And quiet flows the Don; a novel Read online

  "I don't want to get married. Someone will love me without that."

  "Have you noticed anyone, then?"

  "What should I notice? Now you're seeing your Stepan off. . .?"

  "Don't try to play about with me!"

  "What will you do about it?"

  "I'll tell Stepan."

  "I'll show your Stepan. . . ."

  "You're so cocksure, mind you don't cry first."

  "Don't try to scare me, Aksinya!"

  "I'm not trying to scare you. You hang around with the girls, let them hem your hankies for you, but keep your eyes off me,"

  "I'll look at you all the more now."

  "Well, look then."

  Aksinya gave him a conciliatory smile and left the path, trying to pass the horse. Grigory turned the animal sideways and blocked the way.

  "Let me pass, Grisha." |

  "I won't."

  "Don't be a fool. I must see to my husband."

  Grigory smilingly teased the horse, and it edged Aksinya towards the bank.

  "Let me pass, you devil! There are some people over there. If they see us what will they think?" she muttered.

  She swept a frightened glance around and passed by, frowning and without a backward glance.

  Pyotr was saying good-bye to his family on the steps. Grigory saddled the horse. His brother, holding his sabre to his side, hurried down the steps and took the reins. Scenting the road, the horse fretted and chewed the bit. With one foot in the stirrup, Pyotr said to his father:

  "Don't overwork the baldheads. Father. In the autumn we'll sell them. Grigory will need a horse for the army, you know. And don't sell the steppe grass; you know yourself what hay we're likely to get in the meadow this year."

  "Well, God be with you. Good luck," the old man replied, crossing himself.

  Pyotr swung his firm body into the saddle, and adjusted the folds of his shirt in his belt at the back. The horse moved towards the gate. The sabre swung rhythmically, its pommel glittering dully in the sun.

  Darya followed with the child on her arm. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve and her nose with the corner of her apron, his mother, Ilyi-nichna, stood in the middle of the yard.

  "Brother! The pasties! You've forgotten the pasties! The potato pasties!" Dunya dashed to the gate.

  "What are you bawling for, you fool!" Gri-gory snapped irritably.

  "He's left his pasties behind," she moaned, leaning against the gate-post, and tears ran down her burning cheeks on to her blouse.

  Darya stood gazing under her hand after her husband's white shirt through the screen of dust. Old Pantelei jerked the rotting gate-post and looked at Grigory:

  "Mend the gate, and put a new post in." He stood in thought for a moment, then announced as if it were news:

  "Pyotr's gone."

  Over the wattle fence, Grigory saw Stepan getting ready, Aksinya, dressed up in a green

  woollen skirt, led out his horse. Stepan smilingly said something to her. Unhurriedly, possessively, he kissed his wife, and his arm lingered long around her shoulder. His hand, darkened by sun and toil, looked coal-black against her white blouse. He stood with his back to Gri-gory; his firm, clean-shaven neck, his broad, rather sloping shoulders, and (whenever he bent towards his wife) the twisted ends of his light-brown moustache were visible across the fence.

  Aksinya laughed at something and shook her head. The big black stallion lurched slightly as Stepan swung his great weight into the saddle. Sitting as though planted in the saddle, Stepan rode his black horse at a brisk trot through the gate, and Aksinya walked at his side, holding the stirrup and looking up lovingly ard hungrily, like a dog, into his eyes.

  Grigory watched them to the turn of the road with a long unblinking gaze.

  IV

  Towards evening a thunderstorm gathered. A mass of heavy cloud lay over the village. Lashed into fury by the wind, the Don sent foaming breakers against its banks. The sky flamed with dry lightning, occasional peals of thunder shook the earth. A kite circled with

  outspread wings just below the clouds and was pursued by croaking ravens. Spreading its cool breath, the cloud passed down the Don from the west. Beyond the meadows the heavens blackened menacingly, the steppe lay in expectant silence. In the village there was a rattle of closing shutters, the old people hurried home from vespers crossing themselves. A grey pillar of dust whirled over the square, and the heat-burdened earth was already beginning to be scattered with the first seeds of rain.

