And quiet flows the Don; a novel Read online

  "You keep quiet."

  "People like to talk-"

  "Hold your tongue, you son of a bitch!"

  Grigory bent to the oars. The boat leapt forward. The bubbling water danced away from the stern in little scrolls.

  They remained silent until, as they were approaching the shore, his father reminded him:

  "Mind what I've said, or from now on I'll

  stop your going out at night. You won't stir a step outside the yard!"

  Grigory made no answer. As he beached the boat he asked:

  "Shall I give the fish to the women?"

  "Go and sell it," the old man said more gently. "You can have the money for tobacco."

  Biting his lips, Grigory followed his father. "Try it. Dad! I'm going out tonight even if you hobble my feet!" he thought, his eyes boring fiercely into the back of the old man's head.

  When he got home Grigory carefully washed the sand off the fish and fixed a twig through its gills.

  At the farm gate he ran into his old friend Mitka Korshunov. Mitka was strolling along, toying with the end of his silver-studded belt. His round, yellow eyes glistened impudently in their narrow slits. Mitka's pupils were long, like a cat's, making his glance swift and elusive.

  "Where are you off to with the fish?"

  "We caught it today. I'm going to sell it."

  "To Mokhov?"

  "Uh-huh."

  Mitka estimated the weight of the fish with a glance.

  "Fifteen pounds?"

  "Fifteen and a half. We weighed it on the scales."

  "Take me with you. I'll do the bargaining."

  "Come on."

  "And what do I get?"

  "You needn't fear. We shan't quarrel over that."

  Church was over, and the villagers were filling the streets. The three Shamil brothers came striding down the road side by side. The eldest, one-armed Alexei, was in the middle. The tight collar of his army tunic held his sinewy neck erect, his thin, curly, pointed little beard twisted provokingly sideways, his left eye winked nervously. His carbine had exploded in his hands at the shooting range many years previously, and a piece of the flying iron had ploughed into his cheek. Now his left eye winked in season and out of season, and a blue scar ran across his cheek, burying itself in his tow-like hair. His left arm had been torn off at the elbow, but Alexei was a past master at rolling a cigarette with one hand. He would press his pouch against his chest, tear off the right quantity of paper with his teeth, bend it into a trough-shape, rake up the tobacco, roll the cigarette and almost before you realized what he was doing, he would be asking you for a light.

  Although he was one-armed he was the finest fighter in the village. His fist was not particularly large as fists go-about the size of a calabash

  -but he had once happened to get annoyed with his bullock when ploughing, and being without his whip, gave it a blow with his fist that stretched the bullock out over the furrows, blood streaming from its ears. And it hardly recovered. The other brothers, Martin and Prokhor, resembled Alexei down to the last detail. They were just as stocky and broad-shouldered, only each had two arms.

  Grigory greeted the Shamils, but Mitka walked on, turning his head aside sharply. At the fisticuffs during Shrovetide, Alexei Shamil had shown no regard for Mitka's youthful teeth. With a powerful swing, he had struck him in the mouth, and Mitka had spat out two good teeth on the grey-blue ice, scarred by the trampling of iron-shod heels.

  As he came up to them, Alexei winked five times.

  "Selling your load?"

  "Want to buy it?"

  "How much?"

  "A couple of bullocks, and a wife thrown in."

  Screwing up his eyes, Alexei jerked the stump of his arm.

  "You're a card! Haw-haw! A wife thrown in! Will you take the brats, too?"

  "Leave yourself some for breeding, or the Shamils will die out!" Grigory grinned.

  In the square the villagers were gathered around the fence of the church. The church warden was holding a goose above his head and shouting: "Going for fifty kopecks. Any more offers?"

  The goose craned its neck and peered round, its beady eye squinting contemptuously.

  In the middle of a ring of people a grizzled old man, his chest covered with crosses and medals, stood brandishing his arms.

  "Old Grishaka is telling one of his tales about the Turkish war," Mitka said, nodding towards the ring. "Let's go and listen."

  "While we're listening to him the carp will start stinking and swell."

