The Cossack

"The Cossack" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of nature, cultural identity, and the human condition. It follows a Russian officer who visits a picturesque Cossack village and becomes captivated by the lifestyle and values of the Cossacks. As he interacts with the local inhabitants, he reflects on his own life and the contrasts between their simple existence and the complexities of modern society. Chekhov's vivid descriptions and subtle characterizations offer a poignant commentary on the search for meaning and belonging in a rapidly changing world.

								
MAXIM TORTCHAKOV, a farmer in southern Russia, was driving home from
church with his young wife and bringing back an Easter cake which had
just been blessed. The sun had not yet risen, but the east was all
tinged with red and gold and had dissipated the haze which usually, in
the early morning, screens the blue of the sky from the eyes. It was
quiet. . . . The birds were hardly yet awake . . . . The corncrake
uttered its clear note, and far away above a little tumulus, a sleepy
kite floated, heavily flapping its wings, and no other living creature
could be seen all over the steppe.

Tortchakov drove on and thought that there was no better nor happier
holiday than the Feast of Christ's Resurrection. He had only lately been
married, and was now keeping his first Easter with his wife. Whatever he
looked at, whatever he thought about, it all seemed to him bright,
joyous, and happy. He thought about his farming, and thought that it was
all going well, that the furnishing of his house was all the heart could
desire--there was enough of everything and all of it good; he looked at
his wife, and she seemed to him lovely, kind, and gentle. He was
delighted by the glow in the east, and the young grass, and his
squeaking chaise, and the kite. . . . And when on the way, he ran into a
tavern to light his cigarette and drank a glass, he felt happier still.

"It is said, 'Great is the day,'" he chattered. "Yes, it is great! Wait
a bit, Lizaveta, the sun will begin to dance. It dances every Easter. So
it rejoices too!"

"It is not alive," said his wife.

"But there are people on it!" exclaimed Tortchakov, "there are really!
Ivan Stepanitch told me that there are people on all the planets--on the
sun, and on the moon! Truly . . . but maybe the learned men tell
lies--the devil only knows! Stay, surely that's not a horse? Yes, it is!"

At the Crooked Ravine, which was just half-way on the journey home,
Tortchakov and his wife saw a saddled horse standing motionless, and
sniffing last year's dry grass. On a hillock beside the roadside a red-
haired Cossack was sitting doubled up, looking at his feet.

"Christ is risen!" Maxim shouted to him. "Wo-o-o!"

"Truly He is risen," answered the Cossack, without raising his head.

"Where are you going?"

"Home on leave."

"Why are you sitting here, then?"

"Why . . . I have fallen ill . . . I haven't the strength to go on."

"What is wrong?"

"I ache all over."

"H'm. What a misfortune! People are keeping holiday, and you fall sick!
But you should ride on to a village or an inn, what's the use of sitting
here!"

The Cossack raised his head, and with big, exhausted eyes, scanned
Maxim, his wife, and the horse.

"Have you come from church?" he asked.

"Yes."

"The holiday found me on the high road. It was not God's will for me to
reach home. I'd get on my horse at once and ride off, but I haven't the
strength. . . . You might, good Christians, give a wayfarer some Easter
cake to break his fast!"

"Easter cake?" Tortchakov repeated, "That we can, to be sure. . . .
Stay, I'll. . . ."

Maxim fumbled quickly in his pockets, glanced at his wife, and said:

"I haven't a knife, nothing to cut it with. And I don't like to break
it, it would spoil the whole cake. There's a problem! You look and see
if you haven't a knife?"

The Cossack got up groaning, and went to his saddle to get a knife.

"What an idea," said Tortchakov's wife angrily. "I won't let you slice
up the Easter cake! What should I look like, taking it home already cut!
Ride on to the peasants in the village, and break your fast there!"

The wife took the napkin with the Easter cake in it out of her husband's
hands and said:

"I won't allow it! One must do things properly; it's not a loaf, but a
holy Easter cake. And it's a sin to cut it just anyhow."

"Well, Cossack, don't be angry," laughed Tortchakov. "The wife forbids
it! Good-bye. Good luck on your journey!"

Maxim shook the reins, clicked to his horse, and the chaise rolled on
squeaking. For some time his wife went on grumbling, and declaring that
to cut the Easter cake before reaching home was a sin and not the proper
thing. In the east the first rays of the rising sun shone out, cutting
their way through the feathery clouds, and the song of the lark was
heard in the sky. Now not one but three kites were hovering over the
steppe at a respectful distance from one another. Grasshoppers began
churring in the young grass.

When they had driven three-quarters of a mile from the Crooked Ravine,
Tortchakov looked round and stared intently into the distance.

"I can't see the Cossack," he said. "Poor, dear fellow, to take it into
his head to fall ill on the road. There couldn't be a worse misfortune,
to have to travel and not have the strength. . . . I shouldn't wonder if
he dies by the roadside. We didn't give him any Easter cake, Lizaveta,
and we ought to have given it. I'll be bound he wants to break his fast
too."

The sun had risen, but whether it was dancing or not Tortchakov did not
see. He remained silent all the way home, thinking and keeping his eyes
fixed on the horse's black tail. For some unknown reason he felt
overcome by depression, and not a trace of the holiday gladness was left
in his heart. When he had arrived home and said, "Christ is risen" to
his workmen, he grew cheerful again and began talking, but when he had
sat down to break the fast and had taken a bite from his piece of Easter
cake, he looked regretfully at his wife, and said:

"It wasn't right of us, Lizaveta, not to give that Cossack something to
eat."

"You are a queer one, upon my word," said Lizaveta, shrugging her
shoulders in surprise. "Where did you pick up such a fashion as giving
away the holy Easter cake on the high road? Is it an ordinary loaf? Now
that it is cut and lying on the table, let anyone eat it that likes--your
Cossack too! Do you suppose I grudge it?"

"That's all right, but we ought to have given the Cossack some. . . .
Why, he was worse off than a beggar or an orphan. On the road, and far
from home, and sick too."

Tortchakov drank half a glass of tea, and neither ate nor drank anything
more. He had no appetite, the tea seemed to choke him, and he felt
depressed again. After breaking their fast, his wife and he lay down to
sleep. When Lizaveta woke two hours later, he was standing by the
window, looking into the yard.

"Are you up already?" asked his wife.

"I somehow can't sleep. . . . Ah, Lizaveta," he sighed. "We were unkind,
you and I, to that Cossack!"

"Talking about that Cossack again!" yawned his wife. "You have got him
on the brain."

"He has served his Tsar, shed his blood maybe, and we treated him as

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