an oath, then it will be all right.
And if you go with him, have your pistol ready all the same,
especially when it comes to dividing up the horses. I was nearly
killed that way once by a Chechen. I wanted ten rubles from him
for a horse. Trusting is all right, but don’t go to sleep without
a gun.’ Lukashka listened attentively to the old man.
‘I say. Daddy, have you any stone-break grass?’ he asked after a
pause.
‘No, I haven’t any, but I’ll teach you how to get it. You’re a
good lad and won’t forget the old man…. Shall I tell you?’
‘Tell me, Daddy.’
‘You know a tortoise? She’s a devil, the tortoise is!’
‘Of course I know!’
‘Find her nest and fence it round so that she can’t get in. Well,
she’ll come, go round it, and then will go off to find the stone-break grass and will bring some along and destroy the fence.
Anyhow next morning come in good time, and where the fence is
broken there you’ll find the stone-break grass lying. Take it
wherever you like. No lock and no bar will be able to stop you.’
‘Have you tried it yourself. Daddy?’
‘As for trying, I have not tried it, but I was told of it by good
people. I used only one charm: that was to repeat the Pilgrim
rhyme when mounting my horse; and no one ever killed me!’
‘What is the Pilgrim rhyme. Daddy?’
‘What, don’t you know it? Oh, what people! You’re right to ask
Daddy. Well, listen, and repeat after me:
‘Hail! Ye, living in Sion, This is your King, Our steeds we shall
sit on, Sophonius is weeping. Zacharias is speaking, Father
Pilgrim, Mankind ever loving.’
‘Kind ever loving,’ the old man repeated. ‘Do you know it now? Try
it.’
Lukashka laughed.
‘Come, Daddy, was it that that hindered their killing you? Maybe
it just happened so!’
‘You’ve grown too clever! You learn it all, and say it. It will do
you no harm. Well, suppose you have sung “Pilgrim”, it’s all
right,’ and the old man himself began laughing. ‘But just one
thing, Luke, don’t you go to Nogay!’
‘Why?’
‘Times have changed. You are not the same men. You’ve become
rubbishy Cossacks! And see how many Russians have come down on us!
You’d get to prison. Really, give it up! Just as if you could! Now
Girchik and I, we used…’
And the old man was about to begin one of his endless tales, but
Lukashka glanced at the window and interrupted him.
‘It is quite light. Daddy. It’s time to be off. Look us up some
day.’
‘May Christ save you! I’ll go to the officer; I promised to take
him out shooting. He seems a good fellow.’
From Eroshka’s hut Lukashka went home. As he returned, the dewy
mists were rising from the ground and enveloped the village. In
various places the cattle, though out of sight, could be heard
beginning to stir. The cocks called to one another with increasing
frequency and insistence. The air was becoming more transparent,
and the villagers were getting up. Not till he was close to it
could Lukishka discern the fence of his yard, all wet with dew,
the porch of the hut, and the open shed. From the misty yard he
heard the sound of an axe chopping wood. Lukashka entered the hut.
His mother was up, and stood at the oven throwing wood into it.
His little sister was still lying in bed asleep.
‘Well, Lukashka, had enough holiday-making?’ asked his mother
softly. ‘Where did you spend the night?’
‘I was in the village,’ replied her son reluctantly, reaching for
his musket, which he drew from its cover and examined carefully.
His mother swayed her head.
Lukashka poured a little gunpowder onto the pan, took out a little
bag from which he drew some empty cartridge cases which he began
filling, carefully plugging each one with a ball wrapped in a rag.
Then, having tested the loaded cartridges with his teeth and
examined them, he put down the bag.
‘I say, Mother, I told you the bags wanted mending; have they been
done?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes, our dumb girl was mending something last night. Why, is
it time for you to be going back to the cordon? I haven’t seen
anything of you!’
‘Yes, as soon as I have got ready I shall have to go,’ answered
Lukashka, tying up the gunpowder. ‘And where is our dumb one?
Outside?’
‘Chopping wood, I expect. She kept fretting for you. “I shall not
see him at all!” she said. She puts her hand to her face like
this, and clicks her tongue and presses her hands to her heart as
much as to say—“sorry.” Shall I call her in? She understood all
about the abrek.’
‘Call her,’ said Lukashka. ‘And I had some tallow there; bring it:
I must grease my sword.’
The old woman went out, and a few minutes later Lukashka’s dumb
sister came up the creaking steps and entered the hut. She was six
years older than her brother and would have been extremely like
him had it not been for the dull and coarsely changeable
expression (common to all deaf and dumb people) of her face. She
wore a coarse smock all patched; her feet were bare and muddy, and
on her head she had an old blue kerchief. Her neck, arms, and face
were sinewy like a peasant’s. Her clothing and her whole
appearance indicated that she always did the hard work of a man.
She brought in a heap of logs which she threw down by the oven.
Then she went up to her brother, and with a joyful smile which
made her whole face pucker up, touched him on the shoulder and
began making rapid signs to him with her hands, her face, and
whole body.
‘That’s right, that’s right, Stepka is a trump!’ answered the
brother, nodding. ‘She’s fetched everything and mended everything,
she’s a trump! Here, take this for it!’ He brought out two pieces
of gingerbread from his pocket and gave them to her.
The dumb woman’s face flushed with pleasure, and she began making
a weird noise for joy. Having seized the gingerbread she began to
gesticulate still more rapidly, frequently pointing in one
direction and passing her thick finger over her eyebrows and her
face. Lukashka understood her and kept nodding, while he smiled
slightly. She was telling him to give the girls dainties, and that
the girls liked him, and that one girl, Maryanka—the best of them
all—loved him. She indicated Maryanka by rapidly pointing in the
direction of Maryanka’s home and to her own eyebrows and face, and
by smacking her lips and swaying her head. ‘Loves’ she expressed
by pressing her hands to her breast, kissing her hand, and
pretending to embrace someone. Their mother returned to the hut,
and seeing what her dumb daughter was saying, smiled and shook her
head. Her daughter showed her the gingerbread and again made the
noise which expressed joy.
‘I told Ulitka the other day that I’d send a matchmaker to them,’
said the mother. ‘She took my words well.’
Lukashka looked silently at his mother.
‘But how about selling the wine, mother? I need a horse.’
‘I’ll cart it when I have time. I must get the barrels ready,’
said the mother, evidently not wishing her son to meddle in
domestic matters. ‘When you go out you’ll find a bag in the
passage. I borrowed from the neighbours and got something for you
to take back to the cordon; or shall I put it in your saddle-bag?’
‘All right,’ answered Lukashka. ‘And if Girey Khan
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