And quiet flows the Don; a novel Read online

  The regiment medical orderly stood by smoking and letting the smoke filter through the wide gaps between his teeth.

  "Feel any better?"

  "They're drawing well. Easier for the heart somehow."

  "Leeches are a great thing!"

  Tomilin came up and gave Stepan a wink.

  "Stepan, I'd like a word with you."

  Stepan rose with a grunt and took Tomilin aside.

  "My woman's been here on a visit. She left this morning."

  "Well?"

  "There's a lot of talk about your wife in the village."

  "What?"

  "Not pleasant talk, either."

  "Well?"

  "She's carrying on with Grigory Melekhov. Quite openly."

  Turning pale, Stepan tore the leeches from his chest and crushed them underfoot. When he had crushed the last one, he buttoned up his shirt, and then, as though suddenly afraid, unbuttoned it again. His chalky lips moved incessantly. They trembled, slipped into an awkward smile, then shrivelled and gathered into a livid pucker. Tomilin thought Stepan must be chewing something hard and solid. Gradually the colour returned to his face, the lips, caught by his teeth, froze into immobility. He took off his cap, smeared the grease over the white cover with his sleeve, and said aloud: "Thanks for the news."

  "I just wanted to warn you. ... You won't hold it against me."

  Tomilin clapped his hands against his trousers in a gesture of sympathy, and went off to his horse. A sound of voices and shouting was heard from the camp, the Cossacks had returned from the sabre exercises, Stepan stood for a moment staring fixedly and sternly at the black smear on his cap.

  A half-crushed, dying leech crawled up his boot.

  In ten more days the Cossacks would be returning from camp. Aksinya lived in a frenzy of belated bitter love. Despite his father's threats, Grigory slipped out and went to her at night, coming home at dawn.

  In two weeks he had drained his strength, like a horse striving beyond its powers. From lack of sleep his brown face was suffused under the high cheek-bones with a blue tinge, his tired eyes gazed wearily out of their sunken sockets. Aksinya went about with her face completely uncovered, the deep hollows under her eyes darkened funereally; her swollen, avid lips smiled with a restless challenge.

  So extraordinary and open was their mad association, so ecstatically did they burn with a single, shameless flamie, neither conscience-stricken nor hiding their love from the world, becoming gaunt and dark before its very eyes, that people began to be ashamed to meet them in the street. Grigory's comrades, who previously had chaffed him about Aksinya, now kept silent and felt awkward and constrained in his company. In their hearts the women envied Aksinya, yet they condemned her, gloating at the prospect of Stepan's return, and pining with curiosity as to how it would all end.

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  If Grigory had made some show of hiding from the world his affair with this grass-widow, and if the grass-widow Aksinya had kept her relations with Grigory comparatively secret, without shunning others, the world would have seen nothing unusual in it. The village would have gossiped a little and then forgotten. But they lived together almost openly, they were bound by something greater, which had no likeness to any temporary association, and for that reason the villagers decided it was immoral and held their breath in peeping expectation. Stepan would return and cut the knot.

  Over the bed in the Astakhovs' bedroom ran a string threaded with empty white and black cotton-reels. They hung there for decoration. The flies spent their nights on the reels, and spiders' webs stretched from them to the ceiling. Grigory was lying on Aksinya's bare, cool arm and gazing up at the chain of reels. With the toil-roughened fingers of her other hand Aksinya was playing with the thick strands of hair on his head. Her fingers smelt of warm milk; when Grigory turned his head, pressing his nose into Aksinya's armpit, the pungent, sweetish scent of woman's sweat flooded his nostrils.

  In addition to the wooden, painted bedstead with pointed pine cones at the comers, the room contained a capacious iron-bound chest that stood close to the door, holding Aksinya's dowry and all her finery. In the corner was a table, an oleograph of General Skobelev riding towards a row of flapping banners dipped before him, two chairs, and above them icons in gawdy paper aureoles. Along the side wall hung fly-blown photographs. One was a grotip of Cossacks, with curly forelocks, swelling chests decorated with watch chains, and drawn swords-Stepan and his comrades on active service. On a hook hung Stepan's uniform, it had not been put away. The moon stared through the window and uncertainly fingered the two white sergeant's straps on the shoulder.