  Shaking her braided tresses, Dunya flew across the yard, slammed the door of the chick-enhouse, and stood in the middle of the yard with nostrils distended like a horse at a hurdle. In the street the children were prancing about. Eight-year-old Mishka, his father's absurdly large peaked cap drawn over his eyes, was spinning round and chirruping shrilly:

  Rain, rain, rain away. We're going ofi for the day. To pay God our vow. And to Christ to how.

  Dunya enviously watched Mishka's chapped bare feet stamping the ground. She, too, wanted to dance in the rain and to get her head wet, so that her hair might grow thick and curly; she, too, wanted to stand on her hands like

  Mishka's friend in the roadside dust, at the risk of falling into the nettles. But her mother was watching and angrily moving her lips at the window. With a sigh she ran into the house. The rain was now falling heavily. A peal of thunder broke right over the roof and went rolling away across the Don.

  In the porch Pantelei and the perspiring Gri-gory were hauling a folded drag-net out of the side-room.

  "Raw thread and a pack-needle, quick!" Gri-gory called to Dunya. Darya sat down to mend the net. Her mother-in-law grumbled as she rocked the baby:

  "What else will you take into your head, man! Let's go to bed. Kerosene costs more and more. What do you think you'll catch now? Where the plague are you going? And you'll get drowned into the bargain, the terror of the Lord is upon us. Just look at the lightning! Lord Jesus Christ, Mother of Heaven. . . ."

  For an instant it was dazzlingly blue and silent in the kitchen; the rain could be heard drumming on the shutters. A clap of thunder followed. Dunya whimpered and buried her face in the net. Darya made the sign of the cross towards the windows and door. The old woman stared with terrible eyes at the cat rubbing itself against her legs:

  "Dunya, chase this d-. Mother of Heaven, forgive me my sins. . . . Dunya, put the cat out into the yard! Shoo, evil spirit! May you. . . ."

  Dropping the net, Grigory shook with silent laughter.

  "Well, what are you fussing about? Enough of that!" shouted Pantelei. "Get on with your mending, women. I told you the other day to see to the net."

  "There's no fish now," his wife ventured.

  "If you don't understand, hold your tongue! The sterlet will make for the bank now, they're afraid of storms. The water must be muddy by now. Dunya, go out and see whether you can hear the stream running."

  Dunya edged unwillingly towards the door.

  Old Ilyinichna would not be repressed. "Who's going to wade with you? Darya mustn't, she'll catch cold in her chest," she persisted.

  "Me and Grigory, and for the other net . . . we'll call Aksinya and another of the women."

  Dunya ran in breathlessly. Drops of rain hung trembling on her lashes. She smelt of the dank, black earth.

  "The stream's roaring like anything," she panted.

  "You coming too?"

  "Who else is going?"

  "We'll get some of the women."

  "All right."

  "Put on your coat and run to Aksinya," her father told her. "If she'll go, ask her to fetch Malashka Frolova, too."

  "That one won't freeze," Grigory said with a grin, "she's fat as a hog."

  "Why don't you take some hay, Grisha dear," his mother advised. "Stuff some under your heart or you'll take a chill inside."

  "Yes, go for some hay, Grigory. The old woman's quite right."

  Dunya quickly returned with the women. Aksinya, in a blue skirt and a ragged jacket belted with rope
, looked shorter and thinner. Exchanging laughs with Darya, she took off her kerchief, wound her hair into a tighter knot, and throwing back her head, stared coldly at Grigory. As the stout Malashka tied up her stockings, she said hoarsely:

  "Have you got your sacks? We're sure to haul up the fish today."

  They all went into the yard. The rain was still falling heavily on the sodden earth, frothing the puddles and trickling in streams down to the Don.

  Grigory led the way down to the river.

  For no reason he suddenly felt very gay.

  "Mind the ditch. Dad."

  "How dark it is!"

  "Hang on to me, Aksinya," Malashka laughed hoarsely.

  "Isn't that the landing stage, Grigory?"

  "That's it."

  "Begin from here," Pantelei shouted above the roar of the wind. ,

  "Can't hear you, uncle," Malashka called throatily.

  "Start wading, I'll take the deep side. . . . The deep ... I say. Malashka, you deaf devil, where are you dragging to? I'll go out into the deeps. . . . Grigory, Grisha, let Aksinya take the bank!"

