And quiet flows the Don; a novel Read online

  The wedding was to take place on the first day after Lent. Three weeks remained. On the Day of the Assumption Grigory came to visit his future bride. He sat at the round table in the best room, eating sunflower seeds and nuts with the bride's girl-friends, then drove away again. Natalya saw him off. In the lean-to shed, where his horse was standing saddled with a smart new saddle, she slipped her hand into her breast, and blushing, gazing at him with eyes that expressed her love, she thrust a soft little bundle, warm from her breast, into his hand. As he took the gift Grigory dazzled her with the whiteness of his wolfish teeth, and asked:

  "What is it?"

  "You'll see. . . . I've embroidered you a tobacco pouch."

  Grigory irresolutely drew her towards him, wanting to kiss her; but she held him off forcibly with her hands against his chest, leaned away from him, and turned her eyes apprehensively towards the window of the house.

  "They'll see us!"

  "Let them!"

  "I'm ashamed to!"

  "That's only at first," Grigory explained.

  Natalya held the reins while he mounted. Frowning, Grigory caught the stirrup with his foot, seated himself comfortably in the saddle and rode out of the yard. She opened the gate, and stood gazing after him. Grigory leaned over to the left in his saddle, Kalmyk fashion, waving his whip with a flourish.

  "Eleven more days," Natalya thought to herself and sighed and smiled.

  XX

  The green, sharp-leafed wheat breaks through the ground and grows; within a few weeks a rook can fly into its midst and not be seen. The com sucks the juices from the earth and comes to ear, then it flowers and the ears are pow-

  dered with a golden dust; the grain swells with sweet and scented milk. The farmer goes out into the steppe and stands gazing and is filled with joy. But then a herd of cattle stray into the corn; they tread the laden grain into the glebe. Round patches of crushed wheat are left where the cattle have lain; the farmer grows bitter and desperate at the sight.

  So with Aksinya. Grigory had trampled her feelings that had ripened to golden flower with his heavy, raw-hide sandals. He had sullied them, burned them to ash-and that was all.

  As she came back from the Melekhovs' sunflower patch Aksinya's spirit grew empty and wild, like a deserted farmyard overgrown with goose-grass and scrub. She walked along chewing the ends of her kerchief, and a cry swelled her throat. She entered the house and fell to the floor, choking with tears, with torment, with the dreary emptiness that lashed through her head. But then it passed. The piercing anguish was drawn down and exhausted at the bottom of her heart.

  The grain trampled by the cattle stands again. With the dew and the sun the trodden stalks arise; at first, bowed like a man under a too heavy burden, then erect, lifting their heads; and the day is day again and the wind still blows.

  At night, as she passionately caressed her husband, Aksinya thought of another, and hatred was mingled with a great love in her heart. The woman was planning fresh dishonour, fresh shame; she had made up her mind to take Grigory from the happy Natalya, who had known neither the bitterness nor the joy of love. She lay thinking over her plans at night, her dry eyes blinking in the darkness. Stepan's handsome head lay heavily on her right arm, his long wavy forelock awry. He breathed through his half-opened lips, his black, toil-roughened fingers caressing his wife's breast in forgetfulness. Aksinya lay thinking and planning, but only one thing could she resolve firmly: she would take Grigory from everybody else, she would flood him with love, she would possess him as before she had possessed him. But at the bottom of her heart a deep pain, like the sting left by a bee, remained.

  During the day Aksinya drowned her thoughts in household duties and cares. She met Grigory occasionally, and would turn pale, proudly carrying her beautiful body that yearned so much for him, gazing shamelessly, challengingly into the black wilderness of his eyes.

  After each meeting Grigory was seized with yearning for her. He grew angry without cause, and poured out his wrath on Dunya and his mother, but most frequently he took his sabre, went out into the backyard and slashed away at stout twigs planted in the ground until he was bathed in perspiration. It made Pantelei curse:

  "The lousy devil, he's chopped up enough for a couple of fences. Go into the woods, if you must chop away. You wait, my lad! When you're called up for service, you'll have the chance to do it. That'll soon take it out of you!"

  XXI

  Four gaily-decorated two-horse wagonettes were to drive to fetch the bride. A crowd of village folk in holiday attire thronged around them as they stood in the Melekhovs' yard.