  With a sigh Aksinya kissed Grigory on the bridge of his nose, between his eyebrows.

  "Grisha, my love."

  "What?"

  "Only nine days left."

  "That's not so soon."

  "What am I to do, Grisha?"

  "How should I know?"

  Aksinya restrained a sigh and again smoothed and parted Grigory's matted hair.

  "Stepan will kill me," she half-asked, half-declared.

  Grigory was silent. He wanted to sleep. With difficulty he forced open his clinging eyelids and saw above him the glittering bluish blackness of Aksinya's eyes.

  "When my husband comes back, you'll give me up, won't you? You'll be afraid?"

  "Why should I be afraid of him? You're his wife, it's for you to be afraid."

  "When I'm with you I'm not afraid, but when I think about it in the daytime I am."

  Grigory yawned and said: "It doesn't matter so much about Stepan coming back. My father's talking of getting me married off."

  He smiled and was going to add something, but he felt Aksinya's hand under his head suddenly wilt and soften, bury itself in the pillow, and after a moment harden again.

  "Who has he got in mind?" she asked in a stifled voice,

  "He's only talking about it. Mother says he's thinking of Korshunov's Natalya."

  "Natalya . . . she's a good-looking girl. Very good-looking. . .. Well, go ahead and marry her. I saw her in church the other day. Dressed up she was. . . ." Aksinya spoke rapidly, but he could scarcely hear her, her voice was so lifeless and dull,

  "I don't care two pins about her good looks. I'd like to marry you."

  Aksinya sharply pulled her arm from undef Grigory's head and stared with dry eyes at the window. A frosty, yellow mist was in the yard. The shed cast a heavy shadow. The crickets were chirruping. Down by the Don the bitterns boomed; their deep sullen tones floated through the bedroom window.

  "Grisha!"

  "Thought of something?"

  Aksinya seized Grigory's rough, unyielding hands, pressed them to her breast, and to her cold, almost lifeless cheeks, and cried:

  "What did you take up with me for, curse you! What shall I do? Grisha! I'm finished. . . . Stepan is coming back, and what shall I tell him. . .? Who is there to help me?"

  Grigory was silent. Aksinya gazed mournfully at his handsome eagle nose, his shadowed eyes, his dumb lips.. .. And suddenly a flood of feeling swept away the dam of restraint. Madly she kissed his face, his neck, his arms, the rough, curly black hair on his chest, and Grigory felt her body trembling as, gasping for breath, she whispered:

  "Grisha. . . my dearest. . , beloved . . . let's go away. My darling! We'll throw up everything and go. I'll leave my husband and everything, so long as you're with me.... We'll go far away,

  to the mines. I'll love you and care for you. I've got an uncle who is a watchman at the Paramo-nov mines: he'll help us.... Grisha! Oh, say something!"

  Grigory lay thinking, then unexpectedly opened his burning foreign-looking eyes. They were laughing, gleaming derision.

  "You're a fool, Aksinya, a fool! You talk away, but you say nothing worth listening to. How can I leave the farm? I've got to do my military service next year. . . . I'll never stir anywhere away from the land. Here there is the steppe, and something to breathe-but there? Last simimer I went with Father to the station. I nearly died. Engines
roaring, the air all thick and heavy with burning coal. How people live there, I don't know; perhaps they're used to it!" Grigory spat and said again: "I'll never leave the village."

  The night grew darker outside the window, a cloud passed over the moon. The frosty, yellow mist vanished from the yard, the shadows were washed away, and now there was no telling whether it was last year's faggots or some old bush that loomed darkly beyond the fence outside the window.

  The room, too, grew darker. The stripes on Stepan's uniform faded, and in the grey, stagnant murk Grigory did not see the fine shiver that

  shook Aksinya's shoulders, or her head pressed between her hands and silently shaking on the pillow.

