Partridges darted with craning necks among spindly roots. The air was filled with a thousand different birdcalls. Hawks hung motionless in the sky, their wings spread wide and their eyes fixed on the grass. The call of a moving cloud of wild geese resounded from a distant lake. A gull rose from the grass with an even flutter, and bathed luxuriantly in the blue waves of the air. The gull disappeared high in the sky, shimmering only as a dot. Suddenly it raised its wings and shone before the sun. Accursed steppes, how beautiful you are!

Our travelers stopped for only a few minutes to eat. Their retinue of ten Cossacks dismounted and unfastened the wooden flasks of vodka and the gourds that served as cups. They ate bread and rolls with lard, drank a cupful of vodka—but only for strength, since Taras Bulba did not permit drunkenness on a journey—and then rode on until evening.

At dusk the whole steppe changed. Its bright and colorful expanse was gripped by a last blazing gleam of sunlight, and one could see it gradually fade, a spreading shadow turning it a somber green. The vapors rose more densely—every little blossom, every blade of grass, exuded an aroma, the whole steppe smoldering in fragrance. The sky, black as ink, looked as if a gigantic brush had spread wide strips of rosy gold over it. Here and there, airy, transparent clouds shimmered in little white clumps, and the freshest breeze, seductive as ocean waves, barely swayed over the tips of the grass, brushing against the riders’ cheeks. All the music that had sounded during the day fell silent, and then changed into another music. Colorful ground squirrels popped out of their burrows, stood on their hind legs, and filled the steppe with their whistling. The chirping of the grasshoppers grew stronger. At times a swan’s call echoed like silver through the air from a remote lake.

The travelers stopped and made camp for the night. They lit a fire and placed a kettle over it, in which they boiled some wheat kasha. Steam began rising crookedly through the air. The Cossacks ate and then lay down to sleep on their tunics, leaving their horses tethered nearby in the grass. The night stars gazed straight down at them. In their ears echoed the boundless insect world that filled the grass with chirping, whistling, and chirring. All this resounded through the night, cleansed in the fresh air and lulling the dozing ear. Had any of the Cossacks risen to gaze at the steppe, they would have seen it sown with the glittering sparks of fireflies. At times, parts of the night sky were lit by the distant glow of dry reeds burning in meadows and along riverbanks, and a dark line of swans flying north was suddenly illuminated in the fire’s rosy-silver light, as if shreds of red cloth were flying through the dark sky.

The journey continued without incident. Nowhere did the travelers come across trees; it was always the same endless, free, beautiful steppe. Rarely did they see the faraway treetops of a distant forest stretching along the banks of the Dnieper. Only once did Taras point out a small, blackish spot in the distant grass and say, “See that, my boys? That’s a galloping Tatar!” And a small, mustached face peered at them from a distance with its slanted eyes, sniffed at the air like a hunting dog, and, realizing that the Cossacks numbered thirteen, bolted like a stag.

“Well, my boys! Try catching that Tatar! Or rather don’t try—you’ll never catch him! His horse is even faster than mine!”

And yet Bulba took precautions, fearing an ambush. They galloped to the Tatarka, a small river that emptied into the Dnieper, hurled themselves with their horses into the water, and floated quite a long way downstream in order to hide their trail before they climbed back up the riverbank to continue their journey.

Within three days they were approaching their goal.