  Pyotr was the best man. He was dressed in a black frock-coat and blue striped trousers, his left arm was bound with two white kerchiefs, and he wore a fixed scornful smile under his wheaten whiskers.

  "Don't be shy, Grigory!" he said to his brother. "Hold your head up like a young cock, don't get sulky!"

  Darya, as slender and supple as a willow branch, attired in a woollen, raspberry-coloured skirt, twitched the pencilled arches of her brows and gave Pyotr a nudge:

  "Tell Father it's time we were off. They're waiting for us."

  "Take your places," Pyotr ordered, after a whispered consultation with his father. "On my wagon, five and the bridegroom." They climbed into the wagonettes. Flushed and triumphant, Ilyinichna opened the gates. The four wagonettes chased after one another along the street.

  Pyotr sat at Grigory's side. Opposite them Darya waved a lace handkerchief. The ruts and bumps interi*upted the voices that had struck up a song. The crimson bands of the Cossack caps, the blue and black uniforms and frock-coats, the sleeves bound with white kerchiefs, the scattered rainbow of the women's kerchiefs, the gay skirts, and muslin trains of dust behind each wagonette made a colourful picture.

  Grigory's second cousin, Anikei, drove the bridegroom's wagonette. Leaning forward over the tails of the horses, almost falling off his seat, he cracked his whip and whistled, and the perspiring horses pulled harder at the tautened traces.

  "Give it to 'em/' roared Pyotr.

  The moustacheless hawk-like Anikei winked at Grigory, wrinkled his hairless womanish face into a thin smile, gave a whistle and belaboured the horses with his whip.

  "Make way!" Ilya Ozhogin, the bridegroom's uncle on his mother's side, roared as he tried to overtake them with the second wagonette. Grigory recognized Dunya's sunburnt face behind his uncle's back.

  "No, you don't!" Anikei shouted, jumping to his feet and emitting a piercing whistle. He whipped up the horses into a frenzied gallop. "You'll fall!" Darya exclaimed, encircling Anikei's patent leather top-boots with her arms. "Hold on!" Uncle Ilya called at their side, but his voice was lost in the continual groan and rattle of the wheels.

  The two other wagonettes, tightly packed with whooping men and women, drove along side by side. The horses with red, blue, and pink cloths on their backs, paper flowers and ribbons woven into their manes and forelocks, and bells on their harness, tore over the bumpy road, scattering flakes of soapy foam, and the cloths on their wet, lathered backs flapped and billowed in the wind.

  At the Korshunovs' gate a horde of village lads was on the look-out for the cavalcade.

  They saw the dust rising from the road and ran into the yard bawling:

  "They're coming!" "Here they are!" They surrounded Het-Baba who had just come out.

  "Why the crowd? Get away, you little devils. What a noise you make! I can't hear myself speak."

  The children jumped around Het-Baba's wide baggy sharouari, shouting and poking fun at the Ukrainian. Het-Baba, his head bent as if he were peeping into a deep well, looked down at the frenzied children and scratched his firm long belly with an indulgent smile.

  The wagonettes came rattling up to the gate. Pyotr led Grigory to the steps, the others followed behind.

  The door from the porch to the kitchen was shut fast. Pyotr knocked.

  "Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us!" he intoned.

  "Amen!" came from the oth
er side of the door.

  Pyotr repeated the words and the knock three times, each time receiving the same answer.

  "May we come in?"

  "You are welcome."

  The door was thrown open. The parents' representative, Natalya's godmother, a good-

  looking widow, greeted Pyotr with a curtsey and a thin raspberry-lipped smile. "Take this for your health's sake, best man!" she said, handing him a glass of cloudy, over-fresh kvass. Pyotr smoothed his whiskers, drank it down, and spluttered amid a general restrained laugh: "Well, you've made me welcome! You wait, my blackberry, wait till I treat you. I'll make you pay for it."

  While the best man and Natalya's godmother were competing in a duel of wits, the relatives of the bridegroom were brought three glasses of vodka each, in accordance with the marriage agreement.