  XIII

  After the visit of Tomilin's wife Stepan's features became distinctly less handsome. His brows drooped over his eyes, a deep and harsh frown puckered his forehead. He spoke little with his comrades, began to quarrel over trifles, had a cross with the sergeant-major and would hardly look at Pyotr Melekhov. The threads of friendship which had previously united them were snapped. In his sullen, seething rage Stepan plunged downhill like a bolting horse. They returned home enemies.

  Of course something had to happen that brought the vague hostility of their relations to a head. They set out for their village in the same group as before. Pyotr's and Stepan's horses were harnessed to the wagon. Christonya rode behind on his own horse. Tomilin, who was suffering from fever, lay covered with his greatcoat in the wagon. Fedot Bodovskov was too lazy to drive, so Pyotr took the reins. Stepan walked along at the side of the wagon, lashing off the purple heads of the roadside thistles with his whip. Rain was falling. The rich black earth

  stuck to the wheels like tar. The sky was an autumnal blue, ashy with cloud. Night fell. No lights of any village were to be seen. Pyotr belaboured the horses liberally with the knout. And suddenly Stepan shouted in the darkness:

  "You, what the . . . you . . .! You spare your own horse, but keep the knout on mine all the time."

  "Keep your eyes open! I whip the one that doesn't pull."

  "Mind I don't put you in the shafts. That's what Turks are good for."

  Pyotr threw the reins down.

  "What do you want?"

  "Oh, stay where you are."

  "Shut up."

  "What are you flaring up at him for?" asked Christonya, riding up to Stepan.

  Stepan did not reply. They rode on for another half hour in silence. The mud squelched under the wheels. The rain pattered drowsily on the tarpaulin. Pyotr dropped the reins and smoked, running over in his mind all the insulting words he would use in the next quarrel with Stepan.

  "Out of the way. I want to get under cover." Stepan pushed Pyotr aside and jumped on the step of the cart.

  The wagon suddenly jolted and stopped. Slipping in the mud, the horses pawed the earth.

  Sparks shov/ered from their hoofs and the shaft groaned.

  "Whoa!" Pyotr shouted and leaped to the ground.

  "What's the matter?" Stepan snapped anxiously.

  "Show a light," Pyotr demanded.

  In front a horse was struggling and snorting. Someone struck a match. A tiny orange ring of light, then darkness again. With trembling hands Pyotr felt the spine of the fallen horse, then pulled at the bridle.

  The horse sighed and rolled over, the centre-shaft snapped in half. Stepan struck a bunch of matches. His horse lay craning her neck with one foreleg buried to the knee in a marmot's hole.

  Christonya unfastened the traces.

  "Unharness Pyotr's horse, look snappy," he ordered.

  "Whoa! Easy there! Easy!"

  At last Stepan's horse was lifted with difficulty to its feet. While Pyotr held it by the bridle, Christonya crawled on his knees in the mud, feeling the helplessly-hanging leg.

  "Seems to be broken," he boomed.

  "See if he can walk."

  Pyotr pulled at the bridle. The horse hopped a step or two, not putting its left foreleg to the

  ground, and whinnied. Drawing on his greatcoat, Tomilin stamped about bitterly.

  "Broken, damn it! A horse lost!"

  Stepan, who all this time had not spoken a word, almost seemed to have been awaiting such a remark. Thrusting Christonya aside he flung himself on Pyotr, He aimed at his head, but missed and struck his shoulder. They grappled together and fell into the mud. There was the sound of a tearing shirt. Stepan got Pyotr under him, and holding his head down with one knee, pounded away with his fists. Christonya dragged him off cursing.

  "What's that for?" Pyotr shouted, spitting blood.

  "Look where you drive, you snake!"

  Pyotr tried to tear himself out of Christonya's hands.

  "Now then! You try fighting me!" Christonya roared, holding Pyotr with one hand against the wagon.

  They harnessed Bodovskov's small but sturdy horse with Pyotr's. Christonya gave his horse to Stepan to ride, and himself crawled into the cart with Pyotr. It was midnight when they arrived at a village. They stopped at the first house, and Christonya asked for a night's shelter.

  Ignoring the dog snapping at the skirts of his coat, he squelched through the mud to the win-

  dow, opened the shutter, and scratched at the pane with a horny fingernail.

  "Master!"

  Only the whisper of the rain and a peal of barking.

  "Master! Good folk, hi! Let us in for the night, for Christ's sake. Eh? From the training camp. How many? Five of us. Well, Christ save you."

  "Drive in!" he shouted turning to the gate.

  Bodovskov led the horses in. He stumbled over a pig's trough thrown down in the middle of the yard, and cursed vigorously. They led the horses into a shed. Tomilin, his teeth chattering, went into the house, Pyotr and Christonya remained in the cart.

  At dawn they made ready to set out again. Stepan came out of the house, an old hunchbacked woman hobbling after him. Christonya, who was harnessing the horses, shouted sympathetically:

  "Ho, granny, what a hump they've given you! Bet you're all right at bowing down in church. You don't have far to bend to reach the floor!"

  "If I'm good for bowing down, you're good for hanging dogs on, my lad. There's something for all of us," the old woman smiled severely, surprising Christonya with a full row cf small sound teeth.

  "And what teeth you've got, like a pike! Won't you give me a few? Here am I, a young man, and nothing to chew with."

  "What shall I have left for myself, my dear?"

  "We'll give you a horse's set, gran. You've got to die one day and they don't look at your teeth in the next world. The saints aren't horse-dealers, you know."

  "Keep it up, Christonya," Tomilin grinned as he climbed into the cart.

  The old woman followed Stepan into the shed.

  "Which one is it?"

  "The black," sighed Stepan.

  The woman laid her stick on the ground, and with an unexpectedly strong, masculine movement raised the horse's damaged leg. She felt the knee-cap carefully with her thin, crooked fingers. The horse set back its ears and reared on to its hindlegs with the pain.

  "No, there's no break there, Cossack. Leave him and I'll heal him."

  Stepan waved his hand and went to the cart.

  "Will you leave him or not?" the old woman watched him narrowly.

  "Let him stay," he replied.

  "She'll heal him for you. He won't have any legs left when you come back. The vet's a hunchback herself," Christonya said booming with laughter.

  W2

  "Oh how I long for him, granny dear! I'm withering away before my own eyes. I can't put tucks into my skirt fast enough. Every time he goes past the house my heart burns. I'd fall to the ground and kiss his footprints. Help me! They're going to marry him off. . . . Help me, dear. . ,. Whatever it costs, I'll give you. .. . I'll give you my last shirt, only help me!"

  With luminous eyes set in a lacework of furrows the old crone Drozdikha looked at Aksi-nya, shaking her head at the bitter story.

  "Which lad is it?"<
br />
  "Pantelei Melekhov's."

  "That's the Turk, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  The old woman chewed away with her toothless gums, and hesitated with her answer.

  "Come to me very early tomorrow, child, as soon as day is dawning. We'll go down to the Don, to the water. We'll wash away your yearning. Bring a pinch of salt with you."

  Aksinya wrapped herself in her yellow shawl and with drooping shoulders walked out through the gate. Her dark figure was swallowed up in the night, and the only sound was of her sandals scraping dryly on the earth. Then her steps died away. From somewhere at the end

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  of the village came sounds of brawling and singing.

  At dawn, Aksinya, who had not slept all night, was at Drozdikha's window.

  "Granny!"

  "Who's there?"

  "It's me, Aksinya! Get up!"

  They made their way by back lanes down to the river. The abandoned shafts of a wagon lay water-logged near the landing stage. At the water's edge the sand stung their bare feet icily. A damp, chilly mist crept up from the Don.

  Drozdikha took Aksinya's hand in her own bony hand and drew her to the water.

  "Give me the salt. Cross yourself to the sunrise."

  Aksinya crossed herself, staring fiercely at the happy rosiness of the east.

  "Take up some water in your palm and drink."

  Aksinya drank, wetting the sleeves of her blouse. Like a black spider the old woman straddled the lapping waves, squatted down, and began to whisper.

  "Icy streams from the deep. . . . Sorrowing flesh. ... A beast in the heart. .. . Yearning and fever. ... By the holy cross, by the pure and holy Mother. , . . The slave of God, Grigo-ry . . ." reached Aksinya's ears.