17
Kozlovsky’s Advice
The winter persisted unbearably long. Blizzard followed blizzard, and even during the brief spells of what oldtimers considered calm weather, there was such a gusty ground wind lashing across the steppe it buffeted against people’s backs and made them move at a trot.
Shevchenko’s illness made him ever weaker. He could barely bend his swollen joints and was racked by pain. When the medical attendant reported to Globa on the poet’s condition, the company commander pounded his desk madly with his fist, and shouted:
“That’s a lie, you bastard! I know those tricks! He must have given you a ruble for vodka, and here you stick up for him! One word about the lazybones from you — and I’ll throw you into the guardhouse!”
“But, your Excellency, let the doctor have a look at