  "If it swells it'll weigh more."

  In the square beyond the firecart shed rose the green roof of the Mokhov's house. Passing the outhouse, Grigory spat and held his nose. From behind a barrel, an old man emerged, buttoning up his trousers, and holding his belt in his teeth.

  "Hard pressed?" asked Mitka ironically.

  The old man buttoned up the last button, and took the belt out of his mouth.

  "What's it got to do with you?"

  "Your nose ought to be stuck in it, or your beard; so that your old woman wouldn't be able to wash it off in a week."

  "I'll stick you in it," said the old man, offended.

  Mitka screwed up his cat's eyes in the sun's glare.

  "Aren't you touchy!"

  "Get out, you son of a bitch. Why are you bothering me? Do you want a taste of my belt?"

  Laughing quietly Grigory approached the steps. The balustrade was richly fretted with wild vine. The steps were speckled with lazy shadows.

  "See how some folk live, Mitka!"

  "Even the door-handle's got gold on it!" Mitka sniffed as he opened the door leading to the verandah. "Imagine that old fellow getting in here. . . ."

  "Who's there?" someone called from the other side of the door.

  Grigory entered shyly. The carp's tail trailed over the painted floor-boards.

  "Whom do you want?"

  A girl was sitting in a wicker rocking-chair, a dish of strawberries in her hand. Grigory stared silently at the full, rosy, heart-shaped lips embracing a berry. With her head on one side the girl looked the lads up and down.

  Mitka came to Grigory's rescue. He coughed.

  "Want to buy some fish?"

  "Fish? I'll go and ask."

  She rocked the chair upright, and rising padded away in her embroidered slippers. The sun shone through her white dress, and Mitka saw the dim outline of full legs and the broad, billowing lace of her underskirt. He was astonished at the satiny whiteness of her bare calves; only on the small round heels was the skin milkily yellow.

  "Look, Grisha, what a dress! Like glass! You can see everything through it," he said, nudging Grigory.

  The girl came back through the door leading to the corridor, and sat down gently on the chair.

  "Go into the kitchen!"

  Grigory tiptoed into the house. When he had gone Mitka stood blinking at the white thread of the parting that divided the girl's hair into two golden half-circles. She studied him with mischievous, restless eyes.

  "Are you from the village?"

  "Yes."

  "Whose son are you?"

  "Korshunov's."

  "And what's your name?"

  "Mitry!"

  She examined her rosy nails attentively, and with a swift movement tucked up her legs.

  "Which of you caught the fish?"

  "My friend Grigory."

  "And do you fish, too?"

  "When I feel like it."

  "With hook and line?"

  "Yes."

  "I'd like to go fishing some time," she said, after a pause.

  "All right, I'll take you if you want to."

  "Really? How can we arrange it?"

  "You'll have to get up very early."

  "I'll get up, only you'll have to wake me."

  "I can do that. But how about your father?"

  "What about my father?"

  Mitka laughed. "He might take me for a thief and set the dogs on me."

  "Nonsense! I sleep alone i
n the corner room. That's the window." She pointed. "If you come for me, knock at the window and I'll get up,"

  The sound of Grigory's timid voice, and the thick, oily tones of the cook came intermittently from the kitchen. Mitka was silent, fingering the tarnished silver of his belt.

  "Are you married?" she asked hiding a smile.

  "Why?"

  "Oh, I'm just curious."

  "No, I'm single."

  Mitka suddenly blushed, and she, smiling coquettishly and playing with a twig from the

  hot-house strawberries scattered over the floor, asked:

  "And do the girls like you, Mitka?"

  "Some do, some don't."

  "Really, , . . And why have you got eyes like a cat?"

  "A cat?" Mitka was now completely abashed.

  "Yes, that's just it, they're cat's eyes."

  "Must have got them from my mother. I can't help it."

  "And why don't they marry you off, Mitka?"

  Mitka recovered from his momentary confusion, and sensing the hidden sneer in her words, let a glitter appear in the yellow of his eyes.

  "The cock must grow before it finds a hen."

