He rarely led his peers in wayward undertakings, such as the plundering of gardens or orchards, and was always one of the first to appear under the flag of an enterprising student. Never in any circumstances would he betray a comrade. No rod or whip could induce him to do that. He stood firm in the face of all temptations except those of war and wild carousing. He barely ever thought of anything else. He was forthright with his peers. He had a goodness of the kind that could only exist in that era in a character like his. He was deeply moved by his poor mother’s tears, and it was they and they alone that saddened him and made him hang his head in thought.

His younger brother Andri’s feelings were somewhat livelier, and in a sense more developed. He had studied with more gusto, and without having to force himself. He was also more resourceful than his brother. He led his peers more frequently in dangerous undertakings, and at times managed to dodge punishment with great ingenuity, while his brother Ostap readily took off his shirt and lay down on the floor to be flogged, refusing to ask for mercy. Andri thirsted for heroic feats, but his soul was also open to other feelings. When he reached his eighteenth year, the need for love flared up within him. Fiery images of a woman appeared ever more often in his dreams. As he listened to philosophical debates, he saw her constantly, fresh, dark-eyed, and tender. Her luminous taut breasts and her wonderful, soft arms, completely bare, sparkled perpetually before him. Even her dress, sweeping over her virginal but powerful limbs, exuded an inexpressible voluptuousness. He carefully hid the stirrings of his youthful passionate soul from his comrades, because in those days it was shameful and dishonorable for a Cossack to think about women and love before he knew battle. In the last few years, Andri had rarely led a pack of students on escapades, but now roamed alone through the more remote streets of Kiev, past cherry orchards and low houses that peered beckoningly into the street. Sometimes he even ended up on the boulevards of the aristocrats in what is today Kiev’s old town, where Ukrainian and Polish noblemen lived and where the houses were stylish. Once, as he stood gaping on one of these boulevards, he was almost run over by the large carriage of a Polish nobleman, and the coachman, who had a frightening mustache, gave him a sharp lash with his whip. Andri flared up and with crazed audacity grabbed the rear wheel with his powerful hand, bringing the carriage to a halt. The coachman, fearing a scuffle, whipped the horses into a gallop, and Andri, who fortunately managed to pull his hand away from the spokes, went tumbling to the ground with his face in the mud.

A ringing, harmonious laugh came from somewhere above him. He raised his eyes and saw the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, standing at a window. She was dark-eyed and white as snow lit by the rosy morning sun. She laughed with all her heart, and her laughter lent a sparkling strength to her dazzling beauty. Andri was struck dumb. He stared at her, absently wiping the dirt from his face, smudging it even more. Who could this beauty be? He asked the group of servants in rich livery who were standing around a young bandura player by the gate. But the servants guffawed when they saw his mud-smeared face and did not deign to give him an answer.