  Natalya, already attired in her wedding dress and veil, sat at the table, guarded by her two sisters. Marishka held a rolling pin in her outstretched hand, and Grippa, a challenging fervour in her eyes, brandished a mixing spoon. Sweating, and slightly tipsy with vodka, Pyotr bowed and offered them a fifty-kopeck piece in his glass. But Marishka struck the table with her rolling pin,

  "Not enough! We shan't sell the bride!"

  Once more Pyotr offered them some small silver in the glass:

  "We won't let you have her!" the sisters raged, elbowing the downcast Natalya.

  "Here, what's all this? We've already paid and overpaid."

  "Give way, girls!" Miron ordered, and smilingly pressed towards the table. His ruddy hair, smeared with melted butter, smelt of sweat and dung. At this signal the bride's relatives and friends seated round the table stood up and made room for the newcomers.

  Pyotr thrust the end of a handkerchief into Grigory's hand, jumped on to a bench, and led him to the bride, who had seated herself under the icons. Natalya took the other end of the handkerchief in her moist and agitated hand.

  There was a champing of teeth around the table. The guests tore the boiled chicken apart with their hands, afterwards wiping them on their hair. As Anikei chewed at a breast bone the yellow fat ran down his bare chin on to his collar.

  Feeling sorry for himself, Grigory stared first at his own and Natalya's spoons tied together in the handkerchief, then at the noodles steaming in a bowl. He badly wanted to eat; his stomach was rolling over with hunger.

  Dar^'^a was helping herself. Uncle Ilya who sat next to her, nibbling at a rib of mutton with his large teeth, was evidently whispering improprieties to her, for she screwed up her eyes and lifted her brows, blushing and giggling.

  The guests ate long and heartily. The reek of resinous masculine sweat mingled with the more caustic and spicy scent of the women. The skirts, frock-coats and shawls that had for long been packed away in chests, smelled of mothballs and something else, heavy and cloying, like an old woman's much-used honey pot.

  Grigory glanced sidelong at Natalya. And for the first time he noticed that her upper lip was swollen, and hung like the peak of a cap over her underlip. He also noticed that on the right cheek, below the cheek-bone, was a brown mole, and that two golden hairs were growing out of the mole; and for some reason this irritated him. He recalled Aksinya's slender neck with its curly, fluffy locks, and he had the feeling that someone had dropped a handful of prickly hay down his sweating back. He bristled, and with a suppressed feeling of wretchedness watched the others munching, chewing and smacking their lips.

  When they got up from the table someone, breathing stewed fruit-juice and the sour scent of wheaten bread over him, poured a handful of millet down the leg of his boot in order to protect him against the evil eye. All the way back to his own house the millet hurt his feet; the tight collar band of his shirt

  choked him, and under the depressing influence of the marriage rites, in a cold, desperate fury Grigory muttered curses to himself.

  XXII

  By the time they reached the Melekhovs' yard, the horses, though they had rested a bit at the Korshunovs, were exhausted. Their harnesses were spattered with foam. But the drunken drivers urged them on ruthlessly.

  The procession was met by the old Melekhovs. Pantelei, his silver-inlaid black beard glistening, held the icon, and his wife stood at his side, her thin lips set stonily.

  Amid a shower of hops and wheat grain Grigory and Natalya approached them to receive their blessing. As he blessed them a tear ran down Pantelei's face, and he frowned and fidgeted, annoyed that anyone should be witness of his frailty.

  The bride and bridegroom went into the house. Darya, red from the vodka, the ride, and the sun, dashed out on to the steps and pounced on Dunya.

  "Where's Pyotr?"

  "I haven't seen him!"

  "He ought to go for the priest, and he's nowhere to be found, curse him!"

  She found Pyotr, who had drunk more vodka than was good for him, lying in a cart, groaning. She swooped on him like a kite. "You've had too much, you heathen! Get up and run for the priest!"

  "Clear off! I don't know you. Who are you ordering about?" Pyotr protested, scrabbling about in the straw and fowls' dung.

  With tears in her eyes Darya thrust two fingers into his mouth, gripped his lolling tongue, and helped him to ease himself. Then she poured a pitcher of cold well-water over his head, wiped him dry with the horse blanket and took him to the priest.