  A groaning roar from the Don. The wind was tearing the slanting sheet of rain to shreds. Feeling the bottom with his feet, Grigory waded up to his waist into the water. A clammy cold crept into his chest, drawing tightly in a ring round his heart. The waves lashed his face and tightly screwed-up eyes like a knout. The net bellied out and was carried off into the deeps. Grigory's feet, in woollen socks, slipped over the sandy bottom. The net was being dragged out of his hand. Deeper, deeper. A sudden drop. His legs were carried away. The current snatched him up and bore him into midstream. With his right hand he vigorously paddled back to the bank. The black, swirling

  depths frightened him as never before. His feet joyously found the muddy bottom. A fish knocked against his knee.

  "Take it deep!" his father's voice came from the clinging darkness.

  Again the net heeled over and pulled down into the depths. Again the current carried the ground away from under his feet, and Grigory swam, spitting out water.

  "Aksinya, you all right?"

  "All right, so far."

  "Isn't the rain stopping?"

  "The fine rain is, now we'll get the heavy stuff."

  "Talk quietly. If my father hears he'll go for me."

  "Afraid of your father, huh?"

  For a moment they hauled in silence.

  "Grisha, there's a sunken tree by the bank, I think! We must get the net round it."

  A terrible buffet flung Grigory far away from her.

  "Ah-ah!" Aksinya screamed somewhere near the bank. Terrified, he swam in the direction of her call.

  "Aksinya!"

  Wind, and the flowing roar of the water,

  "Aksinya!" Grigory shouted again, going cold with fear,

  "Hey, Grigory," he heard his father's voice from afar.

  He struck out wildly. He felt something sticky under his feet, and caught it with his hand-it was the net.

  "Grisha, where are you?" he heard Aksinya's tearful voice.

  "Why didn't you answer my shout?" he bawled angrily, crawling on hands and knees up the bank.

  Squatting down on their heels, they disentangled the net. The moon broke through the cracked shell of a cloud. There was a restrained mutter of thunder beyond the meadows. The earth gleamed with moisture. Washed clean by the rain, the sky was stern and clear.

  As he disentangled the net Grigory stared at Aksinya. Her face was a chalky white, but her red, slightly upturned lips were smiling.

  "The way I was knocked against the bank! I nearly went out of my mind. I was scared to death. I thought you were drowned."

  Their hands touched. Aksinya tried to push hers into the sleeve of his shirt.

  "How warm your arm is," she said plaintively, "and I'm frozen!"

  "Look where that bastard got away," Grigory showed her a hole about five feet across in the middle of the net.

  Someone came running along the bank. Gri-gory guessed it was Dunya. He shouted to her:

  "Got the thread?"

  "Yes. What are you sitting here for? Father sent me for you to come at once to the point. We've caught a sackful of sterlet." Unconcealed triumph sounded in her voice.

  With teeth chattering, Aksinya sewed up the hole in the net. Then, to get warm, they raced to the point.

  Pantelei was rolling a cigarette with scarred fingers swollen by the water; jigging about, he boasted:

  "The first time, eight fish; but the second time . . ." he paused and silently pointed with his foot to the sack. Aksinya peeped curiously inside: from it came the slithery scraping sound of stirring fish.

  "Where were you?"

  "A sheat-fish broke our net."

  "Did you mend it?"

  "Yes, somehow."

  "Well, we'll wade in once more up to our "knees, and then home. In you go, Grisha; what are you waiting for?"

  Grigory stepped out with numbed legs. Aksinya was shivering so much that he felt the net trembling.

  "Stop shaking!"

  "I wish I could, but I can't catch my breath." "Listen! Let's get out, and damn the fish!" At that moment a great carp leaped over the net. Grigory dragged the net into a tighter circle. Aksinya toiled up the bank. The water splashed on the sands and slopped back. Fish lay quivering in the net.

  "Back through the meadow?" "It's nearer through the wood." "Hey there, are you coming?" "Go on ahead. We'll catch you up. We're cleaning the net."

  Frowning, Aksinya wrung out her skirl, hoisted the sack of fish over her shoulder and set off almost at a trot. Grigory picked up the net. They had covered some two himdred yards when Aksinya began to groan:

  "I can't go on. My legs are numb." "Look, there's an old haystack. Why don't you have a warm there."