  She raised her eyebrows in astonishment, flushed, and rose from her seat. There was a sound of footsteps ascending the steps from the street. Her fleeting smile lashed Mitka like a nettle.

  Shuffling softly in his capacious kid boots, the master of the house, Sergei Platonovich Mo-khov, carried his corpulent body with dignity past Mitka.

  "Want me?" he asked as he passed, without turning his head.

  "They've brought some fish. Papa."

  Grigory appeared without his carp,

  The first cock had crowed when Grigory returned from his evening out. From the porch came the scent of sour hops, and the spicy perfume of stitchwort.

  He tiptoed into the room, undressed, carefully hung up his Sunday trousers, crossed himself and lay down. There was a golden pool of moonlight on the floor, criss-crossed by the shadow of the window-frame. In the corner the silver of the icons gleamed dully under embroidered towels, from the shelf over the bed came the droning hum of agitated flies.

  He would have fallen asleep, but in the kitchen his brother's child started to cry. The cradle creaked like an ungreased cartwheel. He heard his brother's wife Darya mutter in a sleepy voice: "Go to sleep, you little brat! You don't give me a moment's peace!" And she began crooning softly to the child:

  Oh, where have you been? I've been watching the horses. And luhat did you see? A horse luith a saddle All fringed with gold. ...

  As he dozed off with the steady, soothing creak in his ears, Grigory remembered: "Tomorrow Pyotr goes off to the camp. Darya will be

  34

  left with the baby. . . . We'll have to do the mowing without him."

  He buried his head in his hot pillow, but the chant seeped persistently into his ears:

  And where is your horse? Outside the gate. And where is the gate? Swept away by the flood.

  He was aroused from sleep by lusty neighing. By its tone he recognized Pyotr's army horse. His sleep-numbed fingers were slow in buttoning up his shirt, and he almost dropped off again under the flowing rhythm of Darya's song.

  And where are the geese?

  They've gone into the reeds.

  And where are the reeds?

  The girls have mown them.

  And where are the girls?

  The girls have taken husbands.

  And where are the Cossacks?

  They've gone to the war.

  Rubbing his eyes, Grigory made his way to the stable and led Pyotr's horse out into the street. A floating cobweb tickled his face, and his drowsiness unexpectedly left him.

  Slanting across the Don lay the wavy never-ridden track of the moonlight. Over the river

  hung a mist, and above it, the stars, like sprinkled grain. The horse set its hoofs down cautiously. The slope to the water was hard going. From the farther side of the river came the quacking of ducks. A sheat-fish jumped with a splash in the muddy shallows by the bank, hunting at random for smaller fry.

  Grigory stood a long time by the river. The bank exuded a dank and musty rottenness. A tiny drop of water fell from the horse's lips. There was a light, pleasant void in Grigory's heart, he felt good and free from thought. As he walked back, he glanced towards the east, where the blue murk was already clearing.

  By the stable he ran into his mother.

  "Is that you, Grisha?"

  "And who do you think it is?"

  "Watered the horse?"

  "Yes," he answered shortly.

  His mother waddled away with an apronful of dried dung fuel, her bare withered feet slapping on the ground.

  "You might go and wake up the Astakhovs. Stepan said he would go with our Pyotr."

  The morning rawness set a spring stiffly quivering in Grigory. His body tingled with prickles. He ran up the three echoing steps leading to the Astakhovs' house. The door was unlatched. Stepan was asleep on an outspread

  rug in the kitchen, his wife's head resting on his arm.

  In the greying dawn light Grigory saw Ak-sinya's shift rumpled above her knees, and her unashamedly parted legs white as birch bark. For a moment he stood gazing, feeling his mouth going dry and his head bursting with an iron clangour.

  He shifted his eyes stealthily. In a strange, hoarse voice he called:

  "Hey! Anyone here? Get up."

  Aksinya gave a sob of waking.

  "Oh, who's that?" She hurriedly began to fumble with her shift, drawing it over her legs. A little drop of spittle was left on her pillow; a woman's sleep is sound at dawn.