  Less than an hour later Grigory was standing at Natalya's side in the church, clutching a wax candle in his hand, his eyes wandering over the wall of whispering people round him, and repeating to himself four words that would not leave his head: "You've had your fling!" Behind him the puffy-faced Pyotr coughed. Somewhere in the crowd he saw Dunya's eyes twinkling; he thought he recognized other faces. He heard the dissonant chorus of voices and the droning responses of the deacon. He was fettered with apathy. He followed Father Vissarion round the lectern, treading on the heels of the priest's battered boots; he halted when Pyotr gave a gentle tug at his frock-coat.

  He stared at the flickering little tongues of candleflame, and struggled with the sleepy torpor which had taken possession of him.

  "Exchange rings!" said Father Vissarion, giving Grigory a lukewarm smile.

  They obeyed. "Will it be over soon?" Grigory mutely asked, as he caught Pyotr's glance. And the corners of Pyotr's lips twitched, stifling a smile. "Soon now." Then Grigory kissed his wife's moist, insipid lips three times, the church began to smell foully of extinguished candles, and the crowd pressed towards the door.

  Holding Natalya's large, rough hand in his, Grigory went out into the porch. Someone clapped his hat on his head. A warm breeze from the east brought the scent of wormwood to his nostrils. The cool of evening came from the steppe. Lightning flickered beyond the Don, rain was coming; outside the white church fence, above the hum of voices he heard the gentle inviting tinkle of the bells on the restive horses.

  xxni

  The Korshunovs did not arrive at the Melekhovs' house until after the bride and bridegroom had gone to the church. Several times Pantelei went to the gate to see whether

  they were coming, but the grey road, lined with a growth of prickly thorns, was completely deserted. He shifted his eyes towards the Don. The forest was turning a golden yellow. The ripened reeds bent wearily over the Don-side marshes. Blending with the dusk, the sad blue drowsiness of early autumn enwrapped the village, the Don, the chalky ridge of hills, the forest lurking in a lilac mist beyond the river, and the steppe. At the cross-roads the sharp outline of the wayside cross was silhouetted against the sky.

  Pantelei's ears caught the scarcely audible sound of wheels and the yapping of dogs. Two wagonettes turned out of the square into the street. In the first sat Miron with his wife at his side; opposite them was Grandad Grishaka in a new uniform, wearing his Cross of St. George and his medals. Mitka drove, sitting carelessly on the box, and not troubling to show the foaming horses his whip. In the second wagonette, Mikhei, leaning backward, tugged at the reins, trying to reduce the horses' gallop to a trot. Hi
s angular browless face was scarlet, sweat was streaming down from under the broken peak of his cap.

  Pantelei threw open the gate, and the two wagonettes drove into the yard. Ilyinichna

  sailed down from the porch, the hem of her dress trailing in the dust.

  "Welcome, dear friends! Do our poor house the honour of entering." She bent her corpulent waist in a bow.

  His head on one side, Pantelei flung open his arms and welcomed them: "We humbly invite you to come in!"

  He called for the horses to be unharnessed and went up to the father of his daughter-in-law. Miron brushed his sharovari with his hand to get the dust off them. Old Grishaka, shaken up by the wild ride, lagged behind.

  "Come in, come in, my dears!" Ilyinichna insisted.

  "Thank you, we're just coming."

  "We've been waiting for you, do come in. I'll bring a besom for you to brush your uniform with. There's so much dust about at this time of the year, it's hard to breathe."

  "Yes, indeed, it's very dry. .. , That's what makes the dust. . .. Don't trouble yourself, my dear, I'll just. ..." Bowing to his slow-witted hostess, old Grishaka backed away towards the bam and took refuge behind a painted winnowing machine.

  "Can't you leave the old man alone, you fool!" Pantelei snorted, intercepting his wife on the steps. "He wants to do something,

  and you keep.. . . Where are your brains, woman!"

  "How should I know?" Ilyinichna protested blushing. "You ought to guess. Never mind, take the guests to table."

  The bride's family were taken into the best room, where a crowd of already half-intoxicated guests was sitting round the table. Soon after their arrival the newly-married couple returned from the church. As they entered Pantelei filled the glasses from a half-gallon bottle, tears standing in his eyes.

  "Well, Miron Grigoryevich, here's to our children! May their life be filled with good, as ours has been. May they live happily, and enjoy the best of health."