  "Good! I'll never get home otherwise." Grigory turned back the top of the stack and dug out a hole. The long-lying hay smelt warm and rotten. "Crawl into the middle. It's like a stove here." She threw down the sack and buried herself up to the neck in hay. Shivering with cold, Grigory lay down at her side. A tender agitating scent came from her damp hair. She lay with

  head thrown back, breathing regularly through her half-open mouth.

  "Your hair smells like henbane. Do you know that white flower?" Grigory whispered, bending towards her. She was silent. Her gaze was misty and distant, fixed on the waning, crescent moon.

  Taking his hand out of his pocket, Grigory suddenly drew her head towards him. She tore herself away fiercely, and raised herself from the hay.

  "Let me go!"

  "Keep quiet!"

  "Let go, or I'll shout!"

  "Wait, Aksinya!"

  "Uncle Pantelei!"

  "Have you got lost?" Pantelei's voice sounded quite close, from behind a clump of hawthorn bushes. Clenching his teeth, Grigory jumped out of the stack.

  "What are you shouting for? Are you lost?" the old man questioned as he approached.

  Aksinya stood by the haystack adjusting her kerchief, steam rising from her clothes.

  "We're not lost, but I'm nearly frozen."

  "Look, woman, there's a haystack, warm yourself," the old man told her.

  Aksinya smiled as she stopped to pick up the sack.

  It was some sixty versts to the training camp at Setrakov. Pyotr Melekhov and Stepan Asta-khov rode in the same wagon. With them were three others from their village: Fedot Bodov-skov, a young Cossack with a pock-marked Kalmyk face, Christonya Tokin, a second-draft reservist in the Ataman's Regiment of Lifeguards, and the artilleryman Ivan Tomilin. After the first halt for food they harnessed Christonya's and Astakhov's horses to the wagon, and the other horses were tethered behind. Christonya, burly and a bit queer in the head like all the men of the Ataman's Regiment, took the reins. He sat in front with his back, curved like a wheel, blocking out the light from the interior of the wagon, and urged on the horses in his deep, rumbling bass voice. Pyotr, Stepan and Tomilin lay smoking under the tightly-stretched tarpaulin cover. Bodovskov wal
ked behind, his bandy Kalmyk legs making light of the dusty road.

  Christonya's wagon led the way. Behind trailed seven or eight others, leading saddled and unsaddled horses. The road was noisy with laughter, shouts, songs, the snorting of horses, and the jingling of empty stirrups.

  Pyotr's head rested on a bag of rusks. He lay still, twirling his tawny whiskers.

  "Stepan!"

  "Huh?"

  "Let's have a song."

  "It's too hot. My throat's dry as a bone!"

  "You won't find any drink round here. So don't wait for that!"

  "Well, sing up. Only you're no good at it. Your Grisha now, he can sing. His isn't a voice, it's a pure silver thread."

  Stepan threw back his head, coughed, and began in a low, tuneful voice:

  Oh, a fine glowing sunrise Came up early in the sky.

  Tomilin rested his cheek on his palm like a woman and picked up the refrain in a thin, wailing voice. Smiling, Pyotr watched the little knotted veins on his temples turning blue with the effort.

  Young was she, the little woman That went tripping to the stream.

  Stepan, who was lying with his head towards Christonya, turned round on his elbow: "Come on, Christonya, join in!"

  And the lad, he guessed her purpose. Saddled up his chestnut mare.

  Stepan turned his smiling glance towards Pyotr, and Pyotr, flicking the tip of his moustache out of his mouth, added his voice. Opening wide his heavily-bearded jaws, Christonya roared in a voice that shook the tarpaulin cover:

  Saddled up his chestnut mare To catch the little woman.

  Christonya tucked his bare foot under him and waited for Stepan to begin again. Closing his eyes, his perspiring face in shadow, Stepan sang on gently, now dropping his voice to a whisper, now making it ring out metallically.

  Let me, let me, little woman. Bring my chestnut to the stream.

  And again Christonya's deep booming tones drowned the others. Voices from the neighbouring wagons took up the song. The wheels clanked on their iron rims, the horses snorted with the dust and the song floated on, strong and deep. A white-winged peewit flew up from the brown wilted steppe. It flew with a cry towards a hollow, turning an emerald eye to watch the chain of white-covered wagons, the horses kicking up clouds of dust with their hoofs, the men in white, dusty shirts, walking at the edge of the road. And as the peewit dropped into the hollow and its black breast