  "It's me. Mother sent me to wake you up."

  "We'll be up in a minute. We're sleeping on the floor because of the fleas. Stepan, get up, d'you hear?" By her voice Grigory guessed that she felt embarrassed and he hastened to leave.

  Thirty Cossacks were going from the village to the May training camp. Just before seven o'clock wagons with tarpaulin covers, Cossacks on foot and on horseback, in homespun shirts and carrying their equipment, began to stream towards the square.

  Pyotr was standing on the steps, hurriedly stitching a broken rein.

  Pantelei stamped about round Pyotr's horse, pouring oats into the trough. Every now and then he shouted:

  "Dunya, have you put the rusks in the sack yet? Have you salted the bacon?"

  Dunya, rosy and blooming, flew to and fro like a swallow and answered her father's shouts with a laugh:

  "You look after your own affairs. Father, and I'll pack for Brother so well that nothing will budge till he reaches Cherkassk."*

  "Not finished eating yet?" Pyotr asked, nodding towards the horse.

  "Not yet," his father replied deliberately, testing the saddle-cloth with his rough palm. One little crumb sticking to the cloth can chafe a horse's back into a sore in a single march.

  "When he's done eating, water him. Father."

  "Grisha will take him down to the Don,"

  Grigory took the tall, rawboned Don horse with a white blaze on its forehead, led it out through the gate, and resting his left hand lightly on its withers, vaulted on to its back and went off at a swinging trot. He tried to rein the horse in at the descent to the river, but the animal stumbled, quickened its pace, and flew down the slope. Leaning back until he

  * Novocherkassk.

  almost lay along the animal's spine, Grigory saw a woman with pails going down the hill. He turned sharply off the path and dashed into the water, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.

  Aksinya came swinging down the slope. When still some distance away she shouted to him:

  "You mad devil! You almost rode me down. You wait, I'll tell your father how you ride."

  "Now, neighbour, don't get angry. When you've seen your husband off to camp maybe I'll be useful on your farm."

  "How the devil could you be useful to me?"

  "You'll be asking me when mowing time comes," Grigory laughed.

  Aksinya dextero
usly drew a full pail of water from the river, and pressed her skirt between her knees away from the wind.

  "Is your Stepan ready yet?" Grigory asked.

  "What's that to do with you?"

  "What a spitfire! Can't I ask?"

  "He is, what of it?"

  "So you'll be left a grass-widow?"

  "Yes."

  The horse raised its lips from the water, and stood gazing across the Don, its fore-feet treading the stream. Aksinya filled her second pail, hoisted the yoke across her shoulders, and with a swinging stride set off up the slope.

  Grigory turned the horse and followed her. The wind fluttered her skirt and played with the fine, fluffy curls on her swarthy neck. Her flat, embroidered cap flamed on her heavy knot of hair, her rose-coloured shift, gathered into her skirt at the waist, clung smoothly to her steep back and compact shoulders. As she climbed the slope she bent forward, and the hollow between her shoulders showed clearly beneath her shift. He saw the brownish rings under her arms, where her shift was stained with sweat. Grigory watched her ever^^ movement. He wanted to renew the talk with her.

  "You'll be missing your husband, won't

  you

  ?"

  Without halting Aksinya turned her head and smiled.

  "Of course I shall. Get married yourself," she caught her breath and went on jerkily, "then you'll know whether you miss your darling or not."

  Grigory brought the horse level with her and looked into her eyes.

  "But other wives are glad when their husbands go. Our Darya will grow fat without her Pyotr."

  Aksinya's nostrils quivered and she breathed hard.

  "A husband's not a leech, but he sucks your

  blood all the same." She pushed her hair straight. "Shall we be seeing you married soon?"

  "I don't know, it depends on Father. After my army service, I suppose."

  "You're still young; don't get married."

  "Why not?"

  "It dries you up." She looked up from under her brows, and smiled cheerlessly without parting her lips. For the first time Grigory noticed that her lips were shamelessly greedy and rather swollen. Stranding the horse's mane with his fingers, he replied: