And quiet flows the Don; a novel - 24grammata.com

LIBRARY OF SOVIET LITERATURE

KEY TOPRS?!C1PAL CHARACTERSASTAKHOV. STEPAN. A Cossack.ASTAKHOVA, AKSIiNYA. Wife of Stepan.BUNCHUK, ILYA. A Cossack revolutionary.FOMIN, YAKOV YEFIMOVICH. A Cossack commander,f.t first a Red, tlien leader of a White banditgroup.KALMYKOV, White Guard officer.KAPARlN. Captain. Red officer. Afterwards Fomin'schief of staff.KOPYLOV, MIKHAIL GRIGORYEVICH. Captain.Chief of staff to Grigory Melekhov.KORSHUNOV, GRISHAKA. An old Cossack.KORSHUNOV, MIRON GRIGORYEVICH, His son,father of Natalya Melekhova.KORSHUNOVA, iVlARYA LUKINICHNA. Wife ofMiron.KORSHUNOV, DIMITRY MIRONOVICH (Mitka). Sonof Miron and Marya Korshunov.KORSHUNOVA, AGRIPPINA MIRONOVNA. Daughterof Miron and Marya.KOSHEVOI, MIKHAIL (Misha). A Red Cossack.KOTLYAROV, IVAN ALEXEYEVICH. A Red Cossack;KRIVOSHLYKOV. A Cossack revolutionary.KUDINOV. Commander of Don Cossack insurgentforces.LISTNITSKY, NIKOLAI ALEXEYEVICH. A landowner,LISTNITSKY, YEVGENY NIKOLAYEVICH. Son ofNikolai Listnitsky, a Wliite officer.MELEKHOV, PANTELEI PROKOFYEVICH. An elderlyCossack.

MELEKHOVA, ILYINICHNA. Wife of Pantelei.MELEKHOV, PYOTR PANTELEYEVICH. Panlelei'Selder son, a Cossack officer.MELEKHOV, GRIGORY PANTELEYEVICH (Grisha).Pantelei's younger son, a Cossack officer, commanderof Cossack insurgent division.MELEKHOVA, YEVDOKIYA PANTELEYEVNA (Dunya).Pantelei's daughter.MELEKHOVA, DARYA. Wife of Pyotr Melekhov.MELEKHOVA, NATALYA, Wife of Grigory Melekhov;MELEKHOVA, POLYA (Polyushka). Daughter of Grigoryand Natalya.MELEKHOV, MISHATKA. Son of Grigory and Natalya.MOKHOV, SERGEI PLATONOVICH. Shopkeeper andmill-owner in the village of Tatarsky.MOKHOVA, YELIZAVETA SERGEYEVNA (Liza). Sergei'sdaughter.PODTYOLKOV. A Cossack revolutionary. Commanderof Red Cossack forces.POGUDKO, ANNA. Machine-gunner in Bunchuk'sdetachmentSHAMIL, MARTIN, ALEXEI and PROKHOR. Cossacks,brothers.STOCKMAN. OSIP DAVYDOVICH. A Communistorganizer.TIMOFEI, "Knave." Scalesman at Mokhov's mill.TOKIN, CHRISTONYA. A Cossack.ZYKOV, PROKHOR. A Cossack, orderly to GrigoryMelekhov,

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MIKHAIL SHOLOKHOVAND QUIET FLOWSTHE DONA NOVEL IN FOUR BOOKSBOOK ONEFOREIGN LANGUAGES PUBLISHING HOUSEMOSCOW

A TRANSLATION FROM THE RUSSIANBYBYSTEPHEN GARRYREVISEDAND COMPLETEDROBERT DAGLISHDESIGNEDBY O. VEREISKY AND Y. KOPYLOV

v.lBOOK ONE

Not by the plough is our glorious earth furrowed. . ,.Our earth is turrowed by horses' hoots.And sown is our earth with the heads of Cossacks.Fair is our quiet Don with young widows.Our father, the quiet Don, blossoms with orphans.And the waves of the quiet Don are filledwith fathers' and mothers' tears.Oh thou, our father, the quiet Don!Oh why dost thou, our quiet Don, so sludgy flow?How should I, the quiet Don, but sludgy Row!From my depths the cold springs beat.Amid me, the quiet Don, the lohite fish leap.Old Cossack Songs.

PART ONEThe Melekhov farm wasat the very end of thevillage. The gate of thecattle-yard opened northward towards the Don,A steep, fifty-foot slope between chalky, mossgrownbanks, and there was the shore. A pearlydrift of mussel-shells, a grey, broken edgingof wave-kissed shingle, and then-the steel-blue,rippling surface of the Don, seething in thewind. To the east, beyond the willow-wattlefences of threshing-floors-the Hetman's highway,grizzled wormwood scrub, the hardygreyish-brown, hoof-trodden plantain, a crossstanding at the fork of the road, and then thesteppe, enveloped in a shifting haze. To thesouth, a chalky ridge of hills. To the west, thestreet, crossing the square and nmning towardsthe leas.The Cossack Prokofy Melekhov returnedthe village during the last war but one withto//

Turkey, He brought back a wife-a little womanwrapped from head to foot in a shawl. She kepther face covered, and rarely revealed her wild,yearning eyes. The silken shawl bore the scentof strange, aromatic perfumes; its rainbow-huedpatterns aroused the envy of the Cossack women.The captive Turkish woman kept alooffrom Prokofy's relations, and before long oldMelekhov gave his son his portion. All his lifethe old man refused to set foot insidehouse; he never got over the disgrace.Prokofy speedily made shift for himself;his son'scarpentersbuilt him a house, he himself fenced inthe cattle-yard, and in the early autumn he tookhis bowed foreign wife to her new home. Hewalked with her through the village, behindthe cart laden with their worldly goods. Everybody,from the oldest to the youngest, rushedinto the street. The men laughed discreetly intotheir beards, the women passed vociferous remarksto one another, a swarm of unwashedCossack children shouted catcalls after Prokofy.But, with overcoat unbuttoned, he walked slowlyalong, as though following a freshly-ploughedfurrow, squeezing his wife's fragile wrist in hisown enormous, black palm, and holding hishead with its straw-white mat of curls high indefiance. Only the wens below his cheek-bones12

swelled and quivered, and the sweat stood outbetween his stony brows.Thenceforth he was rarely seen in the village,and never even attended the Cossack gatherings.He lived a secluded life in his solitaryhouse by the Don. Strange stories were told ofhim in the village. The boys who pastured thecalves beyond the meadow-road declared thatof an evening, as the light was dying, they hadseen Prokofy carrying his wife in his armsright as far as the Tatar burial mound. Hewould set her down, with her back to an ancient,weather-beaten, porous rock, on the crestof the mound, sit down at her side, and theywould gaze fixedly across the steppe. Theywould gaze until the sunset had faded, andthen Prokofy would wrap his wife in his sheepskinand carry her back home. The village waslost in conjecture, seeking an explanation forsuch astonishing behaviour. The women gossipedso much that they had not even time tosearch each other'sheads for lice. Rumour wasrife about Prokofy's wife also; some declaredthat she was of entrancing beauty; others maintainedthe contrary. The matter was settled whenone of the most ^venturesome of the women, thesoldier's wife Mavra, ran along to Prokofy'shouse on the pretext of getting some leaven;Prokofy went down into the cellar for the13

leaven, and Mavra had time to discover thaiProkofy's Turkish conquest was a perfect fright.A few minutes later Mavra, her face flushedand her kerchief awry, was entertaining a crowdof women in a by-lane:"And what could he have seen in her, mydears? Ifshe'd only been a woman now, but acreature like her! Our girls are far bettercovered! Why, you could pullher apart like awasp. And those great big black eyes, sheflashes them like Satan, God forgive me. Shemust be near her time, God's truth.""Near her time?" the women marvelled."I wasn't bom yesterday! I've reared threemyself.""But what's her face like?""Her face? Yellow. No light in her eyesdoesn'tfind life in a strange land to her fancy, Ishould say. And what's more, girls, she wears. , . Prokofy's trousers!""No!" the women drew in their breath together."I saw them myself; she wears trousers, onlywithout stripes. It must be his everyday trousersshe has. She wears a long shift, and underneathyou can see the trousers stuffed into socks.When I saw them my blood ran cold."The whisper went round the village that Prokofy'swife was a witch. Astakhov's daughter-14

in^aw (the Astakhovs were Prokofy's nearestneighbours) swore that on the second day ofTrinity, before dawn, she had seen Prokofy'swife, barefoot, her hair uncovered, milking theAstakhovs' cow. Since then its udder had witheredto the size of a child's fist, the cow hadlost its milk and died soon after.That year there was an unusual dying-off ofcattle. By the shallows of the Don fresh carcassesof cows and young bulls appeared on thesandy shore every day. Then the horses v/ereaffected.The droves grazing on the village pasture-landsmelted away. And through the lanesand streets of the village crept an evil rumour.The Cossacks held a meeting and went to Prokofy.He came out on tlie steps of his houseand bowed."What can I do for you, worthy elders?"Dumbly silent,the crowd drew nearer to thesteps. One drunken old man was the first to cry:"Drag your witch out here! We're going totry her. .". .Prokofy flung himself back into the house,but they caught him in the passage. A burlyCossack, nicknamed Lushnya, knocked his headagainst the wall and told him:"Don't make a row, there's no need for you toshout. We shan't touch you, but we're going totrample your wife into the ground. Better to de-15

stroy her than have all the village die for wantof cattle. But don't you make a row, or I'llsmash the wall in with your head!""Drag the bitch out into the yard!" came aroar from the steps. A regimental comrade ofProkofy's wound the Turkish woman's hairaround one hand, clamped his other hand overher screaming mouth, dragged her at a run acrossthe porch and flung her under the feet of thecrowd. A thin shriek rose above the howl ofvoices. Prokofy flung off half a dozen Cossacks,burst into the house, and snatched a sabre fromthe wall. Jostling against one another, the Cossacksrushed out of the house. Swinging thegleaming, whistling sabre around his head,Prokofy ran down the steps. The crowd drewback and scattered over the yard.Lushnya was heavy on his feet, and by thethreshing-floor Prokofy caught up with hiin;with a diagonal sweep down across the leftshoulder from behind, he clave the Cossack'sbody to the belt. The crowd, who had been tearingstakes out of the fence, fell back, across thethreshing-floor into the steppe.Half an hour later the Cossacks ventured toapproach Prokofy's farm again. Two of themstepped cautiously into the passaae, O'l thekitchen threshold, in a pool of bloci, her headflung back awkwardly, lay Prokofy . wif^; her16

lips were writhing tormentedly, her gnawedtongue protruded. Prokofy, with shaking headand glassy stare, was wrapping a squealinglittle ball-the prematurely-born infant-in asheepskin.Prokofy's wife died the same evening. His oldmother had compassion on the child and tookcharge of it. They plastered it with bran-mash,fed it with mare's milk, and, after a month, assuredthat the swarthy, Turkish-looking boywould survive, they carried him to church andchristened him. They named him Pantelei afterhis grandfather. Prokofy came back from penalservitude twelve years later. With his clipped,ruddy beard streaked with grey and his Russianclothing, he did not look like a Cossack. He tookhisson and returned to his farm.Pantelei grew up swarthy, and ungovernable.In face and figure he was like his mother. Prokofymarried him to the daughter of a Cossackneighbour.From then on Turkish blood began to minglewith that of the Cossack, And that was howthe hook-nosed, savagely handsome Cossackfamily of Melekhovs, nicknamed "Turks,"came into the village.When his father died Pantelei took over thefarm; he had the house rethatched, added anacre of common land to the farmyard, built new2—1933 17

sheds, and a barn with a sheet-iron roof. He orderedthe tinsmith to cut a couple of weathercocksout of the scrap iron, and when thesewere set up on the roof of the barn they brightenedthe Melekhov farmyard with their carefreeair, giving ita self-satisfied and prosperousappearance.Under the weight of the passing years PanteleiProkofyevich grew gnarled and craggy; hebroadened and acquired a stoop, but still lookeda well-built old man. He was dry of bone, andlame (in his youth he had broken his leg whilehurdling at an Imperial Review of troops), hewore a silver half-moon ear-ring in his left ear,and his beard and hair retained their vivid ravenhue until old age. When angry, he completelylost control of himself and undoubtedly thishad prematurely aged his buxom wife, whoseface, once beautiful, was now a perfect spiderwebof furrows.Pyotr, his elder, married son, took after hismother: stocky and snub-nosed, a luxuriantshock of corn-coloured hair, hazel eyes. But theyounger, Grigory, was like his father: half ahead taller than Pyotr, some six years younger,the same pendulous hawk nose as his father's,the whites of his burning eyes bluish in theirslightly oblique slits; brown, ruddy skin drawntight over angular cheek-bones. Grigory stooped18

slightly, just like his father; even in his smilethere was a similar, rather savage quality.Dunya-her father's favourite-a lanky largeeyedlass, and Pyotr's wife, Darya, with hersmall child, completed the Melekhov household.IIHere and there stars still hovered in theashen, early morning sky. The wind blew fromunder a bank of cloud. A mist rolled high overthe Don, piling against the slope of a chalkyhill, and creeping into the gullies like a grey,headless serpent. The left bank of the river, thesands, the wooded backwaters, the reedymarshes, the dewy trees, flamed in the cold,ecstatic light of dawn. Below the horizon thesun smouldered, and rose not.In the Melekhov house Pantelei Prokofyevichwas the first to awake. Buttoning the collar ofhis embroidered shirt, he walked out on to thesteps. The grassy yaid was spread with a dewysilver. He let the cattle out into the street. Daryaran past in her shift to milk the cows. The dewsprinkled over the calves of her bare white legs,and she left a smoking, flattened trail behindher over the grass of the yard. Pantelei Prokofyevichstood for a moment watching the grass2* 19

ise from the pressure of Darya's feet thenlurned back into the best room.On the sill of the wide-open window lay thedead rose petals of the cherry-trees blossomingin the front garden. Grigory lay asleep facedownward, one arm flung out sideways."Grigory, coming fishing?""What?" Grigory asked in a whisper, droppinghis legs off the bed."Come out and fish till sunrise."Breathing heavily through his nose, Grigorypulled his everyday trousers down from a peg,drew them on, tucked the legs into his whitewoollen socks, and slowly put on his sandals,straightening out the trodden-down heel."But has Mother boiled the bait?" he askedhoarsely, as he followed his father into theporch."Yes. Go to the boat. I'll come in a minute."The old man poured the strong-smelling,boiled rye into a jug, carefully swept up thefallen grains into his palm, and limped downto the beach. He found his son sitting hunchedin the boat."Where shall we go?""To the Black Bank. We'll try around the logwhere we were sitting the other day."Its stern scraping the ground, the boat brokeaway from the shore and settled into the water.20

The current carried it off, rocking it and tryingto turn it broadside on. Grigory steered withthe oar, but did not row."Why aren't you rowing?""Let's get out into midstream first."Cutting across the swift mainstream current,the boat moved towards the left bank. The crowingof the village cocks rang out after themacross the water. Its side scraping the black,craggy bank rising high above the river, theof foam eddied and swirled.boat slid into the pool below. Some forty feetfrom the bank the twisted branches of a sunkenelm emerged from the water. Around it turbulentflecks"Get the line ready while I scatter the bait,"Pantelei whispered. He thrust his hand into thesteaming mouth of the jug. The rye scatteredaudibly over the water, like a whispered"Sh-sh." Grigory threaded swollen grains on ahook, and smiled."Come on, you fish! Little ones and big onestoo."The line fell in spirals into the water and tautened,then slackened again. Grigory set his footon the end of the rod and fumbled cautiouslyfor his pouch.is"We'll have no luck today. Father. The moonon the wane.""Bring any matches?"81

"Uh-huh.""Give me a light."The old man began to smoke, and glanced atthe sun, stranded beyond the elm."You can't tell when a carp will bite/' he replied."Sometimes he will when the moon iswaning.""Looks as if the small fish are nipping thebait," Grigory sighed.The water slapped noisily against the sides ofthe boat, and a four-foot carp, gleaming asthough cast from ruddy copper, leaped upwardwith a groan, threshing the water with its broad,curving tail. Big drops of spray scattered overthe boat."Wait now!" Pantelei wiped his wet beardwith his sleeve.Near the sunken tree, among the branching,naked boughs, two carp leaped simultaneously;a third, smaller, writhed in the air, and flappedstubbornly close to the bank.Grigory impatiently chewed the wet end ofhis cigarette. The misty sun was half up. Panteleiscattered the rest of the bait, and, glumlypursing his lips, gazed stolidly at the motionlessend of the rod.Grigory spat out the stub of his cigarette,watching its rapid flight angrily. Inwardly hewas cursing his father for waking him so early.22

Smoking on an empty stomach had made hismouth reek like burnt bristles. He was about tobend and scoop up some water in his palm, butat that moment the end of the rod jerked feeblyand began to sink."Hook him!" the old man breathed.Grigory started up and grabbed the rod, butit bent in an arc from his hand, and the endplunged into the water."Hold him!" Pantelei groaned, as he pushedthe boat off from the bank.Grigory attempted to lift the rod, but the fishwas too strong and the stout line snapped witha dry crack. Grigory staggered and almostfell."Strong as a bull!" his father whispered, tryingto jab a hook into some fresh bait but missingit. With an excited laugh Grigory fasteneda new line to the rod, and made a cast. Hardlyhad the lead touched the bottom when the endof the rod bent."That's him, the devil," Grigory grunted,with difficulty holding in the fish, which wasmaking for midstrccim.The line cut the water with a loud swish, raisinga sloping, greenish rampart behind it. Panteleifumbled with the bailer handle in hisstumpy fingers."Take care he doesn't snap the line."23

"Don't worry,"A great red and yellow carp rose to the surface,lashed the water into foam, and dived backinto the depths."He's pulling my arm off! No, you don't!""Hold him, Grisha!""I am holding him!""Don't let him get under the boat!"Taking breath, Grigory drew the played-outcarp towards the boat. The old man thrust outthe bailer, but with its last strength the carpagain plunged into the depths."Get his head up! Make him swallow someair, that'll quiet him!" Pantelei ordered.Once more Grigory drew the exhausted fishtowards the boat. It floated open-mouthed withits nose against the rough gunwale, its orangegoldenfinsflickering."He's finished!" Pantelei croaked, lifting thefish in the bailer.They sat on for another half hour. The carpstopped leaping."Wind in the line. We've had our catch fortoday!" the old man said at last.Grigory pushed off from the bank. As herowed he saw from his father's face that hewanted to say something, but Pantelei sat silentlygazing at the houses of the village scatteredunder the hill.24

"Look here, Grigory . .." he began uncertainly,pulling at the knot of the sack under his feet..""I've noticed that you and Aksinya Astakhova.. .Grigory flushed violently, and turned away.His shirt collar cut into his muscular, sunburntneck, pressing out a white band in the flesh."You watch out, young fellow," the old mancontinued, now roughly and angrily, "or I'll behaving another kind of talk with you. Stepan'sour neighbour, and I won't have any muckingabout with his woman. That kind of thing canlead to mischief, and I warn you beforehand, ifI see you at it I'll flay the hide off you!"Pantelei clenched his gnarled fist, and withnarrowed eyes watched the blood ebbing fromhis son's face."It's all lies!" Grigory muttered, and gazedstraight at the bluish bridge of his father's nose."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 fromthe stern in littlescrolls.They remained silent until, as they were approachingthe shore, his father reminded him:"Mind what I've said, or from now on I'll25

stop your going out at night. You won't stir astep outside the yard!"Grigory made no answer. As he beached theboat 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 youhobble my feet!" he thought, his eyes boringfiercely into the back of the old man's head.When he got home Grigory carefully washedthe sand off the fish and fixed a twig throughitsgills.At the farm gate he ran into his old friendMitka Korshunov. Mitka was strolling along,toying with the end of his silver-studded belt.His round, yellow eyes glistened impudently intheir narrow slits.Mitka's pupils were long, likea 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 aglance."Fifteen pounds?""Fifteen and a half. We weighed it on thescales."26

"Take me with you. I'll do the bargaining.""Come on.""And what do I get?""You needn't fear. We shan't quarrel overthat."Church was over, and the villagers were fillingthe streets. The three Shamil brotherscame striding down the road side by side. Theeldest, one-armed Alexei, was in the middle. Thetight collar of his army tunic held his sinewyneck erect, his thin, curly, pointed little beardtwisted provokingly sideways, his left eyewinked nervously. His carbine had exploded inhis hands at the shooting range many yearspreviously, and a piece of the flying iron hadploughed into his cheek. Now his left eye winkedin season and out of season, and a blue scar ranacross his cheek, burying itself in his tow-likehair. His left arm had been torn off at the elbow,but Alexei was a past master at rolling acigarette with one hand. He would press hispouch against his chest, tear off the right quantityof paper with his teeth, bend it into atrough-shape, rake up the tobacco, roll the cigaretteand almost before you realized what hewas doing, he would be asking you for a light.Although he was one-armed he was the finestfighter in the village. His fist was not particularlylarge as fists go-about the size of a calabash27

-but he had once happened to get annoyed withhis bullock when ploughing, and being withouthis whip, gave it a blow with his fist thatstretched the bullock out over the furrows,blood streaming from its ears. And it hardlyrecovered. The other brothers, Martin andProkhor, resembled Alexei down to the lastdetail. They were just as stocky and broadshouldered,only each had two arms.Grigory greeted the Shamils, but Mitkawalked on, turning his head aside sharply. Atthe fisticuffs during Shrovetide, Alexei Shamilhad shown no regard for Mitka's youthful teeth.With a powerful swing, he had struck him inthe mouth, and Mitka had spat out two goodteeth on the grey-blue ice, scarred by the tramplingof iron-shod heels.As he came up to them, Alexei winked fivetimes."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 stumpof his arm."You're a card! Haw-haw! A wife thrown in!Will you take the brats, too?""Leave yourself some for breeding, or theShamils will die out!" Grigory grinned.2^

In the square the villagers were gatheredaround the fence of the church. The churchwarden was holding a goose above his headand shouting: "Going for fifty kopecks. Anymore offers?"The goose craned its neck and peered round,its beady eye squinting contemptuously.In the middle of a ring of people a grizzledold man, his chest covered with crosses andmedals, stood brandishing his arms."Old Grishaka is telling one of his tales aboutthe Turkish war," Mitka said, nodding towardsthe ring. "Let's go and listen.""While we're listening to him the carp willstart stinking and swell.""If it swells it'll weigh more."In the square beyond the firecart shed rosethe green roof of the Mokhov's house. Passingthe outhouse, Grigory spat and held his nose.From behind a barrel, an old man emerged, buttoningup his trousers, and holding his belt inhis teeth."Hard pressed?" asked Mitka ironically.The old man buttoned up the last button, andtook the belt out of his mouth."What's it got to do with you?""Your nose ought to be stuck in it, or yourbeard; so that your old woman wouldn't be ableto wash itoff in a week."29

"I'll stick you in it," said the old man, offended.Mitka screwed up his cat's eyes inglare.the sun's"Aren't you touchy!""Get out, you son of a bitch. Why are youbothering me? Do you want a taste of my belt?"Laughing quietly Grigory approached thesteps. The balustrade was richly fretted withwild vine. The steps were speckled with lazyshadows."See how some folk live, Mitka!""Even the door-handle's got gold on it!"Mitka sniffed as he opened the door leading tothe verandah. "Imagine that old fellow gettingin here. .". ."Who's there?" someone called from the otherside of the door.Grigory entered shyly. The carp's tailtrailedover the painted floor-boards."Whom do you want?"A girl was sitting in a wicker rocking-chair,a dish of strawberries in her hand. Grigorystared silently at the full, rosy, heart-shapedlips embracing a berry. With her head on oneside 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."30

She rocked the chair upright, and rising paddedaway in her embroidered slippers. The sunshone through her white dress, and Mitka sawthe dim outline of full legs and the broad, billowinglace of her underskirt. He was astonishedat the satiny whiteness of her bare calves;only on the small round heels was the skinmilkily yellow."Look, Grisha, what a dress ! Like glass ! Youcan see everything through it," he said, nudgingGrigory.The girl came back through the door leadingto the corridor, and sat down gently on thechair."Go into the kitchen!"Grigory tiptoed into the house. When he hadgone Mitka stood blinking at the white threadof the parting that divided the girl's hair intotwo golden half-circles. She studied him withmischievous, 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, andwith a swift movement tucked up her legs."Which of you caught the fish?"3t

"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'llget 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 thiefand setthe dogs on me.""Nonsense! I sleep alone in the cornerroom. That's the window." She pointed. "Ifyou come for me, knock at the window andI'llget up,"The sound of Grigory's timid voice, and thethick, oily tones of the cook came intermittentlyfrom the kitchen. Mitka was silent, fingeringthe 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, smilingcoquettishly and playing with a32twig 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 likea 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'thelp it.""And why don't they marry you off, Mitka?"Mitka recovered from his momentary confusion,and sensing the hidden sneer in herwords, let a glitter appear in the yellow ofhis eyes."The cock must grow before it finds a hen."She raised her eyebrows in astonishment,flushed, and rose from her seat. There was asound of footsteps ascending the steps from thestreet. Her fleeting smile lashed Mitka like anettle.Shuffling softly in his capacious kid boots, themaster of the house, Sergei Platonovich Mokhov,carried his corpulent body with dignitypast Mitka."Want me?" he asked as he passed, withoutturning his head."They've brought some fish. Papa."Grigory appeared without his carp,3—1933 33

.The firstIllcock had crowed when Grigory returnedfrom his evening out. From the porchcame the scent of sour hops, and the spicy perfumeof stitchwort.He tiptoed into the room, undressed, carefullyhung up his Sunday trousers, crossed himselfand lay down. There was a golden pool ofmoonlight on the floor, criss-crossed by theshadow of the window-frame. In the corner thesilver of the icons gleamed dully under embroideredtowels, from the shelf over the bedcame the droning hum of agitated flies.He would have fallen asleep, but in thekitchen his brother's child started to cry. Thecradle creaked like an ungreased cartwheel. Heheard his brother's wife Darya mutter in asleepy voice: "Go to sleep, you little brat! Youdon't give me a moment's peace!" And she begancrooning softly to the child:Oh, where have you been?I've been watching the horses.And luhat did you see?A horse luith a saddleAll fringed with gold. . .As he dozed off with the steady, soothingcreak in his ears, Grigory remembered: "TomorrowPyotr goes off to the camp. Darya will be34

left with the baby. . . . We'll have to do the mowingwithout him."He buried his head in his hot pillow, but thechant 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 armyhorse. His sleep-numbed fingers were slow inbuttoning up his shirt, and he almost droppedoffsong.again under the flowing rhythm of Darya'sAnd 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 tothe stable and led Pyotr's horse out into thestreet. A floating cobweb tickled his face, andhis drowsiness unexpectedly left him.Slanting across the Don lay the wavy neverriddentrack of the moonlight. Over the river3* S5

shung a mist, and above it, the stars, like sprinkledgrain. The horse set its hoofs down cautiously.The slope to the water was hard going.From the farther side of the river came thequacking of ducks. A sheat-fish jumped with asplash in the muddy shallows by the bank, huntingat random for smaller fry.Grigory stood a long time by the river. Thebank exuded a dank and musty rottenness. Atiny drop of water fell from the horse's lips.There was a light, pleasant void in Grigory'heart, he felt good and free from thought. Ashe 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 apronfulof dried dung fuel, her bare withered feet slappingon the ground."You might go and wake up the Astakhovs.Stepan said he would go with our Pyotr."The morning rawness set a spring stifflyquivering in Grigory. His body tingled withprickles. He ran up the three echoing stepsleading to the Astakhovs' house. The door wasunlatched. Stepan was asleep on an outspread36

ug in the kitchen, his wife's head resting onhis arm.In the greying dawn light Grigory saw Aksinya'sshift rumpled above her knees, and herunashamedly parted legs white as birch bark.For a moment he stood gazing, feeling hismouth going dry and his head bursting with aniron 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 tofumble 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 onthe floor because of the fleas. Stepan, get up,d'you hear?" By her voice Grigory guessed thatshe felt embarrassed and he hastened to leave.Thirty Cossacks were going from the villageto the May training camp. Just before seveno'clock wagons with tarpaulin covers, Cossackson foot and on horseback, in homespun shirtsand carrying their equipment, began to streamtowards the square.Pyotr was standing on the steps, hurriedlystitchinga broken rein.37

Pantelei stamped about round Pyotr's horse,pouring oats into the trough. Every now andthen he shouted:"Dunya, have you put the rusks in the sackyet? Have you salted the bacon?"Dunya, rosy and blooming, flew to and frolike a swallow and answered her father'sshouts with a laugh:"You look after your own affairs. Father, andI'll pack for Brother so well that nothing willbudge till he reaches Cherkassk."*"Not finished eating yet?" Pyotr asked, noddingtowards the horse."Not yet," his father replied deliberately,testing the saddle-cloth with his rough palm.One little crumb sticking to the cloth can chafea 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 horsewith a white blaze on its forehead, led it outthrough the gate, and resting his left handlightly on its withers, vaulted on to its backand went off at a swinging trot. He tried torein 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.88

almost lay along the animal's spine, Grigorysaw a woman with pails going down the hill.He turned sharply off the path and dashed intothe water, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.Aksinya came swinging down the slope.When still some distance away she shouted tohim:"You mad devil! You almost rode me down.You wait, I'll tell your father how you ride.""Now, neighbour, don't get angry. Whenyou've seen your husband off to camp maybeI'll be useful on your farm.""How the devil could you be useful to me?""You'll be asking me when mowing timecomes," Grigory laughed.Aksinya dexterously drew a full pail ofwater from the river, and pressed her skirtbetween 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 itslips from the water, andstood gazing across the Don, its fore-feet treadingthe stream. Aksinya filled her second pail,hoisted the yoke across her shoulders, andwith a swinging stride set off up the slope.39

Grigory turned the horse and followed her. Thewind fluttered her skirt and played with thefine, fluffy curls on her swarthy neck. Her flat,embroidered cap flamed on her heavy knot ofhair, her rose-coloured shift, gathered into herskirt at the waist, clung smoothly to her steepback and compact shoulders. As she climbedthe slope she bent forward, and the hollow betweenher shoulders showed clearly beneath hershift. He saw the brownish rings under herarms, where her shift was stained with sweat.Grigory watched her ever^^ movement. Hewanted to renew the talk with her."You'll be missing your husband, won'tyou ?"Without halting Aksinya turned her headand smiled."Of course I shall. Get married yourself,"she caught her breath and went on jerkily,"then you'll know whether you miss your darlingor not."Grigory brought the horse level with her andlooked into her eyes."But other wives are glad when their husbandsgo. Our Darya will grow fat without herPyotr."Aksinya's nostrils quivered and she breathedhard."A husband's not a leech, but he sucks your40

lood all the same." She pushed her hairstraight. "Shall we be seeing you marriedsoon?""I don't know, it depends on Father. Aftermy army service, I suppose.""You're still young; don't get married.""Why not?""It dries you up." She looked up from underher brows, and smiled cheerlessly without partingher lips. For the first time Grigory noticedthat her lips were shamelessly greedy and ratherswollen. Stranding the horse's mane with hisfingers, he replied:"I don't want to get married. Someone willlove me without that.""Have you noticed anyone, then?""What should I notice? Now you're seeingyour 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 cryfirst.""Don't try to scare me, Aksinya!""I'm not trying to scare you. You hangaround with the girls, let them hem your hankiesfor you, but keep your eyes off me,""I'll look at you all the more now."."4J

:"Well, look then."Aksinya gave him a conciliatory smile andleft the path, trying to pass the horse. Grigoryturned the animal sideways and blocked theway."Let me pass, Grisha."|"I won't.""Don't be a fool. I must see to my husband."Grigory smilingly teased the horse, and itedged Aksinya towards the bank."Let me pass, you devil! There are some peopleover there. If they see us what will theythink?" she muttered.She swept a frightened glance around andpassed by, frowning and without a backwardglance.Pyotr was saying good-bye to his family onthe steps. Grigory saddled the horse. His brother,holding his sabre to his side, hurrieddown the steps and took the reins. Scenting theroad, the horse fretted and chewed the bit.With one foot in the stirrup, Pyotr said to hisfather"Don't overwork the baldheads. Father. Inthe autumn we'll sell them. Grigory will needa horse for the army, you know. And don'tsell the steppe grass; you know yourself whathay we're likely to get in the meadow thisyear."42

"Well, God be with you. Good luck," the oldman replied, crossing himself.Pyotr swung his firm body into the saddle,and adjusted the folds of his shirt in his beltat the back. The horse moved towards the gate.The sabre swung rhythmically, its pommelglittering dully in the sun.Darya followed with the child on her arm.Wiping her eyes with her sleeve and her nosewith the corner of her apron, his mother, Ilyinichna,stood in the middle of the yard."Brother! The pasties! You've forgotten thepasties! The potato pasties!" Dunya dashed tothe gate."What are you bawling for, you fool!" Grigorysnapped irritably."He's left his pasties behind," she moaned,leaning against the gate-post, and tears randown her burning cheeks on to her blouse.Darya stood gazing under her hand after herhusband's white shirt through the screen ofdust. Old Pantelei jerked the rotting gate-postand looked at Grigory:"Mend the gate, and put a new post in." Hestood in thought for a moment, then announcedas if it were news:"Pyotr's gone."Over the wattle fence, Grigory saw Stepangetting ready, Aksinya, dressed up in a green43

woollen skirt, led out his horse. Stepan smilinglysaid something to her. Unhurriedly, possessively,he kissed his wife, and his arm lingeredlong around her shoulder. His hand, darkenedby sun and toil, looked coal-black against herwhite blouse. He stood with his back to Grigory;his firm, clean-shaven neck, his broad,rather sloping shoulders, and (whenever he benttowards his wife) the twisted ends of his lightbrownmoustache were visible across the fence.Aksinya laughed at something and shook herhead. The big black stallion lurched slightlyStepan swung his great weight into the saddle.Sitting as though planted in the saddle, Stepanrode his black horse at a brisk trot throughthe gate, and Aksinya walked at his side, holdingthe stirrup and looking up lovingly ardhungrily, like a dog, into his eyes.Grigory watched them to the turn of theroad with a long unblinking gaze.asIVTowards evening a thunderstorm gathered.A mass of heavy cloud lay over the village.Lashed into fury by the wind, the Don sentfoaming breakers against its banks. The skyflamed with dry lightning, occasional peals ofthunder shook the earth. A kite circled with

outspread wings just below the clouds and waspursued by croaking ravens. Spreading its coolbreath, the cloud passed down the Don fromthe west. Beyond the meadows the heavensblackened menacingly, the steppe lay in expectantsilence. In the village there was a rattle ofclosing shutters, the old people hurried homefrom vespers crossing themselves. A grey pillarof dust whirled over the square, and the heatburdenedearth was already beginning to bescattered with the first seeds of rain.Shaking her braided tresses, Dunya flewacross the yard, slammed the door of the chickenhouse,and stood in the middle of the yardwith nostrils distended like a horse at a hurdle.In the street the children were prancing about.Eight-year-old Mishka, his father's absurdlylarge peaked cap drawn over his eyes, wasspinning 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 chappedbare feet stamping the ground. She, too, wantedto dance in the rain and to get her headwet, so that her hair might grow thick and curly;she, too, wanted to stand on her hands like45

Mishka's friend in the roadside dust, at therisk of falling into the nettles. But her motherwas watching and angrily moving her lips atthe window. With a sigh she ran into the house.The rain was now falling heavily. A peal ofthunder broke right over the roof and wentrolling away across the Don.In the porch Pantelei and the perspiring Grigorywere hauling a folded drag-net out of theside-room."Raw thread and a pack-needle, quick!" Grigorycalled to Dunya. Darya sat down to mendthe net. Her mother-in-law grumbled as sherocked the baby:"What else will you take into your head,man! Let's go to bed. Kerosene costs more andmore. What do you think you'll catch now?Where the plague are you going? And you'llget drowned into the bargain, the terror of theLord is upon us. Just look at the lightning!Lord Jesus Christ, Mother of Heaven. . .."For an instant it was dazzlingly blue and silentin the kitchen; the rain could be hearddrumming on the shutters. A clap of thunderfollowed. Dunya whimpered and buried her facein the net. Darya made the sign of the cross towardsthe windows and door. The old womanstared with terrible eyes at the cat rubbing itselfagainst her legs:46

"Dunya, chase this d-. Mother of Heaven,forgive me my sins. . . . Dunya, put the cat outinto the yard! Shoo, evil spirit! May you. . .Dropping the net, Grigory shook with silentlaughter."Well, what are you fussing about? Enoughof that!" shouted Pantelei. "Get on with yourmending, women. I told you the other day tosee tothe 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'reafraid of storms. The water must be muddy bynow. Dunya, go out and see whether you canhear the stream running."Dunya edged unwillingly towards the door.Old Ilyinichna would not be repressed."Who's going to wade with you? Daryamustn't, she'll catch cold in her chest," shepersisted."Me and Grigory, and for the other net . . .Aksinya and another of the women."we'll callDunya ran in breathlessly. Drops of rainhung trembling on her lashes. She smelt of thedank, black earth."The stream's roaring like anything," shepanted."You coming too?""Who else is going?"41."

"We'll get some of the women.""All right.""Put on your coat and run toAksinya," herfather told her. "If she'll go, ask her to fetchMalashka Frolova, too.""That one won't freeze," Grigory said witha grin, "she's fat as a hog.""Why don't you take some hay, Grisha dear,"his mother advised. "Stuff some under yourheart or you'll take a chill inside.""Yes, go for some hay, Grigory. The oldwoman's quite right."Dunya quickly returned with the women.Aksinya, in a blue skirt and a ragged jacketbelted with rope, looked shorter and thinner.Exchanging laughs with Darya, she took offher kerchief, wound her hair into a tighterknot, and throwing back her head, stared coldlyat Grigory. As the stout Malashka tied upher stockings, she said hoarsely:"Have you got your sacks? We're sure tohaul up the fish today."They all went into the yard. The rain wasstill falling heavily on the sodden earth, frothingthe puddles and trickling in streams downto the Don.Grigory led the way down to the river.For no reason he suddenly felt very gay."Mind the ditch. Dad."48

"How dark it is!""Hang on to me, Aksinya," Malashkalaughed hoarsely."Isn't that the landing stage, Grigory?""That's it.""Begin from here," Pantelei shouted abovethe roar of the wind.,"Can't hear you, uncle," Malashka calledthroatily."Start wading, I'll take the deep side. . . . Thedeep ... I say. Malashka, you deaf devil, whereare you dragging to? I'll go out into thedeeps. . . . Grigory, Grisha, let Aksinya take thebank!"A groaning roar from the Don. The wind wastearing the slanting sheet of rain to shreds.Feeling the bottom with his feet, Grigory wadedup to his waist into the water. A clammycold crept into his chest, drawing tightly in aring round his heart. The waves lashed his faceand tightly screwed-up eyes like a knout. Thenet bellied out and was carried off into thedeeps. Grigory's feet, in woollen socks, slippedover the sandy bottom. The net was beingdragged out of his hand. Deeper, deeper. Asudden drop. His legs were carried away. Thecurrent snatched him up and bore him intomidstream. With his right hand he vigorouslypaddled back to the bank. The black, swirling4—1933 49

depths frightened him as never before. Hisfeet joyously found the muddy bottom. A fishknocked against his knee."Take it deep!" his father's voice came fromthe clinging darkness.Again thenet heeled over and pulled downinto the depths. Again the current carried theground away from under his feet, and Grigoryswam, 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 heavystuff.""Talk quietly. If my father hears he'll go forme.""Afraid of your father, huh?"For a moment they hauled in silence."Grisha, there's a sunken tree by the bank, Ithink! We must get the net round it."A terrible buffet flung Grigory far awayfrom her."Ah-ah!" Aksinya screamed somewherenear the bank. Terrified, he swam in the directionof her call."Aksinya!"Wind, and the flowing roar of the water,"Aksinya!" Grigory shouted again, goingcold with fear,50

"Hey, Grigory," he heard his father's voicefrom afar.He struck out wildly. He felt somethingsticky under his feet, and caught it with hishand-it was the net."Grisha, where are you?" he heard Aksinya'stearfulvoice."Why didn't you answer my shout?" hebawled angrily, crawling on hands and kneesup the bank.Squatting down on their heels, they disentangledthe net. The moon broke through thecracked shell of a cloud. There was a restrainedmutter of thunder beyond the meadows. Theearth gleamed with moisture. Washed cleanby the rain, the sky was stern and clear.As he disentangled the net Grigory stared atAksinya. Her face was a chalky white, but herred, slightly upturned lips were smiling."The way I was knocked against the bank! Inearly went out of my mind. I was scared todeath. I thought you were drowned."Their hands touched. Aksinya tried to pushhers into the sleeve of his"How warm your arm is,"shirt.she said plaintively,"and I'm frozen!""Look where that bastard got away," Grigoryshowed her a hole about five feet across inthe middle of the net.4* 51

:Someone came running along the bank. Grigoryguessed it was Dunya. He shouted to her:"Got the thread?""Yes. What are you sitting here for? Fathersent me for you to come at once to the point.We've caught a sackful of sterlet." Unconcealedtriumph sounded in her voice.With teeth chattering, Aksinya sewed up thehole in the net. Then, to get warm, they racedto the point.Pantelei was rolling a cigarette with scarredfingers swollen by the water; jigging about, heboasted"The first time, eight fish; but the secondtime . .." he paused and silently pointed withhis foot to the sack. Aksinya peeped curiouslyinside: from it came the slithery scrapingsound 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; whatare you waiting for?"Grigory stepped out with numbed legs. Aksinyawas shivering so much that he felt thenet trembling."Stop shaking!"52

"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 thenet. Grigory dragged the net into a tightercircle. Aksinya toiled up the bank. The watersplashed on the sands and slopped back. Fishlay 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'recleaning the net."Frowning, Aksinya wrung out her skirl,hoisted the sack of fish over her shoulder andset off almost at a trot.Grigory picked up thenet. They had covered some two himdred yardswhen Aksinya began to groan:"I can't go on. My legs are numb.""Look, there's an old haystack. Why don'tyou have a warm there.""Good! I'll never get home otherwise."Grigory turned back the top of the stack anddug out a hole. The long-lying hay smelt warmand rotten."Crawl into the middle. It's like a stove here."She threw down the sack and buried herselfup to the neck in hay. Shivering with cold,Grigorylay down at her side. A tender agitatingscent came from her damp hair. She lay with53

head thrown back, breathing regularly throughher half-open mouth."Your hair smells like henbane. Do youknow that white flower?" Grigory whispered,bending towards her. She was silent. Hergaze was misty and distant, fixed on the waning,crescent moon.Taking his hand out of his pocket, Grigorysuddenly drew her head towards him. She toreherself away fiercely, and raised herself fromthe hay."Let me go!""Keep quiet!""Let go, or I'll shout!""Wait, Aksinya!""Uncle Pantelei!""Have you got lost?" Pantelei's voice soundedquite close, from behind a clump of hawthornbushes. Clenching his teeth, Grigoryjumped 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 herkerchief, steam rising from her clothes."We're not lost, but I'm nearly frozen.""Look, woman, there's a haystack, warmthe old man told her.Aksinya smiled as she stopped to pick up theyourself,"sack.54

Itwas some sixty versts to the training campat Setrakov. Pyotr Melekhov and Stepan Astakhovrode in the same wagon. With them werethree others from their village: Fedot Bodovskov,a young Cossack with a pock-marked Kalmykface, Christonya Tokin, a second-draft reservistin the Ataman's Regiment of Lifeguards,and the artilleryman Ivan Tomilin. After thefirst halt for food they harnessed Christonya'sand Astakhov's horses to the wagon, and theother horses were tethered behind.Christonya,burly and a bit queer in the head like all themen of the Ataman's Regiment, took the reins.He sat in front with his back, curved like awheel, blocking out the light from the interiorof the wagon, and urged on the horses in hisdeep, rumbling bass voice. Pyotr, Stepan andTomilin lay smoking under the tightly-stretchedtarpaulin cover. Bodovskov walked behind,his bandy Kalmyk legs making light of thedusty road.Christonya's wagon led the way. Behindtrailed seven or eight others, leading saddledand unsaddled horses. The road was noisy withlaughter, shouts, songs, the snorting of horses,and the jingling of empty stirrups.55

Pyotr's head rested on a bag of rusks. Helay 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. Sodon'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, andbegan in a low, tuneful voice:Oh, a fine glowing sunriseCame up early in the sky.Tomilin rested his cheek on his palm likea woman and picked up the refrain in a thin,wailing voice. Smiling, Pyotr watched the littleknotted veins on his temples turning blue withthe effort.Young was she, the little womanThat went tripping to the stream.Stepan, who was lying with his head towardsChristonya, turned round on his elbow:"Come on, Christonya, join in!"And the lad, he guessed her purpose.Saddled up his chestnut mare.56

Stepan turned his smiling glance towardsPyotr, and Pyotr, flicking the tip of his moustacheout of his mouth, added his voice. Openingwide his heavily-bearded jaws, Christonyaroared in a voice that shook the tarpaulincover:Saddled up his chestnut mareTo catch the little woman.Christonya tucked his bare foot under himand waited for Stepan to begin again. Closinghis eyes, his perspiring face in shadow, Stepansang on gently, now dropping his voice to awhisper, now making it ring out metallically.Let me, let me, little woman.Bring my chestnut to the stream.And again Christonya's deep booming tonesdrowned the others. Voices from the neighbouringwagons took up the song. The wheelsclanked on their iron rims, the horses snortedwith the dust and the song floated on, strongand deep. A white-winged peewit flew up fromthe brown wilted steppe. It flew with a cry towardsa hollow, turning an emerald eye towatch the chain of white-covered wagons, thehorses kicking up clouds of dust with theirhoofs, the men in white, dusty shirts, walkingat the edge of the road. And as the peewitdropped into the hollow and its black breast57

nestled into the damp grass pressed flat byroaming animals, it missed the scene that wastaking place on the road. The wagons weretrundling along as before, the sweating horseswere stillloping unwillingly through the dust,but now the Cossacks in their dust-grey shirtswere running from their wagons to the leader,milling round it and roaring with laughter.Stepan was poised at full height on the wagon,holding thetarpaulin with one hand, beatingtime with the other, and roaring out acatchy tune in double-quick time:Oh, don't sit by me.Oh, don't sit by me.Folk will say you're in love with me,In love ivith meAnd coming to me.In love with meAnd coming to me.But I'm. not one oi the common run. . . .Dozens of rough voices took up the choruswith a roar that flattened the roadside dust:But I'm not one oi the common run,I'm not one oi the common run.I'm brigand born.And brigand bred-Not one oi the common run.And I'm in love with a prince's §Qn, . . .58

Fedot Bodovskov whistled; the horses strainedat the traces; leaning out of the wagon,Pyotr laughed and waved his cap; Stepan, witha dazzling smile on his face, impudently swunghis shoulders; along the road the dust rolled ina cloud. Christonya jumped out of the wagonin his great long unbelted shirt, his hair matted,his face streaming with sweat, and did theCossack dance, whirling round like a fly-wheel,frowning and groaning, and leaving the hugesplayed imprints of his bare feet in the silkygreydust.VIThey stopped for the night by a mound witha sandy summit. Clouds gathered in the west.Rain dripped from their black wings. Thehorses were watered at a pond. Above the dykedismal willows bowed before the wind. In thewater, covered with stagnant duckweed andscaled with miserable little ripples, the lightningwas distortedly reflected. The wind crumbledthe raindrops sparingly as though scatteringalms into the earth's swarthy palms.The hobbled horses were turned out to graze,three men being appointed as guards. The othermen lit fires and hung pots on the wagonshafts,59

Christonya was cooking millet. As he stirredit with a spoon, he told a story to the Cossackssitting around:"The mound was high, like this one. And Isays to my now deceased father: 'Won't theataman* give it us for digging up the moundwithout permission'?""What's he blathering about?" asked Stepan,as he came back from the horses. He squatteddown by the fire and flicked an ember on to hispalm, juggling it about for a long time whilehe lighted a cigarette."I'm telling how I and my father, may hissoul rest in peace, looked for treasure. It wasthe Merkulov mound. Well, and Father says:'Come on, Christonya, we'll dig up the Merkulovmound.' He'd heard from his father thattreasure was buried in it. You see. Father promisedGod: 'Give me the treasure, and I'llbuild a fine church.' So we agreed and off we* Atamans were elected by the Cossacks of tsaristRussia for posts of leadership at various levels. The chiefof the Don Army was called the army ataman, the chiefof a stanitsa, a Cossack district or district centre, thestanitsa ataman. When a Cossack detachment went out ona campaign it elected its own "campaign ataman." In abroad sense the word meant "chief." When the Don Cossacksfinally lost their independence, the title of Atamanof all Cossack Forces became a hereditary title of thetsar and, in effect, all Cossack troops were commandedby appointed atamans.60

went. It was on common land, so only the atamancould stop us. We arrived late in the afternoon.So we waited until nightfall and thenclimbed up on top with shovels. We began todig straight down from its top-knot. We'd duga hole six feet deep; the earth was like stone.I was wet through. Father kept on mutteringprayers, but believe me, brothers, my belly wasgrumbling so much. , . . You know what we eatin summer: sour milk and kvass. My father, hesays: 'Pfooh!' he says, 'Christonya, you're aheathen. Here am I praying, and you can'thold your food, I can't breathe for the stink.Get off the mound, you ... or I'll split yourhead open with the shovel. Your stink's enoughto make the treasure sink into the ground.' SoI lay down by the mound, fit to die with mybelly-ache, and my father-a strong man heAnd he digs downwas-goes on digging alone.to a stone slab. He calls me. I push a crow-barunder it, and lift it up. Believe me, brothers, itwas a moonlight night, and under this slab wassuch a glitter..". ."Now you're lying, Christonya," Pyotr brokein, smiling and tugging at his whiskers."Who's lying? Go to the devil, and to thedevil's dam!" ChriiStonya hitched up his sharovariand glanced round at his audience. "No,I'm not lying. It's God's truth! There it shone.61

I look, and it's charcoal. Some forty bushels ofit. Father says : 'Crawl in, Christonya, and dig itup.' So I dug out this rubbish. I went on diggingtill daylight. And in the morning there hewas.""Who?" asked Tomilin."Why, the ataman, who else? He happens tocome driving by. 'Who gave you permission?'and all the rest of it. He lays hold of us andhauls us off to the stanitsa. We were calledbefore the court at Kamenskaya the year beforelast, but Father, he guessed what was coming,and managed to die beforehand. We wrote backsaying he was not among the living."Christonya took his pot of boiling millet andwent to the wagon for spoons."Well, what about your father? He promisedto build a church; didn't he do it?" Stepanasked, when he returned."You're a fool, Stepan. What could he buildfor charcoal?""Once he promised he ought to have doneit.""There was no agreement whatever aboutcharcoal, and the treasure, .". . The guffaw thatwent up made the flames of the fire tremble.Christonya raised his head from the pot, andnot understanding what the laughter was about,drowned all the rest with his heavy roar.62

VIIAksinya was seventeen when she was givenin marriage to Stepan Astakhov. She came fromthe village of Dubrovka, from the sands on theother side of the Don.About a year before her marriage she wasploughing in the steppe eight versts or so fromthe village. In the night her father, a man ofsome fifty years, tied her hands and raped her."I'll kill you if you breathe a word, but ifyou keep quiet I'll buy you a plush jacket andgaiters with goloshes. Remember, I'll kill youif you .". . he promised her.Aksinya ran back through the night in hertorn petticoat to the village. She flung herselfat her mother's feet and sobbed out the wholestory. Her mother and elder brother harnessedhorses to the wagon, made Aksinya get in withthem, and drove to the father. Her brother almostdrove the horses to death over the eightversts. They found the old man close to thefield camp. He was lying on his overcoat in adrunken sleep with an empty vodka bottle byhis side. Before Aksinya's eyes her brother unhookedthe swingle-tree from the wagon,brought him to his feet with a kick, curtlyasked him a question or two and struck him ablow between the eyes with the iron-shod63

swingle-tree. He and his mother went on beatinghim steadily for an hour and a half. Theageing mother, who had always been an obedientwife, frenziedly tore at her unconscioushusband's hair, the brother used his feet. Aksinyalay under the wagon, her head covered,shaking silently. They carried her father homejust before dawn. He lay moaning pitifully, hiseyes wandering around the room, seeking forAksinya, who had hidden herself away. Blooidand puss ran from his torn ear on to the pillow.Towards evening he died. They told the neighbourshe had fallen from the wagon.Within a year match-makers arrived on agaily bedecked wagonette to ask for Aksinya'shand. The tall Stepan with his clean-cut neckand well-proportioned figure appealed to hisfuture bride, and the wedding was fixed for theautumn.The day was frosty and the ice rang merrilyon the roads when Aksinya was installed asyoung mistress of the Astakhov household. Themorning after the festivities her mother-in-law,a tall old woman doubled up with some painfulwoman's disease, woke Aksinya, led her intothe kitchen, and aimlessly shifting things about,said to her:"Now, dear daughter, we didn't take you formaking love, nor for you to lie abed. Go and64

milk the cows, and then get some food ready.I'm old and sick. You must take over the household,it will all fall on you,"The same day Stepan took his young wife intothe barn and beat her deliberately and terribly.He beat her on the belly, the breasts andthe back, taking care that the marks should notbe visible to others. After that he neglected her,kept company with flighty grass-widows andwent out almost every night, leaving Aksinyalocked in the barn or the best room.For eighteen months, until there was a child,he would not forgive her his disgrace. Then hewas quieter, but was grudging with caressesand rarely spent the night at home.The large farm with its numerous cattle burdenedAksinya with work. Stepan worked halfheartedly,and went off to smoke, to playcards, to learn the latest news, and Aksinya hadto do everything. Her mother-in-law was apoor help. After bustling around a little shewould drop on to the bed, and with lips tightdrawnand eyes gazing agonizedly at the ceiling,would lie groaning, rolled into a bundle.At such times her face, which was dotted allover with great ugly moles, broke out in perspirationand tears slithered one by one downher cheeks. Throwing down her work, Aksinya5—1933 65

would hide in a corner and stare at her motherin-law'sface in fear and pity.The old woman died just before the childwas born. In the morning Aksinya's labourpains began, and about noon, an hour or so beforethe child came into the world, the grandmotherdropped dead by the stable door. Themidwife ran out to warn the tipsy Stepan notto go into the bedroom, and saw the old womanlying with her legs tucked under her.After the birth of the child, Aksinya devotedherself to her husband, but she had no feelingfor him, only a bitter womanly pity andforce of habit remained. The child died withina year. The old lifeMelekhov crossed Aksinya's path, she realizedreturned. And when Grishawith terror that she was attracted to the gentle,swarthy young fellow. He waited on her with apersistent expectant love, and it was this persistencethat Aksinya feared in him. She sawthat he was not afraid of Stepan, she felt thathe would not hold back because of him, andwithout consciously desiring it, resisting thefeeling with all her might, she noticed that onSundays and weekdays she was attiring herselfmore carefully. Making up excuses for her conscience,she tried to place herself more frequentlyin his path. It made her happy to feelGrigory's black eyes caressing her heavily and66

apturously. When she awoke of a morningand went to milk the cows she would smile,and without realizing why, think to herself:"Today's a happy day. But why. . .? Oh, Grigory., . . Grisha." She was frightened by the newfeeling which filled her, and in her thoughtsshe felt her way gropingly, cautiously, asthough crossing the Don over the melting iceof March.After seeing Stepan off to camp she decidedto see Grigory as little as possible. After thefishing, her decision was still further strengthened.VIIISome two days before Trinity the distributionof the village meadowland took place. Panteleiattended the allotment. He came back atdinner-time, kicked off his boots with a groan,and noisily scratching his weary feet, announced:"We've got the stretch near the Red Bank.Not very good grass as grass goes. The upperpart runs up to the forest, it's just scrub inplaces. And a bit of quitch coming through.""When shall we do the mowing?" Grigoryasked."After theholidays."5* 67

"Are you going to take Darya along?" theold woman frowned. Pantelei Prokofyevichbrushed her aside."Let me alone ! We'll take her if we need her.Get lunch ready. Why do you stand aroundgaping?"The old wife opened the oven door with aclatter, and drew out the warmed-up cabbagesoup. Pantelei sat over the meal a long time,telling of the day's events, and of the trickyataman, who had all but swindled the wholeassembly of Cossacks."He was up to his tricks last year," Daryaput in. "The way he tried to swindle Malashkawhen they were sharing out theplots.""He's always been a son of a bitch," Panteleimuttered."But who's going to do the raking and stacking.Dad?" Dunya asked timidly."What about you?""I can't do it all by myself.""We'll ask Aksinya Astakhova. Stepanasked us to mow for him."The next morning Mitka Korshunov rode upto the Melekhov yard on his white-legged stallion.A fine rain was falling. Thick mist hungover the village. Mitka leaned out of his saddle,opened the wicket and rode in. The oldwife hailed him from the steps.68

"Hey, you rapscallion, what do you want?"she asked with evident dissatisfaction in hervoice, for she had no love for the reckless andquarrelsome Mitka."What's that to you, Ilyinichna?" Mitkasaid in surprise, as he tied his horse to the railing."I want Grisha. Where is he?""He's asleep in the shed. But have you hada -stroke? Have you lost the use of your legsthat you must ride?""You're always poking your nose in,old lady!"Mitka retorted huffily. Smacking an elegantwhip against the legs of his glossy leatherboots, he went to look for Grigory, and foundhim asleep in a cart. Screwing up his left eye,Mitka lashed Grigory with his whip."Get up, muzhik!""Muzhik" was the most abusive word Mitkacould think of using. Grigory jumped up asthough on springs."What do you want?""You've been in bed long enough.""Stop fooling around, Mitka, before I getangry.""Get up, I've got to talk to you.""Well?"Mitka sat down on the side of the cart, andscraping the dried mud off his boots with astick,he said:69

:"I've been insulted, Grisha.""Well?""You see, it's /'. . Mitka cursed heavily."He's a lieutenant, so he likes to show off." Hesnapped out the words angrily, without openinghis mouth, his legs were trembling. Grigorygot up."What lieutenant?"Seizing him by the sleeve, Mitka said morequietly"Saddle your horse at once, and come to themeadows. I'll show him! I said to him: 'Comeon. Your Honour, and we'll see.''Bring all yourfriends and comrades,' he said, 'I'll beat the lotof you. My mare's dam took prizes at the officers'hurdle-races at St. Petersburg.' What ishis mare or her dam to me? Curse them! Iwon't let them outrace my stallion!"Grigory hastily dressed. Choking with rageMitka hurried him up,"He's come to visit the merchant Mokhov.Wait, what's his name? Listnitsky, I think. Big,serious-looking fellow, wears glasses. Well, andlet him! His glasses won't help him: I won'tlet him catch my stallion!"With a laugh, Grigory saddled theold mareand, to avoid meeting his father, rode out tothe steppe through the threshing-floor gate.They rode to the meadow at the foot of the hill,70

Close to a withered poplar, horsemen wereawaiting them: the officer Listnitsky on a handsome,clean-limbed mare, and seven of the villagelads mounted bareback."Where shall we start from?" the officerturned to Mitka, adjusting his pince-nez andadmiring the stallion's powerful chest muscles."From the poplar to the Tsar's Pond.""Where's the Tsar's Pond?" Listnitskyscrewed up his eyes short-sightedly."There, Your Honour, on the edge of thewood."They lined up the horses. The officer raisedhis whip above his head."When I say 'three.' All right? One . . . two. . . three!"Listnitsky got away first,pressing close to thesaddle-bow, holding his cap on with his hand.For a second he led allthe rest. Mitka, his facedesperately pale, rose in his stirrups-to Grigoryhe seemed unbearably slow in bringing the whipdown on the croup of his stallion.It was some three versts to the Tsar's Pond,Stretched out straight as an arrow, Mitka' s stallioncaught up with Listnitsky' s mare when halfthe course had been covered. Left behind fromthe very beginning, Grigory trotted along,watching the straggling chain of riders.7/

By the Tsar's Pond was a sandy hillock,washed up by the spring floods. Its yellow camel-humpwas overgrown with sandwort. Grigorysaw the officer and Mitka gallop up thehillock and disappear over the brow together,the others following. When he reached the pondthe horses were already standing in a grouparound Listnitsky. Mitka was sleek with restraineddelight, every movement expressing histriumph. Contrary to his expectations, the officerdid not seem at all disconcerted. He stoodwith his back against a tree, smoking a cigarette,and said, pointing to his foam-fleckedhorse:"I've ridden a hundred and fifty versts on heralready. I rode over from the stanitsa only yesterday.If she were fresh, you'd never havecaught me, Korshunov.""Maybe," Mitka said magnanimously."His stallion's the best in the district," afreckled lad, who had come up last, remarkedenviously."He's a good horse," said Mitka and strokedthe stallion's neck, his hand trembling withemotion. He glanced at Grigory and grinnedfoolishly.Grigory and Mitka left the others and rodehome, skirting the village. The lieutenant took72

a chilly leave of them, thrust two fingers underthe peak of his cap and turned away.As they were approaching home, Grigory sawAksinya comimg towards them. She was strippinga twig as she walked. When she noticedhim she bent her head lower."What are you blushing for, are we naked?"shouted Mitka and winked.Gazing straight before him, Grigory almostrode by her, then suddenly struck the amblingmare with his whip. She sat back on her hindlegsand sent a shower of mud over Aksinya."Oh, you mad devil!"Wheeling sharply and riding his excitedmount at her, Grigory demanded:"Why don't you say hullo?""You're not worth it!""And that's why I sent the mud over you.Don't think so much of yourself.""Let me pass!" Aksinya shouted, waving herarms in front of the horse's nose. "What are youtrampling me with your horse for?""She's a mare, not a horse.""1 don't care; let me pass.""What are you getting angry for, Aksinya?Siurely not because of the other day, in themeadow?"Grigory gazed into her eyes. Aksinya tried tosay something, but a little tear started from the73

comer of her dark eye, and her lips quiveredpitifully. Swallowing hard, she whispered:"Go away, Grigory. . . . I'm not angry. . , ,I. . .." And she went.The astonished Grigory overtook Mitkaat the gate."Coming out for the evening?" Mitka asked."No.""Why, what's on? Or did she invite you tospend the night with her?"Grigory rubbed his forehead with his palmand made no reply.IXAll that was left of Trinity in the villagehouses was the dry thyme scattered over thefloors, the dust of crumpled leaves, and theshrivelled, withered green of broken oak andash branches fastened to the gates and stairs.The haymaking began immediately afterTrinity. From early morning the meadow blossomedwith women's holiday skirts, the brightembroidery of aprons, and coloured kerchiefs.The whole village turned out for the mowing.The mowers and rakers attired themselves asthough for an annual holiday. So it had beenfrom of old. From the Don to the distant alder74

thickets the ravaged meadowland stirred andsighed.The Melekhovs were late in starting. Theyset out when nearly half the village were alreadyin the meadow."You sleep late, Pantelei Prokofyevich," theperspiring haymakers greeted him."Not my fault . . . the women again!" the oldman laughed, and urged on the bullocks withhis knout of raw hide."Good-day to you, neighbour! You're a bitlate, aren't you?" a tall Cossack in a straw hatsaid, shaking his head as he stood sharpeninghis scythe at the side of the road."You reckon the grass will be dry?""If you don't get a move on, itsoon will be."At the back of the cart sat Aksinya, her facecompletely covered to protect it from the sun.From the narrow slits left for her eyes shestared calmly and severely at Grigory seated oppositeher. Darya, also wrapped up and dressedin her Sunday best, her legs dangling betweenthe rungs of the wagon-side, was giving her longblue-veined breast to the child dozing in herarms. Dunya fidgeted on the box, her happyeyes scanning the meadow and the people walkingalong the road. Her face,cheerful and sunburnt,with a sprinkling of freckles across hernose, seemed to say, "I feel gay and happy, be-75

scause the day, with its blue and cloudless sky,is also happy; because my soul is filled with thesame cloudless blue calm. I'm happy, I haveeverything I want."Drawing the sleeve of his cotton shirt overhis fists, Pantelei wiped away the sweat runningdown from under the peak of his cap. The shirtstretched tightly across his bent back, darkenedwith moist patches. The sun pierced slantinglythrough a grey fleecy cloud, and dropped a fanof misty, refracted rays over the meadov/, thevillage, and the distant, silvery hills of the Don.The day was sultry. The little clouds creptalong drowsily, not even overtaking Pantelei'bullocks as they plodded along the road. Theold man himself lifted and waved the knoutlanguidly, as though in doubt whether to striketheir bony flanks or not. Evidently realizingthis, the bullocks did not hasten their pace, andslowly, gropingly set forward their cloven hoofsand swished their tails. A dusty gold-and-orangetingledhorsefly circled above them. Themeadowland that had been scythed near thethreshing-floors glowed with pale-green patches;where the grass had not yet been cut, thegrassy silk, green with a gleam of black in it,rustled in the breeze,"There's our strip," Pantelei waved his knout.Grigory unharnessed the weary bullocks. The76

old man, his ear-ring glittering, went to look forthe mark he had made at the end of the strip."Bring the scythes," he called out after amoment, waving his hand.Grigory went to him, treading down thegrass, and leaving an undulating trail behindhim, Pantelei faced the distant bell-tower andcrossed himself. His hook-nose shone as thoughfreshly varnished, the sweat clung to the hollowsof his swarthy cheeks. He smiled, baringa close-set row of white, gleaming teethin his raven beard, and, with his wrinkledneck bent to the right, swept the scythethrough the grass. A seven-foot semicircle ofmown grass lay at his feet.Eyes half closed, Grigory followed in hissteps, laying the grass low with the scythe. Thewomen's aprons blossomed in a scattered rainbowbefore him, but his eyes sought only one,a white one with an embroidered border; heglanced at Aksinya and started mowing again,keeping pace with his father.Aksinya was continually in his thoughts. Halfclosing his eyes, in imagination he kissed herand spoke to her in burning tender words thatcame to his tongue from he knew not where.Then he dropped such thoughts and steppedout again methodically, one . . . two . . . three;and his memory slipped in fragments of the77

!Ji>ast, Sitting under the damp hayrick . . . themoon over the meadow . . . now and then a dropfalling from the bush into the puddle . . . oneGood! Ah, that had been. . . two . . . three. . . .goodHe heard laughter behind him. He lookedback: Darya lay under the cart and Aksinyawas bending over her, telling her something.Darya waved her arms, and again they bothlaughed. Dunya was sitting on the shaft andsinging in a shrill voice."I'll get to that bush, then I'll sharpen myscythe," Grigory thought. At that moment hefelt the scythe pass through something soft andyielding. He bent down. A little wild ducklingwent scurrying into the grass with a squawk.By the hole where the nest had been anotherwas huddled, cut in two by the scythe, the restof the brood scattered twittering in the grass.He lay the dead bird on his palm. It had evidentlycome from the egg only a few days previously;there was still a living warmth in thedown.On the flat, half-open beak there was a pinkishbubble of blood, the beady eyes werepuckered slyly, the little legs were still warmand quivering. With a sudden keen feeling ofcompassion he stared at the inert little ball lyingin his hand.78

"What have you found, Grisha?''Dunya came dancing along the mown alley,her pigtails tossing on her breast. Frowning,Grigory threw away the duckling and angrilywielded his scythe.Dinner was eaten in haste. Bacon-fat and theCossacks' stand-by, sour skimmed milk, broughtfrom home in a bag, were the entire meal.After dinner the women began to rake thehay. The cut grasswilted and dried, giving offa heavy, stupefying scent."No point in going home!" Pantelei said duringdinner. "We'll turn the bullocks out tograze in the forest, and tomorrow as soonas the dew is off the grass we'll finish themowing."Dusk had fallen when they stopped for theday. Aksinya raked the last rows together, andwent to the cart to cook some millet mash. Allday she had maliciously made fun of Grigory,gazing at him with eyes full of hatred, asthough in revenge for some great, unforgettableinjury. Grigory, gloomy and faded somehow,drove the bullocks down to the Don for water.His father had watched him and Aksinya allday. Eyeing Grigory unpleasantly he said:"Have your supper, and then guard the bullocks.See that they don't get into the grass!Take my sheepskin."79

Darya laid her child under the cart and wentinto the forest with Dunya for brushwood.Over the meadow the waning moon mountedthe dark, inaccessible heaven. A snowstorm ofmoths whirled around the flames. Near the firesupper was laid on a piece of coarse cloth. Themillet boiled in the smoky field-pot. Wiping aspoon with the edge of her underskirt, Daryacalled to Grigory:"Come and have your supper."His father's sheepskin draped over his shoulders,Grigory emerged from the darkness andapproached the fire."What's made you so moody?" Daryasmiled."Got the back-ache. Must be going to rain,"he countered lightly,"He doesn't want to watch the bullocks,"Dunya laughed, and, sitting down by herbrother, she tried to start a conversation. Butsomehow her efforts were unsuccessful. Panteleisupped his porridge, crunching the undercookedmillet with his teeth. Aksinya ate withoutlifting her eyes, smiling half-heartedly atDarya's jokes. A troubled flush burned in hercheeks.Grigory got up first and went off to the bullocks."Take care thebullocks don't trample some-80

ody else's grass," his father shouted after him,then a crumb of millet stuck in his throat andfor a long time he coughed raspingly. Dunya'scheeks swelled as she tried to suppress herlaughter.The fire burned low. The smouldering brushwoodwrapped the little group in the honeyscent of burning leaves.At midnight Grigory stole up to the camp,and halted some ten paces away. His father wassnoring tunefully on the cart. The unquenchedembers stared out from the ash with goldenpeacock's eyes.A grey, shrouded figure broke away fromthe cart and came slowly towards Grigory.Two or three paces away, it halted. Aksinya!Grigory's heart thumped fast and heavily; hestepped forward crouchingly, flinging back theedge of his sheepskin, and pressed her compliant,burning body to his own. Her legs bowedat the knees; she trembled, her teeth chattering.Grigory suddenly flung her over his armas a wolf throws a slaughtered sheep acrossits back, and, stumbling over the trailing edgesof his open coat, and panting hard, made off..""Oh, Grisha, Grisha! Your father. . ."Quiet!"Tearing herself away, gaspingthe sour sheep's6—1933 81for breath inwool, choking with the bitter-

ness of regret, Aksinya cried in a low moaningvoice that was almost a shout:"Let go, what does it matter now. .of my own accord."X.? I'll goNot azure and poppy-red, but rabid as thewayside henbane is a woman's belated love.After the mowing Aksinya was a changedwoman: as though someone had set a mark onher face,branded her. When other women mether they smiled slyly, and nodded their headsafter her. The girls were envious, but she heldher happy, shameful head proud and high.Soon everybody knew of her affair with GrigoryMelekhov. At first it was talked about inwhispers-only half-believed-but after the villageshepherd had seen them in the early dawnby the windmill, lying under the moon in theyoung rye, the rumour spread like a wavebreaking turbidly on the shore.It reached Pantelei's ears also. One Sunday hehappened to go along to Mokhov's shop. Thethrong was so great that no more could havecrowded through the door. He entered, andeverybody seemed to be making way for him,smiling at him. He pushed towards the counterwhere the draperies were sold. The master, Ser-82

gei Platonovich Mokhov, took it upon himselfto attend to the old man."Where have you been all this long while,Prokofyevich?" he asked."Too much to do. Troubles with the farm.""What? Sons like yours, and troubles?""What of my sons? I've seen Pyotr off tocamp, there's only me and Grisha to do everything."Mokhov divided his stiff, ruddy beard intotwo with his fingers and glanced significantlyout of the corner of his eye at the crowd ofCossacks."Oh, yes, old man, and why haven't you toldus anything about it?""About what?""How d'you mean, what? Thinking of marryingyour son, and not a word to anybody!""Which son?""Why, your son Grigory isn't married.""And I'm not thinking of marrying him yet.""But I've heard that you're getting yourselfa daughter-in-law . . . Stepan Astakhov's Aksinya.""What? With her husband alive. . . , Why,Platonovich, you must be joking! Aren't you?""Joking? But I've had it from others."Pantelei smoothed out the piece of materialspread over the counter, then, turning sharply,6* 83

limped towards the door. He made straight forhome. He walked with his head lowered like abull, his fingers knotted in his fist, hobblingmore noticeably on his lame leg. As he passedthe Astakhovs' house he glanced over the wattlefence: Aksinya, looking young and smart,with a lithe swing in her hips, was going intothe house with an empty bucket."Hey, wait!" he called, and stumped in at thegate. Aksinya halted and waited for him. Theywent into the house. The cleanly-swept earthenfloor was sprinkled with red sand; on the benchin the corner were pasties fresh from the oven.A smell of musty clothes and sweet apples camefrom the best room.A tabby cat with a huge head purred roundPantelei's legs. It arched its back and presseditself against his boots. With a fierce kick hesent it flying against the bench."What's all this I hear? Eh?" he shoutedlooking Aksinya straight in the eyes. "Yourhusband hardly out of sight, and you alreadysetting your cap at other men! I'll makeGrisha's blood flow for this, and I'll write toyour Stepan! Let him hear of it! You whore,haven't you been beaten enough! Don't set yourfoot inside my yard from this day on. Carryingon with a young man, and when Stepan comes,I'll have to. . .."84

Aksinya listened with narrowed eyes. Andsuddenly she shamelessly swung the hem of herskirt, enveloped Pantelei in the smell of woman'sclothes, and came breasting at him withwrithing lips and bared teeth."What are you, my father-in-law? Eh? Whoare you to teach me? Co and teach your ownfat-bottomed woman! Keep order in your ownyard! You limping, stump-footed devil! Clearout of here, you won't frighten me!""Wait, you daft hussy!""There's nothing to wait for! Get back whereyou came from! And if I want your Grisha, I'lleat him, bones and all, and answer for it myself!Chew that over! What if I love Grisha?Beat me, will you? Write to my husband? Writeto the ataman if you like, but Grisha belongsshallto me! He's mine! Mine! I have him and Ikeep him!"Aksinya pressed against the quailing Panteleiwith her breast (it beat against her thin blouselike a bustard in a noose), seared him with theflame of her black eyes, overwhelmed him withmore and more terrible and shameless words.His eyebrows quivering, the old man backed tothe door, groped for the stick he had left in thecomer, and waving his hand, pushed open thedoor with his bottom, Aksinya pressed him outof the passage, pantingly, frenziedly shouting:85

"I'll have my love, I'll make up for all thewrongs I've suffered! And then kill me if youlike! He's my Grisha! Mine!"Muttering something into his beard, Panteleilimped off to his house.He found Grigory in the room. Without sayinga word, he brought his stick down over hisson's back. Doubling up, Grigory hung on hisfather'sarm."What's that for.Father?""For your goings-on, you son of a bitch!""What goings-on?""Don't wrong your neighbour! Don't shameyour father! Don't run after women, you youngbuck!" Pantelei snorted, dragging Grigory, whohad grabbed the stick, around the room tryingto wrest it from him."I'm not going to let you beat me'" Grigorycried hoarsely, and setting his teeth, he tore thestick out of his father's hand. Across his kneeitwent, and-snap!Pantelei Prokofyevich struck him on the neckwith his hard fist."I'll whip you in public. You accursed sonof the devil! I'll marry you to the village idiot!I'll geld you!" his father roared.The noise brought the old mother runninginto the room.86

"Pantelei, Pantelei! Cool down a little! Wait!"But the old man had lost his temper in realearnest. He sent his wife flying, overturned thetable with the sewing-machine on it, and victoriouslyflew out into the yard. Grigory, whoseshirt had been torn in the struggle, had not hadtime to take it off when the door banged openagain, and his father appeared once more likea storm-cloud on the threshold."I'll marry him off, the son of a bitch!" Hestamped his foot like a horse and fixed his gazeon Grigory's muscular back. "I'll drive off tomorrowand arrange the match. To think that Ishould live to see people laugh in my faceabout my son.""Let me get my shirt on first, then you canmarry me off.""I'll marry you to the village idiot!" The doorslammed, and the old man clattered away downthesteps.XIBeyond the village of Setrakov the carts withtarpaulin covers stretched in rows across thesteppe. At unbelievable speed a neat, whiteroofedlittle town had grown up, with straightstreets and a small square in the centre, wherea sentry stood guard.87

The men lived the usual monotonous life ofa training camp. In the morning the detachmentof Cossacks guarding the grazing horsesdrove them into the camp. Then followed cleaning,grooming, saddling, the roll-call, and muster.The staff officer in command of the camp,Lieutenant-Colonel Popov, bawled stentoriously;the sergeants training the young Cossacks shoutedtheir orders. They staged mock attacks on ahill, they cunningly encircled the "enemy."They fired at targets. The younger Cossacks eagerlyvied with one another in the sabre exercises,and the old hands dodged as much of thetraining as they could.While voices grew hoarse with the heat andthe vodka, a fragrant exciting wind blew overthe long lines of covered wagons, the suslikswhistled in the distance, and the steppe beckonedaway from the stuffiness and smoke of thewhitewashed huts.About a week before the break-up of thecamp Andrei Tomilin's wife came to visit him.She brought him some home-made cracknel, anassortment of dainties and a sheaf of villagenews.She left again very early in the morning, takingthe Cossacks' greetings and instructions totheir families and relations in the village. OnlyStepan Astakhov sent no message back by her.

He had fallen ill the evening before, drunkvodka to cure himself and was incapable of seeinganything in the whole wide world, includingTomilin's wife. He did not turn up on parade;at his own request the doctor's assistant let hisblood, setting a dozen leeches on his chest. Stepansat in his undershirt against the wheel ofhis cart (making the white linen cover of his capoily with cart grease) and stared sulkily at theleeches sucking at his barrel-like chest andswelling with dark blood.The regiment medical orderly stood by smokingand letting the smoke filter through thewide gaps between his teeth."Feel any better?""They're drawing well. Easier for the heartsomehow.""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 Tomilinaside."My woman's been here on a visit.this morning.""Well?""There's a lotvillage.""What?""Not pleasant talk,She leftof talk about your wife in theeither."89

"Well?""She's carrying on with Grigory Melekhov.Quite openly."Turning pale, Stepan tore the leeches fromhis chest and crushed them underfoot. When hehad crushed the last one, he buttoned up hisshirt, and then, as though suddenly afraid, unbuttonedit again. His chalky lips moved incessantly.They trembled, slipped into an awkwardsmile, then shrivelled and gathered intoa livid pucker. Tomilin thought Stepan must bechewing something hard and solid. Graduallythe colour returned to his face, the lips, caughtby his teeth, froze into immobility. He took offhis cap, smeared the grease over the white coverwith his sleeve, and said aloud: "Thanks for thenews.""I just wanted to warn you. . . . You won'thold it against me."Tomilin clapped his hands against his trousersin a gesture of sympathy, and went off tohis horse. A sound of voices and shouting washeard from the camp, the Cossacks had returnedfrom the sabre exercises, Stepan stoodfor a moment staring fixedly and sternly at theblack smear on his cap.A half-crushed, dying leech crawled up hisboot.90

XIIIn ten more daysthe Cossacks would be returningfrom camp. Aksinya lived in a frenzy ofbelated 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. Fromlack of sleep his brown face was suffused underthe high cheek-bones with a blue tinge, histired eyes gazed wearily out of their sunkensockets. Aksinya went about with her face completelyuncovered, the deep hollows under hereyes darkened funereally; her swollen, avid lipssmiled with a restlesschallenge.So extraordinary and open was their mad association,so ecstatically did they burn with asingle, shameless flamie, neither consciencestrickennor hiding their love from the world,becoming gaunt and dark before its very eyes,that people began to be ashamed to meet themin the street.Grigory's comrades, who previouslyhad chaffed him about Aksinya, now kept silentand felt awkward and constrained in hiscompany. In their hearts the women envied Aksinya,yet they condemned her, gloating at theprospect of Stepan's return, and pining with curiosityas to how it would all end.91

If Grigory had made some show of hidingfrom the world his affair with this grass-widow,and if the grass-widow Aksinya had kept herrelations with Grigory comparatively secret,without shunning others, the world would haveseen nothing unusual in it. The village wouldhave gossiped a little and then forgotten.But they lived together almost openly, theywere bound by something greater, which hadno likeness to any temporary association,and for that reason the villagers decided it wasimmoral and held their breath in peepingexpectation. Stepan would return and cut theknot.Over the bed in the Astakhovs' bedroom rana string threaded with empty white and blackcotton-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 armand gazing up at the chain of reels. With thetoil-roughened fingersof her other hand Aksinyawas playing with the thick strands of hairon his head. Her fingers smelt of warm milk;when Grigory turned his head, pressing hisnose into Aksinya's armpit, the pungent,sweetish scent of woman's sweat flooded hisnostrils.92

In addition to the wooden, painted bedsteadwith pointed pine cones at the comers, the roomcontained a capacious iron-bound chest thatstood close to the door, holding Aksinya's dowryand all her finery. In the corner was a table, anoleograph of General Skobelev riding towardsa row of flapping banners dipped before him,two chairs, and above them icons in gawdy paperaureoles. Along the side wall hung fly-blownphotographs. One was a grotip of Cossacks, withcurly forelocks, swelling chests decorated withwatch chains, and drawn swords-Stepan andhis comrades on active service. On a hook hungStepan's uniform, it had not been put away. Themoon stared through the window and uncertainlyfingered the two white sergeant's straps onthe shoulder.With a sigh Aksinya kissed Grigory on thebridge 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 smoothedand parted Grigory's matted hair."Stepan will kill me," she half-asked, halfdeclared.93

Grigory was silent. He wanted to sleep. Withdifficulty he forced open his clinging eyelidsand saw above him the glittering bluish blacknessofAksinya's eyes."When my husband comes back, you'll giveme up, won't you? You'll be afraid?""Why should I be afraid of him? You're hiswife, it's for you to be afraid.""When I'm with you I'm not afraid,but whenI think about it in the daytime I am."Grigory yawned and said:"It doesn't matterso much about Stepan coming back. My father'stalking of getting me married off."He smiled and was going to add something,but he felt Aksinya's hand under his head suddenlywilt and soften, bury itself in the pillow,and after a moment harden again."Who has he got in mind?" she asked in astifledvoice,"He's only talking about it.Mother says he'sthinking of Korshunov's Natalya.""Natalya . . . she's a good-looking girl. Verygood-looking. . . . Well, go ahead and marry her.I saw her in church the other day. Dressed upshe was. . .." Aksinya spoke rapidly, but hecould scarcely hear her, her voice was so lifelessand dull,"I don't care two pins about her good looks.I'd like to marry you."94

Aksinya sharply pulled her arm from undefGrigory's head and stared with dry eyes at thewindow. A frosty, yellow mist was in the yard.The shed cast a heavy shadow. The cricketswere chirruping. Down by the Don the bitternsboomed; their deep sullen tones floated throughthe bedroom window."Grisha!""Thought of something?"Aksinya seized Grigory's rough, unyieldinghands, pressed them to her breast, and to hercold, almost lifeless cheeks, and cried:"What did you take up with me for, curseyou! What shall I do? Grisha! I'm finished. . . .Stepan is coming back, and what shall I tellhim. . .? Who is there to help me?"Grigory was silent. Aksinya gazed mournfullyat his handsome eagle nose, his shadowedeyes, his dumb lips. . . . And suddenly a flood offeeling swept away the dam of restraint. Madlyshe kissed his face, his neck, his arms, therough, curly black hair on his chest, and Grigoryfelt her body trembling as, gasping forbreath, she whispered:"Grisha . . . my dearest . . , beloved . . . let's goaway. My darling! We'll throw up everythingand go. I'll leave my husband and everything,so long as you're with me. . . . We'll go far away,95

to the mines. I'll love you and care for you. I'vegot an uncle who is a watchman at the Paramonovmines: he'll help us. . . . Grisha! Oh, saysomething!"Grigory lay thinking, then unexpectedlyopened his burning foreign-looking eyes. Theywere laughing, gleaming derision."You're a fool, Aksinya, a fool! You talkaway, but you say nothing worth listening to.How can I leave the farm? I've got to do mymilitary service next year. . . . I'll never stir anywhereaway from the land. Here there is thesteppe, and something to breathe-but there?Last simimer I went with Father to the station.I nearly died. Engines roaring, the air all thickand heavy with burning coal. How people livethere, I don't know; perhaps they're used toit!" Grigory spat and said again: "I'll neverleave the village."The night grew darker outside the window, acloud passed over the moon. The frosty, yellowmist vanished from the yard, the shadows werewashed away, and now there was no tellingwhether it was last year's faggots or some oldbush that loomed darkly beyond the fence outsidethe window.The room, too, grew darker. The stripes onStepan's uniform faded, and in the grey, stagnantmurk Grigory did not see the fine shiver that96

shook Aksinya's shoulders, or her head pressedbetween her hands and silently shaking on thepillow.XIIIAfter the visit of Tomilin's wife Stepan's featuresbecame distinctly less handsome. His browsdrooped over his eyes, a deep and harsh frownpuckered his forehead. He spoke little with hiscomrades, began to quarrel over trifles, had across with the sergeant-major and would hardlylook at Pyotr Melekhov. The threads of friendshipwhich had previously united them weresnapped. In his sullen, seething rage Stepanplunged downhill like a bolting horse. They returnedhome enemies.Of course something had to happen thatbrought the vague hostility of their relations to ahead. They set out for their village in the samegroup as before. Pyotr's and Stepan's horseswere harnessed to the wagon. Christonya rodebehind on his own horse. Tomilin, who was sufferingfrom fever, lay covered with his greatcoatin the wagon. Fedot Bodovskov was too lazy todrive, so Pyotr took the reins. Stepan walkedalong at the side of the wagon, lashing off thepurple heads of the roadside thistles with hiswhip. Rain was falling. The rich black earth7—1933 97

stuck to the wheels like tar. The sky was an autumnalblue, ashy with cloud. Night fell. Nolights of any village were to be seen. Pyotr belabouredthe horses liberally with the knout.And suddenly Stepan shouted in the darkness:"You, what the . . . you . . . ! You spare yourown horse, but keep the knout on mine all thetime.""Keep your eyes open! I whip the one thatdoesn't pull.""Mind I don't put you in the shafts. That'swhat 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?" askedChristonya, riding up to Stepan.Stepan did not reply. They rode on for anotherhalf hour in silence. The mud squelched underthe wheels. The rain pattered drowsily on thetarpaulin. Pyotr dropped the reins and smoked,running over in his mind all the insulting wordshe 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 thestep of the cart.The wagon suddenly jolted and stopped. Slippingin the mud, the horses pawed the earth.98

Sparks shov/ered from their hoofs and theshaft groaned."Whoa!" Pyotr shouted and leaped to theground."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 oflight, then darkness again. With trembling handsPyotr felt the spine of the fallen horse, thenpulled at the bridle.The horse sighed and rolled over, the centreshaftsnapped in half. Stepan struck a bunch ofmatches. His horse lay craning her neck withone foreleg buried to the knee in a marmot'shole.Christonya unfastened the traces."Unharness Pyotr's horse, look snappy," heordered."Whoa! Easy there! Easy!"At last Stepan's horse was lifted with difficultyto 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 hoppeda step or two, not putting its7* 99left 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 aword, almost seemed to have been awaiting sucha remark. Thrusting Christonya aside he flunghimself on Pyotr, He aimed at his head, butmissed and struck his shoulder. They grappledtogether and fell into the mud. There was thesound of a tearing shirt. Stepan got Pyotr underhim, and holding his head down with one knee,pounded away with his fists. Christonyadragged him off cursing."What's that for?" Pyotr shouted, spittingblood."Look where you drive,you snake!"Pyotr tried to tear himself out of Christonya'shands."Now then! You try fighting me!" Christonyaroared, holding Pyotr with one hand against thewagon.They harnessed Bodovskov's small but sturdyhorse with Pyotr's. Christonya gave his horse toStepan to ride, and himself crawled into the cartwith Pyotr. It was midnight when they arrivedat a village. They stopped at the first house, andChristonya asked for a night's shelter.Ignoring the dog snapping at the skirts of hiscoat, he squelched through the mud to the win-100

dow, opened the shutter, and scratched at thepane with a horny fingernail."Master!"Only the whisper of the rain and a peal ofbarking."Master! Good folk, hi! Let us in for thenight, for Christ's sake. Eh? From the trainingcamp. How many? Five of us. Well, Christ saveyou.""Drive in!" he shouted turning to the gate.Bodovskov led the horses in. He stumbledover a pig's trough thrown down in the middleof the yard, and cursed vigorously. They led thehorses into a shed. Tomilin, his teeth chattering,went into the house, Pyotr and Christonya remainedin the cart.At dawn they made ready to set out again.Stepan came out of the house, an old hunchbackedwoman 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 goodfor hanging dogs on, my lad. There's somethingfor all of us," the old woman smiled severely,surprising Christonya with a full row cf smallsound teeth.101

"And what teeth you've got, like a pike! Won'tyou 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'vegot to die one day and they don't look at yourteeth in the next world. The saints aren't horsedealers,you know.""Keep it up, Christonya," Tomilin grinned ashe 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, andwith an unexpectedly strong, masculine movementraised the horse's damaged leg. She feltthe knee-cap carefully with her thin, crookedfingers. The horse set back its ears and rearedon to its hindlegs with the pain."No, there's no break there, Cossack. Leavehim and I'll heal him."Stepan waved his hand and went to the cart."Will you leave him or not?" the old womanwatched him narrowly."Let him stay,"he replied."She'll heal him for you. He won't have anylegs left when you come back. The vet's ahunchback herself," Christonya said boomingwith laughter.W2

XIV"Oh how I long for him, granny dear! I'mwithering away before my own eyes. I can'tput tucks into my skirt fast enough. Every timehe goes past the house my heart burns. I'd fallto 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 furrowsthe old crone Drozdikha looked at Aksinya,shaking her head at the bitterThe old woman chewed away with her toothless"Which lad is"Panteleiit?"Melekhov's.""That's the Turk, isn't"Yes."it?"story.gums, and hesitated with her answer."Come to me very early tomorrow, child, assoon as day is dawning. We'll go down to theDon, to the water. We'll wash away your yearning.Bring a pinch of salt with you."Aksinya wrapped herself in her yellow shawland with drooping shoulders walked outthrough the gate. Her dark figure was swallowedup in the night, and the only sound was of hersandals scraping dryly on the earth. Then hersteps died away. From somewhere at the end103

of the village came sounds of brawling andsinging.At dawn, Aksinya, who had not slept allnight, was at Drozdikha's window."Granny!""Who's there?""It's me, Aksinya! Get up!"They made their way by back lanes downto the river. The abandoned shafts of a wagonlay water-logged near the landing stage. At thewater'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 ownbony hand and drew her to the water."Give me the salt. Cross yourself to thesunrise."Aksinya crossed herself, staring fiercely atthe happy rosiness of the east."Take up some water in your palm anddrink."Aksinya drank, wetting the sleeves of herblouse. Like a black spider the old womanstraddled the lapping waves, squatted down,and began to whisper."Icy streams from the deep. . . . Sorrowingflesh. ... A beast in the heart. . . . Yearning andfever. ... By the holy cross, by the pure andholy Mother. , . . The slave of God, Grigory. .." reached Aksinya's ears.104

Drozdikha sprinkled some salt over the dampsand at her feet and some more into the water,in Aksinya's bosom.then put the rest"Sprinkle some water over your shoulder.Quickly!"Aksinya did so.She stared moodily and angrilyat Drozdikha's russet cheeks."Is that all?""Yes, that's all. Go and sleep."Aksinya ran breathlessly home. The cowswere lowing in the yard. Darya, sleepy-eyedand flushed, was driving her cows off to jointhe village herd. She smiled as she saw Aksinyarun past."Slept well, neighbour?""Praise be!""And where have you been so early?""I had a call to make in the village."The church bells were ringing for matins.The copper-tongued clapping broke apart insplashes of sound. The village herdsman crackedhis stockwhip in the side-street. Aksinyahurriedly drove out the cows, then carried themilk into the porch to strain it. She wiped herhands on her apron, and, lost in thought,poured the milk into the strainer.A heavy rattle of wheels and snorting ofhorses in the street. Aksinya set down the pailand went to look out of the front window.105

.Holding his sabre pommel, Stepan was comingthrough the wicket-gate. The other Cossackswere galloping away towards the villagesquare. Aksinya crumpled her apron in her fingersand sat down on the bench. Steps in theporch. . . . Steps in the passage. . . . Steps at thevery door. . .Stepan stood on the threshold, gaunt andestranged."Well?"Aksinya, all her full, buxom body reeling,went to meet him."Beat me," she said slowly, and turned sidewaystowards him."Well, Aksinya?""I shan't hide. I have sinned. Beat me, StepanI"Her head drawn into her shoulders, crouchingdown and protecting only her belly withher arms, she faced him. Her eyes stared unblinkinglyfrom their dark sockets, out of herdumb, fear-distorted face. Stepan swayed andwalked past her. His unwashed shirt smelledof male sweat and bitter roadside scents. Hedropped on to the bed without removing hiscap. He lay for a moment, then jerked his shoulders,and threw off his sword-belt. His blondusually crisp moustache drooped limply. Notturning her head, Aksinya glanced sidelong at106

him. Now and then she shuddered. Stepan puthis feet on the foot of the bed. The mud slowlyoozed from his boots. He stared at the ceilingand toyed with the leather tassel of his sword."Breakfast ready?".""No. . ."Get me something to eat."He sipped some milk, wetting his moustache.He chewed slowly at the bread. Aksinya stoodby the stove. In burning terror she watched herhusband's little gristly ears rising and fallingas he ate.Stepan rose from the table and crossed himself."Come on, m'dear, tell me about it," he curtlydemanded.With bowed head Aksinya cleared the table.She was silent."Tell me how you waited for your husband,how you guarded his honour. Well?"A terrible blow on the head tore the groundfrom under Aksinya's feet and flung her towardsthe door. Her back struck against thedoor-post, and she groaned dully.Women are weak and soft in the body, butStepan could send lusty and sturdy guardsmenflying with a well-aimed blow on the head. Itmay have been fear that lifted Aksinya, or perhapsit was a woman's will to live-she cam^107

to her senses, lay a moment, resting, thenscrambled on to all fours.Stepan was lighting a cigarette in the middleof the room and did not see her rising to herfeet. He threw his tobacco pouch on the table,but Aksinya had already slammed the door behindher. He chased after her.Her head streaming with blood, Aksinya rantowards the fence separating their yard fromthe Melekhovs'. Stepan overtook her at thefence. His black hand fell like a hawk on herhead. His fingers wound into her hair. He toreat itand threw her to the ground, into the cindersthat Aksinya dumped by the fence everyday.What if a husband does trample his wife withhis boots, his hands behind his back? OnearmedAlexei Shamil walked past the gate,looked in, blinked and parted his bushy littlebeard with a smile; after all it was quite understandablewhy Stepan should be punishing hislawfully-wedded wife. Shamil was tempted tostop to see whether he would beat her to deathor not, but his conscience would not allow him.After all, he wasn't a woman.Watching Stepan from afar, you v/ould havethought he was doing the Cossack dance. Andso Grigory thought, as through the window hesaw Stepan jumping up and down. But he108

looked again, and flew out of the house. Pressinghis heavy fists against his chest, he ran onhis toes to the fence. Pyotr pounded after him.Over the high fence Grigory flew like a bird.He charged Stepan from behind at full speed.Stepan staggered and turning round came atGrigory like a bear.The Melekhov brothers fought desperately.They pecked at Stepan like carrion-crows at acarcass. Grigory went down several times underStepan's rock-like fist. He was not quite amatch for a hardened brawler like Stepan, butthe stocky agile Pyotr, although he bent underthe blows like a reed before the wind, stoodfirmly on hisfeet.Stepan, one eye flashing (the other was turningthe colour of an underripe plum) retreatedtothe steps.Christonya happened to come along to borrowsome harness from Pyotr, and he separatedthem."Stop that!" He waved his arms. "Breakaway, or I'll report it to the ataman."Pyotr carefully spat blood and half a toothinto his palm, and said hoarsely:"Come on, Grigory. We'll get him someother time.""Mind I don't get you!" Stepan threatenedfrom the steps.t09

"All right, all right!""And no 'all right' about it, I'll tear yourgutsout.""Is that serious or joking?"Stepan came swiftly down the steps. Grigorybroke forward to meet him, but pushing himtowards the gate, Christonya promised:"Only dare, and I'll give you a good hiding."From that day onward the hatred betweenthe Melekhovs and Stepan Astakhov drew itselfinto a tight knot. Grigory Melekhov wasfated to untie that knot two years later inEast Prussia, near the town of Stolypin.XV"Tell Pyotr to harness the mare and hisownhorse."Grigory went out into the yard. Pyotr waspushing a wagonette out of the lean-to shed bythe bam."Dad says you've got to harness the mareand your own horse.""I know that without him telling me. Tellhim to mind his own business," Pyotr responded,fixing the shaft-bow. Pantelei, solemn asa churchwarden at mass, although sweating likea bull,sat finishing his soup. Dunya was watch-110

ing Grigory alertly, hiding a girlish twinklesomewhere in the shadowy cool of her long upturnedlashes. Ilyinichna, large and portlyin her lemon-yellow Sunday shawl, a motherlyanxiety lurking at the corners of her lips, saidto the old man:"Stop stuffing yourself, Prokofyevich. Onewould think you were starving.""Won't even let me eat. What a nagger youare, woman."Pyotr's long, wheaten-yellow moustache appearedat the door."Your carriage is ready, if you please!"Dunya burst into a laugh, and hid her facein her sleeve. Darya passed through the kitchenand looked the future bridegroom overwith a flutter of her fine lashes.Ilyinichna's shrewd widow cousin. AuntieVasilisa, was to go with them as match-maker.She was the first to perch herself on the wagonette,twisting and turning her head, laughing,and displaying her crooked black teeth beneaththe pucker of her lips."Don't show your teeth, Vasilisa," Panteleiwarned her. "You'll ruin everything. Thoseteeth of yours look as if they had been on anight out, there's not one that can stand upstraight."///

"Ah, Cousin, I'm not the bridegroom-tobe..". ."Maybe you're not, but don't laugh all thesame. What teeth . . . the colour's enough tomake you sick."Vasilisa took umbrage, but meanwhile Pyotrhad opened the gate. Grigory sorted out thegood-smelling leather reins and jumped intothe driver's seat. Pantelei and Ilyinichna satside by side at the back just like newlyweds."Whip'em up!" shouted Pyotr, letting go thehalter.Grigory bit his lips and lashed the horses.They pulled at the traces and started off withoutwarning."Look out! You'll catch your wheel!" Daryashrilled, but the wagonette swerved sharplyand, bouncing over the roadside hummocks,rattled down the street.Leaning to one side, Grigory touched upPyotr's lagging horse with the whip. His fatherheld his beard in his hand, as thoughafraid that the wind would snatch it away."Whip up the mare!" he cried hoarsely,leaning over Grigory's shoulder. With the lacesleeve of her blouse Ilyinichna wiped awaythe tear that the wind had brought to her eye,and blinked at Grigory's blue satin shirt flutteringand billowing on his back. The Cossacksfl2

along the road stepped aside and stood staringafterthem. The dogs came running out ofthe yards and yelped under the horses' feet.Their barking was drowned in the rumble ofthe freshly-shod wheels.Grigory spared neither whip nor horses,andwithin ten minutes the village was left behind.Korshunov's large house with its plank fencesoon came into view. Grigory pulled on the reins,and the wagonette, breaking off its iron songright in the middle, suddenly drew up at thepainted finely-carved gates.Grigory remained with the horses; Panteleilimped towards the steps. Ilyinichna and Vasilisasailed after him with rustling skirts. Theold man hurried, afraid of losing the couragehe had summoned up during the ride. Hestumbled over the high threshold, knocked hislame leg, and frowning with pain stamped furiouslyup the well-swept steps.He and Ilyinichna entered the kitchen almosttogether. He disliked standing at his wife'sside, as she was taller by a good six inches;so he stepped a pace forward, and removinghis cap, crossed himself before the blackenedicon."Good health to"Praise be!"you!"the master of the house, a stocky,freckled old man replied, rising from the bench.8—1933 113

"Some guests for you, Miron Grigoryevich,"Pantelei continued,"Guests are always welcome. Marya, give thevisitors something to sit on."His elderly, flat-chested wife wiped non-existentdust from three stools, and pushed themtowards the guests. Pantelei sat down on thevery edge of one, and mopped his perspiringbrow with his handkerchief."We've come on business," he began withoutbeating about the bush. At this point Ilyinichnaand Vasilisa, pulling up their skirts, also satdown."By all means. On what business?" the mastersmiled.Grigory entered, stared around him and greetedthe Korshunovs. A deep russet spreadacross Miron's freckled face.Only now did heguess the object of the visit. "Have the horsesbrought into the yard.for them," he ordered his wife.Get some hay put down"We've just a little matter to talk over,"Pantelei went on, twisting his curly beard andtugging at his ear-ring in his agitation. "Youhave a girl unmarried, we have a son. Couldn'twe come to some arrangement? We'd like toknow. Will you give her away now, or not?Mebbe we might become relations?"114

."Who knows?" Miron scratched his baldspot. "I must say, we weren't thinking of givingher in marriage this autumn. We've ourhands full with work here, and she's not sovery old. She's only just past her eighteenthspring. That's right, isn't it, Marya?""That's it.""She's the very age for marriage,"Vasilisaput in. "A girl soon gets too old!" She fidgetedon her stool, prickled by the besom shehad stolen from the porch and thrust under herjacket. Tradition had it that match-makers whostole the girl's besom were never refused."We had proposals for our girl way back inearly spring. Our girl won't be left en theshelf. We can't grumble to the good God. . .She can do everything, in the field or athome ..." Korshunov's wife replied."If a good man were to come along, youwouldn't say no," Pantelei broke into the women'schatter."It isn't a question of saying no,"the masterscratched his head. "We can give her away atany time."Pantelei thought he was going to be refusedand got ruffled."Well, it's your own business, of course. Aman's got his choice, he can ask where he likes.Ifyou're keen on finding some merchant's son,8* 115

or someone of that kind, it's a different matterand we beg your pardon."The negotiations were on the point of breakingdown. Pantelei began to get agitated, andhis face flushed a beetroot red, while the girl'smother clucked like a sitting hen shadowed bya kite. But Vasilisa intervened in the nick oftime. She poured out a flood of quiet, soothingwords, like salt on a burn, and healed thebreach."Now, now, my dears! Once a matter likethis is raised, it needs to be settled decentlyand for the happiness of your child. Natalyanow-why, you might search far in broad daylightand not find another like her! Work bumsin her hands! What a clever young woman!What a housewife! And as for her looks, yousee for yourselves, good folk . .." she openedher plump arms in a generous sweep, turningto Pantelei and the sulky Ilyinichna. "And he'sa husband worthy of any. As I look at him myheart beats with yearning, he's so like my latehusband, and his family are great workers. Askanyone in these parts about Prokofyevich. In allthe world he's known as an honest man and akind one. ... In good faith, do we wish evil toour children?"Her chiding little voice flowed into Pantelei'sears like syrup. He listened and thought admir-116

ingly to himself: "Ah, the smooth-tongued devil,how she talks! Just try to keep up withher! Some women can even dumbfound aCossackwith their words. . . . Andthis from a petticoat!"He was lost in admiration of Vasilisa,who was now oozing praise for the girl and herfamily as far back as the fifth generation."Of course, we don't wish evil to our child.""The point is it's early to give her inmarriage," the master said pacifically, witha smile."It's not early! Honest to God it'sPantelei rejoined."Sooner or later, we have tonot early,"part with her,"the mistress sobbed, half-hypocritically, half inearnest."Call your daughter, Miron Grigoryevich,and let'slook at her.""Natalya!"A girl appeared timidly at the door, her darkfingers fidgeting with the frillof her apron."Come in! Come in! She's shy," the motherencouraged her, smiling through her tears.Grigory looked at her.Bold grey eyes under a black lace scarf. Asmall, rosy dimple in the supple cheek. Grigoryturned his eyes to her hands: they werelarge and marred with hard work. Under theshort green jacket embracing the strong body,117

the small, maidenly firm breasts rose outwardsnaively and pitifully, and their sharp little nipplesshowed like buttons.In a moment Grigory's eyes had taken herall in, from the head to the long, beautiful legs.He looked her over as a horse-dealer surveysa mare before purchase, thought: "She'll do,"then let his eyes meet hers. The simple, sincere,slightly embarrassed gaze seemed to besaying: "Here am I all, as I am. Judge of meas you wish." "Splendid!" Grigory replied withhiseyes and smile."Well, that's all." Her father waved herher smile and her curiosity."Listen, Pantelei Prokofyevich," Korshunovbegan, after exchanging glances with his wife."You talk it over, and we'll talk it over amongthe family. And then we'll decide whether we'llcall it a match or not."As he went down the steps Pantelei slippedin a last word:"We'll call again next Sunday."Korshunov remained deliberately silent,pretendinghe had not heard.out.As she closed the door behind her, Natalyalooked at Grigory without attempting to conceal118

XVIOnly after he learned of Aksinya's conduct fromTomilin did Stepan, nursing his pain and hatredin his soul,realize that despite his poor sort oflife with her he loved her with a dreary, hatefullove. He had lain in the wagon at night, coveredwith his greatcoat, his arms locked behindhis head, and thought of how his wifewould greet him on his return home. It wasas if he had a scorpion in his breast in placeof a heart. As he lay thinking over a thousanddetails of his revenge his teeth felt as if theywere clogged with heavy grains of sand. Thefight with Pyotr had spilled his anger. Whenhe arrived home he had been tired out and Aksinyahad got off lightly.From the day of his homecoming an unseenspectre dwelt in the Astakhovs' house. Aksinyawent about on tiptoe and spoke in whispers,but in her eyes,sprinkled with the ash of fear,lurked a small spark, left from the flame Grigoryhad kindled.As he watched her, Stepan felt rather thansaw this. He tormented himself. At night, whenthe drove of flies had fallen asleep on the crossbeam,and Aksinya, her lips trembling, hadmade the bed, he pressed his horny palmover her mouth and beat her. He demanded119

shameless details of her relations with Grigory.Aksinya tossed about and gasped for breathon the hard bed smelling of sheepskin. Tiredof torturing her dough-soft body, he passedhis hand over her face, seeking for tears. Buther cheeks were bumingly dry, and only herjaws worked under his fingers."Will you tell?""No!""I'll kill you!""Kill me, kill me, for the love of Christ!This isn't life..". .Grinding his teeth, Stepan twisted the fineskin, all damp with sweat, on her breast. Aksinyashuddered and groaned."Does it hurt?" Stepan said jocularly."Yes, ithurts.""Do you think itdidn't hurt me?"It would be late before he fell asleep. In hissleep he clenched his fists. Rising on her elbow,Aksinya would gaze at her husband's face,handsome and changed in slumber, then lether head fall back on the pillow, and whispertoherself.She hardly saw Grigory now. Once she happenedto meet him down by the Don. Grigoryhad been watering the bullocks and was comingup the slope, waving a switch and staringat his feet. Aksinya was going down to the120

Don. She saw him, and felt the yoke of thebuckets turn cold in her hands and the hotblood beat at her temples.Afterwards, when she recalled the meeting, shefound it difficult to convince herself that it hadreally happened. Grigory noticed her when shehad all but passed him. At the insistent creakingof the buckets he raised his head, his eyebrowsquivered and he smiled stupidly. Aksinyagazed straight over his head at the greenwaves of the Don, and beyond at the ridge ofthe sandy headland. A burning flush wrungtears from her eyes."Aksinya!"She walked on several paces and stood withher head bent as though before a blow. Angrilywhipping a lagging bullock, he said withoutturning his head:"When is Stepan going out to cut the rye?""He's getting ready now.""See him off, then go to our sunflower patchand I'll come along after."Her pails creaking, Aksinya went down tothe Don. The foam snaked along the shore,a yellow flare of lace on the green hem of thewave. White sea-gulls were hovering and mewingabove the river. Over the surface of thewater, tiny fish sprinkled in a silver rain. Onthe other side, beyond the white of the sandy121

headland, the grey tops of ancient poplars rosehaughtily and sternly. As Aksinya was drawingwater she dropped her pail. She pulled upher skirt and waded in up to her knees. Thewater tickled her calves, and for the first timesince Stepan's return she laughed quietly anduncertainly.She glanced back at Grigory. Still wavinghis switch, he was slowly climbing the slope.With eyes that were misty with tears Aksinyacaressed his strong legs as they confidentlytrod the ground. His broad sharovari tuckedinto white woollen stockings were gay withcrimson stripes. On his back, over his shoulderblade,fluttered a strip of freshly-torn shirt, anda triangle of swarthy flesh showed through thehole. With her eyes Aksinya kissed this tinyscrap of the beloved body which once had beenhers; and tears fell on her pallid, smiling lips.She set her pails down on the sand to hookthem on to the yoke, and noticed the imprintsof Grigory's shoes. She looked stealthily around:no one in sight except some boys bathingfrom the distant jetty. She squatted down andcovered the footprint with her palm; then rose,swung the yoke across her shoulders, and hastenedhome, smiling to herself.Caught in a muslin mistiness, the sun waspassing over the village.122Beyond the curly flock

of small white clouds spread a deep, cool, azurepasture. Over the burning iron roofs, over thedeserted dusty streets,over the farmyards withtheir parched, yellow grass, hung a deathlysultriness.When Aksinya approached the steps Stepan, ina broad-brimmed straw hat, was harnessing thehorses to the reaping machine. "Pour some waterinto the pitcher."Aksinya poured a pail of water into thepitcher and burned her fingers on the hot ironrim,"You ought to have some ice or the waterwill get warm soon," she said, looking at herhusband's perspiring back."Go and borrow some from the Melekhovs.No, don't go," Stepan shouted, remembering.Aksinya went to shut the wicket-gate. Stepanlowered his eyes and snatched up theknout."Where are you going?""To shut the gate.""Come back, you bitch. I told you not togo."She hurriedly returned to the steps and triedto hang her yoke on the rails, but her handswere trembling too much. The yoke clattereddown the steps.123

Stepan flung his tarpaulin coat over the frontseat, and took up the reins,"Open thegate."As she did so, she ventured to ask: "Whenwill you be back?""By evening. I've agreed to reap with Anikushka.Take the food along to him. He'll becoming out to the fields when he's finished atthesmith's."The wheels of the reaper squeaked as theycarved into the grey plush of the dust. Aksinyawent into the house and stood a moment withher hand pressed to her head, then, flinging akerchief over her hair, ran down to the river."But suppose he comes back? What then?"the thought suddenly burned into her mind.She stopped as though she saw a deep pit ather feet, glanced back, and sped almost at arun along the river bank to the meadows.Fences. Vegetable patches. A yellow sea ofsunflowers outstaring the sun. The pale greenof potato plants. There were the Shamil womenhoeing their potato patch; bowed backs in pinkshifts, hoes rising and falling sharply on thegrey earth. Reaching the Melekhovs' gardenAksinya glanced around, then lifted the wattlehasp and opened the gate. She followed thepath to the green stockade of sunflower stems.Stooping, she pressed into the midst of them,124

smothering her face with golden pollen, thengathered her skirt and sat down on the weedwovenground.She listened: the silence rang in her ears.From somewhere above her came the lonelydrone of a bee. For perhaps half an hour shesat thus, torturing herself with doubt. Wouldhe come? She was about to go, and was adjustingher kerchief, when the gate scrapedheavily."Aksinya!""This way.""So you've come!" Rustling the leaves, Grigoryapproached and sat down at her side."What's that on your cheek?"Aksinya smeared the fragrant golden dustwith her sleeve."Must be from the sunflowers.""There too, under your eye."She brushed it off.Their eyes met. And in reply to Grigory'smute inquiry, she broke into weeping."I can't stand it. . . . I'm lost, Grisha.""What does he do?"Fiercely she tore open the collar of herblouse. The pink, girlishly swelling breasts werecovered with cherry-blue"Don't you know? He beatsHe's sucking my blood. .125bruises.me every day.you're a fine. . And

one. . . . Soiled me like a dog, and off yougo. . . . You're all. . .." She buttoned her blousewith trembling fingers, and, frightened thathe might be offended, glanced at his avertedface."So you're trying to put the blame on me?"he said slowly, biting a blade of grass."And aren't you to blame?" she cried fiercely."A dog doesn't worry an unwilling bitch."Aksinya hid her face in her hands. The insultstruck home like a hard, calculated blow.Grigory frowned and glanced sidelong ather. A tear was trickling between her first andmiddle fingers. A broken dusty sunray gleamedon the transparent drop, and dried itsdamp trace on her skin.Grigory could not endure tears. He fidgetedimpatiently, ruthlessly brushed a brown antfrom his trousers, and glanced again at Aksinya.She hadn't moved; but three runnels oftears were now chasing down the back of herhand."What's the matter? Have I offended you?Aksinya! Now, wait! Stop, I want to say something."She tore her hands from her face. "I camehere to get advice. What did you do itbitter enough as it is. And you. . .126/'for? It's

Grigory flushed with remorse. "Aksinya . . .I didn't mean to say that, don't take on,""I haven't come to fasten myself on you.You needn't be afraid."At that moment she really believed that shehad not come to fasten herself on Grigory, butas she had run along by the Don she hadvaguely thought: "I'll talk him round! He won'tget married. Who else am I to live with?" Thenshe had remembered Stepan and had obstinatelyshaken her head to drive away the troublesomethought."So our love is over?" Grigory asked, andturned on to his stomach, resting on one elbowand spitting out the rosy petals of the bindweedflower he had been chewing."What do you mean-over?" Aksinya tookalarm. "What do you mean?" she insisted, tryingto look into his eyes. There was a gleam ofbluish white as he turned them away.The dry, exhausted earth smelled of dust andsun. The wind rustled among the big greenleaves. For a moment the sun was darkened,overcast with a fleeting cloud; and over thesteppe, over the village, over Aksinya's moodyhead, over the pink cup of the bindweed flower,there fell a smoky shadow.Grigory sighed abruptly and lay on his back,pressing his shoulder-blades into the hot soil.127

"Listen, Aksinya!" he began slowly. "This isrotten somehow. ..". . I've been thinking. . .From the vegetable patch came the creakingsound of a cart, and a woman's voice: "Gee up,baldhead!"To Aksinya the call seemed so close that shedropped flat on the ground. Raising his head,Grigory whispered:"Take your kerchief off. It shows up. . . . Theymight see us."She removed her kerchief. The burning breezewandering among the sunflowers played withwisps of golden down on her neck. The noiseof the cart slowly died away."Well, this is what I've been thinking," Grigorybegan again. Then, more animatedly:"What's done can't be undone. Why try tofix the blame? Somehow we've got to go onliving."Aksinya listened anxiously, breaking a stalkin her hand as she waited. She looked into Grigory'sface and caught the dry and sober glitterof his eyes."I've been thinking, let us put an end to . .Aksinya swayed. Her fingers clawed into thetough bindweed as she waited for the end of thesentence. A fireof terror and impatience avidlylicked her face, her mouth went dry. She thoughthewas about to say,.""put an end to Stepan," but128

impatiently he licked his dry lips (they wereworking fiercely) and said:". . . put an end to this affair. Eh?"Aksinya stood up, and pressing through theswaying, yellow heads of the sunflowers, wenttowards the gate."Aksinya!" Grigory called chokingly.The gate creaked heavily in reply.XVIIImmediately after the rye was cut, and beforeit could be carried to the barns, the wheatripened. In the clayey fields and on theslopes theparched leaves turned yellow and curled up intotubes, and the stalks, having served their purpose,withered.Everybody boasted of the good harvest. Theears were full, the grain heavy and large.After talking the matter over with Ilyinichna,Pantelei decided that if the Korshunovs agreedto the match, the wedding could not take placebefore the 6th of August. He had not yet calledon the Korshunovs for an answer: first the harvestinghad to be done, and then he had waitedfor a holiday.The Melekhovs began reaping on a Friday.Pantelei stripped the wagon and prepared the9—1933 129

underframe for carrying the sheaves. Pyotr andGrigory went to the fields to reap. Pyotr rodeand Grigory walked alongside. Grigory wasmoody, and the muscles worked between hislower jaw and his cheek-bones. Pyotr knew thisto be a sure sign that his brother was seethingand ready for a quarrel, but smiling under hiswheaten moustache, he set to work to tease Grigory."God's truth,she told me herself!""Well, what if she did?" Grigory muttered,chewing a hair of his moustache." 'As I'm on my way back from town,' shesays, 'I hear voices in the Melekhovs' sunflowerpatch.' ""Pyotr, stop it!""Yes, voices. 'And I glance through the".'fence, . .it,Grigory's eyelids quivered. "Will you stopor won't you?""You're a queer lad! Let me finish!""I warn you, Pyotr, we'll be fighting eachother in a minute," Grigory threatened, fallingbehind.Pyotr raised hiseyebrows and turned roundin his seat to face Grigory."'. . .1 glance through the fence, and there Isee them, the two lovers, lying in each other'sarms!' she says. 'Who?' I asked, and she an-130

swers: "Why, Aksinya and your brother.' Isay"Seizing the handle of a pitchfork lying at theback of the reaper, Grigory flung himself at hisbrother, Pyotr dropped the reins, leapt fromhis seat, and dodged in front of the horses."Pah, the devil!" he exclaimed. "He's gone."mad! Pah! Just look at him. . .Baring his teeth like a wolf, Grigory threwthe pitchfork at his brother. Pyotr dropped tchis hands and knees, and flying over him thepitchfork buried its points a couple of inchesinto the earth and stuck upright, whanging andquivering.Scowling, Pyotr caught at the bridles of thestartled horses and swore lustily: "You mighthave killed me, you swine!""Yes, and I would have killed you!""You're a fool, a mad devil. You're yourfather's son all right, a true Turk."Grigory pulled the pitchfork out of theground and followed after the reaping machine.Pyotr beckoned to him with his finger."Come here! Give me that pitchfork."He passed the reins into his left hand, andtook the pitchfork by the prongs. Then withthe handle he struck Grigory across the back."Ought to have taken a better swing," hegrumbled, keeping his eyes on Grigory, who9* 131

had leaped away. After a moment or two theylit cigarettes, stared into each other's eyes andburst out laughing.Christonya's wife, who was driving homealong another road, had seen Grigory attackhis brother. She stood up in her wagon butcould not see what happened, for the Melekhovs'reaping machine and horses were betweenher and the brothers. Hardly had shereached the village street when she cried toa neighbour:"Klimovna! Run and tell Prokofyevich theTurk that his boys have been fighting withpitchforks close to the Tatar mound. Grigoryjabbed Pyotr in the side with the fork, andthen Pyotr gave him. . . . The blood poured out.It was horrible!"Pyotr had grown hoarse with bawling at thetired horses and was whistling instead, Grigory,his dust-blackened foot resting on the transom,was pitchforking the swathes off the reaper.The horses, bitten raw by the flies, swishedtheir tails and pulled unwillingly. Reaping wasin progress all over the steppe. The blades ofthe machines rattled and groaned, the steppewas dotted with swathes of corn. Mimicking thedrivers, the marmots whistled on the hillocks."Two more lengths, and we'll stop for asmoke!" Pyotr shouted above the noise of the132

machine. Grigory nodded. He could hardly openhis parched lips. He gripped his pitchfork closerto the prongs in order to get a better leverageon the heavy swathes, and breathed spasmodically.His dripping chest itched fromsweat. From under his hat it poured down hisface and stung his eyes like soap. Halting thehorses, they had adrink and a smoke."There's someone riding a horse pretty hardalong the road," Pyotr remarked, shading hiseyes with hispalm.Grigory stared, and raised his eyebrows inastonishment."It looks like Father.""You're mad! What could he be riding?We've got both horses here.""It's him! God's truth, it's Father."The rider drew nearer, and after a momenthe could be seen clearly. "Yes, it's Father!"Pyotr stamped about in anxious surprise."Something's happened at home," Grigorygave expression to the thought troubling themboth.When still a hundred yards away, Panteleireined his horse in. "I'll thrash you, you sonsof a bitch!" he yelled, waving his leather whipabove his head."What on earth...!" Pyotr was completely133

flabbergasted, and thrust half his moustacheinto his mouth."Get on the other side of the reaper! ByGod, he'll lash us with that knout. While we'regetting to the bottom of this business, he'llwhip our guts out," Grigory said with a grin,putting the machine between himself and hisfather.The foaming horse came over the swathes ofcorn at a lumbering trot. His feet knockingagainst the horse's sides (for he was ridingbareback), Pantelei shook his whip: "Whathave you been up to out here, you children ofthe devil?""We've been reaping," Pyotr swept his armsaround, nervously eyeing the whip."Who's been sticking who with the fork?What have you been fighting about?"Turning his back on his father, Grigory begancounting the clouds in a whisper."What fork? Who's been fighting?" Pyotrlooked his father up and down."Why, she came running to me, the daughterof a hen, shrieking: 'Your boys have stuck eachother with pitchforks.' What do you say tothat?" Pantelei shook his head excitedly and,dropping the reins, jumped off his horse. "Igrabbed a horse and came out at a gallop.Well?"134

"Who told you all this?""A woman!""She was lying. Father. She must have beenasleep in her wagon and dreamed it.""Women!" Pantelei half-shouted, half-whistled,slobbering down his beard. "That whoreof Klimov's! My God! I'll whip the bitch!" hedanced with rage.Shaking with silent laughter, Grigory staredat the ground. Pyotr, keeping his eyes fixed onhis father, stroked his perspiring brow.Pantelei danced to his heart's content, andthen calmed down. He took the seat of the reapingmachine and reaped a couple of lengths,then mounted his horse and rode back to thevillage, leaving his whip forgotten on theground. Pyotr picked it up and swung it appraisinglyremarking to his brother:"We'd have had a bad time, young man.This isn't a whip! It would have maimed you.Brother, It could cut your head clean off."XVIIIThe Korshunovs had the reputation of beingthe richest family in the village of Tatarsky.They had fourteen pairs of bullocks, as well ashorses, mares from the Provalsk stud farm,fifteen cows, innumerable other cattle, and a135

flock of several hundred sheep. Their housewith its six rooms and iron roof was as goodas that of Mokhov the merchant. The outhouseswere roofed with new and handsome tiles.The garden and meadow covered a good threeacres. What more could a man want?So it was rather timidly and with secret reluctancethat Pantelei had paid his first visit tothe Korshunovs to propose the match. TheKorshunovs could find a much richer husbandthan Grigory for their daughter. Pantelei knewthis and was afraid of a refusal. He did not liketo go begging to Korshunov, but Ilyinichnagnawed into him like rust into iron, and at lastshe overcame the old man's obstinacy. Sofinallyhe had visited the Korshunovs, heartilycursing Grigory and Ilyinichna and the wholewide world. Now it was time to go for an answer.They were only waiting for Sunday.Meanwhile, under the painted iron roof ofthe Korshunovs' house burning dissension hadarisen. After the Melekhovs' departure Natalyadeclared to her mother:"I like Grigory, I'll never wed another.""She's found herself a bridegroom, the idiot,"her father replied. "The only good thing abouthim is that he's as black as a gypsy. My littleberry, I could find you a much better husband.""1 don't want any other. Father." The girl136

flushed and began to weep. "You can take metothe convent otherwise.""He's a woman-chaser, he runs after soldiers'wives. The whole village knows it," herfather played his last card."Well, and let him!""Well, if it's 'let him' for you, then it's allthe same to me."Natalya, the eldest daughter, was her father'sfavourite, and he had not pressed her intoa marriage. Proposals for her hand had beenplentiful, some coming from distant villages,from rich, old-believer Cossacks. But Natalyahad not taken to any of the prospective bridegrooms,and nothing had come of their efforts.In his heart, Miron liked Grigory for his Cossackardour, his love of farming and hard work.He had picked him out among the crowd ofvillage youths when Grigory had won the firstprize in the horse races, but he thought it alittle humiliating to give his daughter to a manwho was not rich, especially one who had a badreputation."A hard-working lad and good-looking," hiswife would whisper to him at night, stroking."his freckled, hairy hand. "And Natalya is reallygone on him. . .Miron turned his back on his wife's cold,withered breast, and shouted angrily:137

"Get off, you burr! Marry her off to an idiot,what do I care? God has taken away your reason.Good-looking!" he mimicked. "Will youreap a harvest off his face?""Harvests aren't everything. . ."What does it matter about his looks? If onlyhe had some standing. I must admit it's a bitof a come-down for me to give my daughter tothe Turks.""They're a hard-working family and comfortablyoff," his wife whispered, and movingcloser to her husband's broad back, stroked hishand soothingly."Hey, the devil! Get away, can't you? Leaveme a little room! Why are you stroking me asif I were a cow with calf? And do as you pleasewith Natalya. Marry her to a close-cropped girlif that suits you.""You should have some feeling for yourchild," she murmured into his ear. But Mironkicked, pressed himself against the walland began to snore as though he had fallenasleep.The Melekhovs' arrival for an answer tookthe Korshunovs by surprise. They came justafter matins. As Ilyinichna set her foot on thestep of the wagonette she nearly overturned it,but Pantelei jumped down from the seat likea young cockerel.13S."

"There they are! What devil brought themhere today?" Miron groaned, as he looked outof the window."Oh dear, here I am just out of the kitchen.Haven't even had a chance to change my everydayskirt.""You'll do as you are. Nobody's thinking ofmarrying you, who wants you, you horsemange!""You're a born ruffian and you've completelylost your senses in your old age.""Hold your tongue, woman!""You might put on a clean shirt, your backbone'sshowing through that one. Aren't youashamed, you old devil?" his wife scolded, surveyingher husband as the visitors walkedacross the yard."Don't worry, they'll recognize me in whatI'm wearing. They wouldn't refuse if I put onsackcloth.""Good health!" Pantelei crowed, stumblingover the door-step. He was at once abashed bythe loudness of his own voice, and tried tomend matters by crossing himself twice overbefore the icon."Good-day," Miron replied, staring at themgrimly."God is giving us good weather.""Praise be, and it's lasting."139

"The people will be a little"That'sso."better off for it.""Ye-e-es.""Ahem.""And so we've come, Miron Grigoryevich,to find out what you have decided among yourselves-whetherwe are to make a match of itor not.""Come in, please. Sit down, please," themistress of the house welcomed them, bowingand sweeping the floor with the edge of herlong, pleated skirt.Ilyinichna sat down, her poplin dress rustling.Miron Grigoryevich rested his elbows onthe new oilcloth on the table, and was silent.An unpleasant smell of damp rubber and somethingelse came from the oilcloth. Its cornerswere adorned with pictures of the last tsarand tsaritsa, while in the centre were theaugust imperial princesses in white hats, andthe fly-blown Tsar Nicholas II.Miron broke the silence."Well . . . we've decided to give our daughter.So we shall be kinsmen if we can agree onthe dowry."At this point, from somewhere in themysterious depths of her glossy, puff-sleevedjacket, as if from behind her back, Ilyinichnadrew out a great loaf of white bread and placed140

it on the table. For some unknown reasonPantelei wanted to cross himself, but hisgnarled claw-like fingers, though set to theappropriate sign and raised half the requisitedistance, suddenly changed their form. Againstits master's will the great black thumb slippedunexpectedly between the index and middlefingers, and this shameless bunch of fingersstealthily slipped behind the open edge of hisblue overcoat and drev/ out a red-topped bottle.Blinking excitedly, Pantelei glanced atMiron's freckled face and caressingly slappedthe bottom of the bottle with his broad, hooflikepalm."And now, dear friends, we'll offer up aprayer to God and drink and talk of ourchildren and the marriage agreement," he proposed.Within an hour the two men were sitting soclose together that the tar-black rings of Melekhov'sbeard were mingled with the straightred strands of Korshunov's. Pantelei's breathsmelt of pickled cucumbers as he arguedover the amount of the marriage settlement."My dear kinsman," he began in a hoarsewhisper. "My dearest kinsman," he repeated,raising his voice to a shout. "Kinsman," heroared, baring his great, blunt teeth. "Yourdemands are far too heavy for me to stand.Ml

Think, dear kinsman, think how you are tryingto rob me. Gaiters and goloshes, one; a furcoat, two; two woollen dresses, three; a silkkerchief, four. Why, it's ruination!"Pantelei stretched his arms wide till theseams of his tunic split. Miron lowered hishead and stared at the oilcloth, flooded withspilt vodka and pickle. He read the inscriptionon the flowery scroll at the top. "The RussianRoyal Family." He brought his eyes lower."His Imperial Majesty and Sire, EmperorNicholas. ..." A potato-skin lay over the rest.He stared at the picture. The emperor's featureswere invisible under an empty vodka bottle.Blinking reverently, Miron attempted to makeout the style of the rich uniform with itswhitebelt, but it was thickly covered with slipperycucumber seeds. The empress in a broadbrimmedhat stared up at him complacently,surrounded by the circle of insipid daughters.Miron felt so affronted that tears almost cameto his eyes. "You look very proud now, like agoose staring out of a basket, but wait till youhave to give your daughters away to bemarried, then I shall stare, and you'll flutter,"hethought.Pantelei droned on into his ear like a greatblack bumble-bee. Korshunov raised his tearfullymisty eyes, and listened.142

"In order to make such a gift in exchangefor your, and now we can say our, daughterthesegaiters and goloshes and fur coats-weshall have to drive a cow to the market and sellit.""And do you begrudge it?" Miron struckthe table with hisfist."It isn't that I begrudge it. . ."Do you begrudge it?""Wait, kinsman!""And if you do begrudge it . . . the deviltake you!" Miron swept his perspiring handover the table and sent the glasses to the floor."It will be your daughter who'll work for it.""Let her! But you must give the properpresents, otherwise there'll be no marriage!""A cow sold from the yard!" Pantelei shookhis head."There has to be a gift. She's got plenty ofclothes of her own, it's me you've got to showrespect for if you've taken a fancy to her. That'sour Cossack custom. That's how it was of old,and we stick to the old ways.""I will show my respect!""Show your respect!""I will show it!""And let the youngsters work. We've worked,and we live as well as anybody. Let them dothe same!"143."

The two men's beards wove together colourfully.They kissed and Pantelei began to eat ajuiceless, shrivelled cucumber and wept withmixed, conflictingfeelings.The women were sitting locked in an embraceon the chest, deafening each other with thecackle of their voices. Ilyinichna glowed with acherry-coloured flush, Marya had turned greenfrom the vodka, like a winter pear nipped bythe frost."You won't find a child like her anywhereelse in the world. She'll be dutiful and obedient,and will never say a word to contradict you,"said Marya."My dear," Ilyinichna interrupted her, supportingher cheek with her left hand and holdingher left elbow in her right hand, "so I'vetold him, I don't know how many times, theson of a bitch. He was getting ready to go outthe other Sunday evening, putting sometobacco in his pouch, and I said to him, 'Whenwill you throw her over, you accursed heathen?How long have I got to go on standing thisshame in my old age? That Stepan will stopyour little game one fine day!' "Mitka stared into the room through thedoor crack, and below him Natalya's twoyounger sisters whispered to each other.Natalya herself was sitting in the farther room,144

wiping her tears on the tight sleeve of herblouse. She was afraid of the new life openingbefore her, oppressed by the unknown.In the front room the third bottle of vodkawas finished; it was decided to bring the brideand bridegroom together on the first of August.XIXThe Korshunovs' house hummed likea beehivewith the bustle of preparations for thewedding. Underclothes were hurriedly sewnfor the bride. Natalya sat every evening knittingher bridegroom the traditional gloves andscarf of goat's wool. Her mother sat till duskbent over a sev/ing-machine, helping the hiredseamstress. When Mitka returned with hisfather and the farm-hands from the fields hedid not stop to wash or pull off his heavy farmingboots, but went to keep Natalya company.He found great satisfaction in teasing hissister.at"Knitting?" he would ask briefly, noddingthe scarf."Yes, what of it?""Knit away, you idiot. Instead of beinggrateful to you, he'll break your jaw.""What for?"10—1933 tdfi

"Oh, I know Grisha, he's a friend of mine.He's that sort, he'll bite and not say what it'sfor.""Don't tell lies. You think I don't knowhim.""But I know him better. We went to schooltogether." Mitka would simulate a deep sigh,look at his scratched hands and bend his longback."You'll be lost, Natalya, if you marry him.Better stay an old maid. What do you see inhim anyhow? He's ugly enough to scare ahorse. Stupid too. Just look at him a bit closer:he's a lousy fellow."Natalya would grow angry, choke back hertears, and bend a miserable face over the scarf."But worst of all he's in love," Mitka wenton mercilessly. "What are you grizzling for?You're a fool, Natalya! Throw him over! I'llsaddle the horse and ride over and tell."them. . .Natalya was rescued from Mitka by GrandfatherGrishaka, who would come into theroom, groping over the floor with his knobblystick and stroking his hempen-yellow beard.Poking his stick into Mitka's side, he wouldask:"What are you doing here, you good-fornothing,huh?"146

"I came to pay a visit. Grandad/' Mitkawould reply apologetically."To pay a visit? Well, I tell you to get out ofhere. Quick march!" The old man would lifthis stick and approach Mitka on his shakywithered legs.Grandad Grishaka had walked the earthfor sixty-nine years. He had taken part in theTurkish campaign of 1877, had been orderlyto General Gurko, but had fallen into disfavourand been sent back to his regiment. Hehad been awarded two crosses and the medalof St. George for distinction under fire atPlevna and Rossitz. And now, living with hisson, enjoying the universal respect of the villagefor his lucidity of mind, his incorruptiblehonesty and his hospitable ways, he wasspending his few remaining years in reminiscences.In the summer he sat from dawn till duskon the earthen bank round the house, his headbowed, drawing his stick over the ground,while vague images and scraps of thoughtfloated through his mind, dull gleams ofmemory amid the shadows of forgetfulness.The broken peak of his cap threw a dark shadeover his closed eyes. The black blood flowedsluggishly through the fingers curved over hisstick, through the swollen veins on his hands.10* 147

His blood seemed to grow colder every year.He would complain to Natalya, his favouritegrand-daughter:"These socks are woollen, but they're notwarm enough. You'd better crochet ame, child.""But it'spair forsummer. Grandad!" Natalya wouldlaugh, and, seating herself on the bank by hisside, would look at his big wrinkled yellowear."What of it, child? It's summer, but myblood is as cold as the earth deep below."Natalya looked at the network of veins onhis hand and her mind flashed back to a dayin her childhood. A well was being sunk in theiryard, and she-still only a littlegirl-was takingclay out of the bucket and making heavy dolls,and cows with crumbling horns. She vividlyrecalled the feel of the lifeless icy earth, liftedup from a depth of thirty-five feet. And now,frightened, she stared at her grandfather'shands, covered with the brown clay-colouredfreckles of old age. It seemed to her that dark,clayey earth was flowing in his veins insteadof bright scarlet blood."Are you afraid to die. Grandad?" Natalyawould ask.The old man twisted his withered neck asthough working it free of the stiff collar of his148

uniform coat, and shook his greenish-greywhiskers."I wait for death as I would for a dear guest.It's time-I've lived my days, I've served mytsars,and drunk vodka enough in my day," hereplied showing his white teeth in a smile, hiswithered lids quivering.Natalya would stroke her grandfather'shand and leave him, still bowed, sittinghunched on the bank in his patched grey uniform,scraping the earth with his stick, whilethe bright red tabs twinkled gaily and youthfullyin his stiff upright collar.He took the news of Natalya's approachingmarriage with outward calm, but inwardly hegrieved and was furious. At table Natalyaalways gave him the choicest pieces; shewashed his linen, mended and knitted hisstockings, his sharouari and shirts. And so,when the old man heard the news he gave herharsh, stern looks for a couple of days."The Melekhovs are good Cossacks. Thelate Prokofy, a fine Cossack he was. But whatare his grandsons like? Huh?" he asked Miron."They're not so bad," Miron replied evasively."That Grigory's a disrespectful lad. I wascoming from church the other day and hepassed me without a word of greeting. The old."men don't get much respect these days. , .149

:"He's a nice lad," Lukinichna put in a wordfor her future son-in-law."Nice, you say? Oh well, so long as Natalyalikes him..". .He took almost no part in the negotiations;he came out of the kitchen and sat down atthe table for a moment or two, drank a glassof vodka, and then, feeling himself gettingdrunk, went off again. For two days he silentlywatched the happy Natalya, then seemed tosoften in hisattitude."Natalya!" he called to her. "Well, my littlegrand-daughter, so you're very happy, huh?""I don't rightly know myself. Grandad,"Natalya confided."Well, well! Christ be with you. God. . .grant. . .." And then he bitterly upbraided her."Couldn't you have waited till I was dead, youlittle brat my life will be bitter withoutyou."Mitka was listening to their talk, and heremarked"You're likely tolive another hundred years.Grandfather. Is she to wait all that time? You'rea fine one!"The old man turned almost purple withanger. He rapped on the ground with his stickand feet:150

"Clear off, you son of a bitch! Clear off, I say!You devil's demon! Who told you to listen?"Mitka ran out into the yard laughing.Old Grishaka raged for a long time after,cursing Mitka; his legs in their short woollenstockings trembled at the knees.Natalya's two little sisters-Marisha, a girlof twelve, and Grippa, an eight-year-old impwaitedimpatiently for the wedding.The farm-hands employed by Korshunovwere also quite pleased. They expected a lavishtreat from their master and several days off.One of them-tall as a crane-a Ukrainianwith the outlandish name of Het-Baba-went ona drinking spree about once every six months.He would drink away all his clothes as well ashis wages. Although he had felt the familiarurge for a long time already, he had forcedhimself to delay the start of the drinking boutuntil the wedding.The second farm-hand-a thin swarthy Cossack,named Mikhei, had been with the Korshunovsonly a short time. Ruined by a fire, hehad become a labourer. Having struck up afriendship with Het-Baba he gradually tookto drink. He was a great lover of horses. Whenhe was drunk he would weep, his angular,browless face smeared with tears, and pesterMiron Grigoryevich:I5t

"Master! Dear master! When you give yourdaughter away let me drive her horses. I'llshow them some driving! I'll drive her throughfire, and not a single hair on the horses will beburned. I myself once had horses. Oh. ..".The grim, unsociable Het-Baba for somereason or other became attached to Mikheiand constantly tormented him with the sameold joke about the name of his native village.He would always laugh hoarsely at his ownstale joke and slap his long, dry shanks.Mikhei would look disgustedly at Het-Baba'sclean-shaven face and quivering Adam's apple,and curse him.The wedding was to take place on the firstday after Lent. Three weeks remained. On theDay of the Assumption Grigory came to visithis future bride. He sat at the round table inthe best room, eating sunflower seeds and nutswith the bride's girl-friends, then drove awayagain. Natalya saw him off. In the lean-to shed,where his horse was standing saddled with asmart new saddle, she slipped her hand intoher breast, and blushing, gazing at him witheyes that expressed her love, she thrust a softlittle bundle, warm from her breast, into hishand. As he took the gift Grigory dazzled herwith the whiteness of his wolfish teeth, andasked:i52

"What isit?""You'll see. . . . I've embroidered you atobacco pouch."Grigory irresolutely drew her towards him,wanting to kiss her; but she held him off forciblywith her hands against his chest, leanedaway from him, and turned her eyes apprehensivelytowards 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 hisfoot, seated himself comfortably in the saddleand rode out of the yard. She opened the gate,and stood gazing after him. Grigory leanedover to the left in his saddle, Kalmyk fashion,waving his whip with a flourish."Eleven more days," Natalya thought toherself and sighed and smiled.XXThe green, sharp-leafed wheat breaks throughthe ground and grows; within a few weeks arook can fly into its midst and not be seen. Thecom sucks the juices from the earth and comesto ear, then it flowers and the ears are pow-153

dered with a golden dust; the grain swells withsweet and scented milk. The farmer goes outinto the steppe and stands gazing and is filledwith joy. But then a herd of cattle stray intothe corn; they tread the laden grain into theRound patches of crushed wheat are leftglebe.where the cattle have lain; the farmer growsbitter and desperate at the sight.So with Aksinya. Grigory had trampled herfeelings that had ripened to golden flower withhis heavy, raw-hide sandals. He had sulliedthem, burned them to ash-and that was all.As she came back from the Melekhovs'sunflower patch Aksinya's spirit grew emptyand wild, like a deserted farmyard overgrownwith goose-grass and scrub. She walked alongchewing the ends of her kerchief, and a cryswelled her throat. She entered the house andfell to the floor, choking with tears, with torment,with the dreary emptiness that lashedthrough her head. But then it passed. The piercinganguish was drawn down and exhausted atthe bottom of her heart.The grain trampled by the cattle standsagain. With the dew and the sun the troddenstalks arise; at first, bowed like a man undera too heavy burden, then erect, lifting theirheads; and the day is day again and the windstillblows.154

At night, as she passionately caressed herhusband, Aksinya thought of another, andhatred was mingled with a great love in herheart. The woman was planning freshdishonour, fresh shame; she had made upher mind to take Grigory from the happyNatalya, who had known neither the bitternessnor the joy of love. She lay thinking over herplans at night, her dry eyes blinking in thedarkness. Stepan's handsome head lay heavilyon her right arm, his long wavy forelock awry.He breathed through his half-opened lips, hisblack, toil-roughened fingers caressing hiswife's breast in forgetfulness. Aksinya laythinking and planning, but only one thing couldshe resolve firmly: she would take Grigory fromeverybody else,she would flood him with love,she would possess him as before she hadpossessed him. But at the bottom of her hearta deep pain, like the sting left by a bee, remained.During the day Aksinya drowned herthoughts in household duties and cares. Shemet Grigory occasionally, and would turn pale,proudly carrying her beautiful body thatyearned so much for him, gazing shamelessly,challengingly into the black wilderness of hiseyes.155

:After each meeting Grigory was seized withyearning for her. He grew angry without cause,and poured out his wrath on Dunya and hismother, but most frequently he took his sabre,went out into the backyard and slashed awayat stout twigs planted in the ground until hewas bathed in perspiration. It made Panteleicurse"The lousy devil, he's chopped up enoughfor a couple of fences. Go into the woods, ifyou must chop away. You wait, my lad! Whenyou're called up for service, you'll have thechance to do it. That'll soon take it out of you!"XXIFour gaily-decorated two-horse wagonetteswere to drive to fetch the bride. A crowdof village folk in holiday attire throngedaround them as they stood in the Melekhovs'yard.Pyotr was the bestman. He was dressed ina black frock-coat and blue striped trousers,his left arm was bound with two white kerchiefs,and he wore a fixed scornful smile underhis wheaten whiskers."Don't be shy, Grigory!" he said to hisbrother. "Hold your head up like a youngcock, don't get sulky!"156

Darya, as slender and supple as a willowbranch, attired in a woollen, raspberry-colouredskirt, twitched the pencilled arches of herbrows and gave Pyotr a nudge:"Tell Father it's time we were off. They'rewaiting for us.""Take your places," Pyotr ordered, after awhispered consultation with his father. "Onmy wagon, five and the bridegroom." Theyclimbed into the wagonettes. Flushed andtriumphant, Ilyinichna opened the gates. Thefour wagonettes chased after one another alongthe street.Pyotr sat at Grigory's side. Opposite themDarya waved a lace handkerchief. The rutsand bumps interi*upted the voices that hadstruck up a song. The crimson bands of theCossack caps, the blue and black uniformsand frock-coats, the sleeves bound with whitekerchiefs, the scattered rainbow of the women'skerchiefs, the gay skirts, and muslin trains ofdust behind each wagonette made a colourfulpicture.Grigory's second cousin, Anikei, drove thebridegroom's wagonette. Leaning forward overthe tails of the horses, almost falling off hisseat, he cracked his whip and whistled, andthe perspiring horses pulled harder at thetautenedtraces.757

"Give it to 'em/' roared Pyotr.The moustacheless hawk-like Anikei winkedat Grigory, wrinkled his hairless womanishface into a thin smile, gave a whistle andbelaboured the horses with his whip."Make way!" Ilya Ozhogin, the bridegroom'suncle on his mother's side, roared ashe tried to overtake them with the secondwagonette. Grigory recognized Dunya's sunburntface behind his uncle's back."No, you don't!" Anikei shouted, jumpingto his feet and emitting a piercing whistle. Hewhipped up the horses into a frenzied gallop."You'll fall!" Darya exclaimed, encirclingAnikei's patent leather top-boots with her arms."Hold on!" Uncle Ilya called at their side, buthis voice was lost in the continual groan andrattle of the wheels.The two other wagonettes, tightly packedwith whooping men and women, drove alongside by side. The horses with red, blue, andpink cloths on their backs, paper flowers andribbons woven into their manes and forelocks,and bells on their harness, tore over the bumpyroad, scattering flakes of soapy foam, and thecloths on their wet, lathered backs flapped andbillowed in the wind.At the Korshunovs' gate a horde of villagelads was on the look-out for the cavalcade.158

They saw the dust rising from the road andran into the yard bawling:"They're coming!" "Here they are!" Theysurrounded Het-Baba who had just come out."Why the crowd? Get away, you littledevils.What a noise you make! I can't hear myselfspeak."The children jumped around Het-Baba'swide baggy sharouari, shouting and pokingfun at the Ukrainian. Het-Baba, his head bentas if he were peeping into a deep well, lookeddown at the frenzied children and scratchedhis firm long belly with an indulgent smile.The wagonettes came rattling up to the gate.Pyotr led Grigory to the steps, the othersfollowed behind.The door from the porch to the kitchen wasshut fast. Pyotr knocked."Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us!" heintoned."Amen!" came from the other side of thedoor.Pyotr repeated the words and the knockthree times, each time receiving the sameanswer."May we come in?""You are welcome."The door was thrown open. The parents' representative,Natalya's godmother, a good-159

looking widow, greeted Pyotr with a curtseyand a thin raspberry-lipped smile. "Take thisfor your health's sake, best man!" she said,handing him a glass of cloudy, over-freshkvass. Pyotr smoothed his whiskers, drank itdown, and spluttered amid a general restrainedlaugh: "Well, you've made me welcome! Youwait, my blackberry, wait till I treat you. I'llmake you pay for it."While the best man and Natalya's godmotherwere competing in a duel of wits, the relativesof the bridegroom were brought three glassesof vodka each, in accordance with the marriageagreement.Natalya, already attired in her weddingdress and veil, sat at the table, guarded by hertwo sisters. Marishka held a rolling pin in heroutstretched hand, and Grippa, a challengingfervour in her eyes, brandished a mixing spoon.Sweating, and slightlytipsy with vodka, Pyotrbowed and offered them a fifty-kopeck piece inhis glass. But Marishka struck the table withher rolling pin,"Not enough! We shan't sell the bride!"Once more Pyotr offered them some smallsilver in the glass:"We won't let you have her!" the sistersraged, elbowing the downcast Natalya.160

"Here, what's all this? We've already paidand overpaid.""Give way, girls!" Miron ordered, andHis ruddysmilingly pressed towards the table.hair, smeared with melted butter, smelt ofsweat and dung. At this signal the bride's relativesand friends seated round the tablestood up and made room for the newcomers.Pyotr thrust the end of a handkerchief intoGrigory's hand, jumped on to a bench, andled him to the bride, who had seated herselfunder the icons. Natalya took the other end ofthe handkerchief in her moist and agitated hand.There was a champing of teeth around thetable. The guests tore the boiled chicken apartwith their hands, afterwards wiping them ontheir hair. As Anikei chewed at a breast bonethe yellow fat ran down his bare chin on tohiscollar.Feeling sorry for himself, Grigory staredfirst at his own and Natalya's spoons tiedtogether in the handkerchief, then at the noodlessteaming in a bowl. He badly wanted toeat; his stomach was rolling over with hunger.Dar^'^a was helping herself. Uncle Ilya whosat next to her, nibbling at a rib of muttonwith his large teeth, was evidently whisperingimproprieties to her, for she screwed up hereyes and lifted her brows, blushing and giggling.11—1933 161

The guests ate long and heartily. The reekof resinous masculine sweat mingled with themore caustic and spicy scent of the women. Theskirts, frock-coats and shawls that had for longbeen packed away in chests, smelled of mothballsand something else, heavy and cloying,like an old woman's much-used honey pot.Grigory glanced sidelong at Natalya. Andfor the first time he noticed that her upper lipwas swollen, and hung like the peak of a capover her underlip. He also noticed that on theright cheek, below the cheek-bone, was abrown mole, and that two golden hairs weregrowing out of the mole; and for some reasonthis irritated him. He recalled Aksinya's slenderneck with its curly, fluffy locks, and he hadthe feeling that someone had dropped ahandful of prickly hay down his sweating back.He bristled, and with a suppressed feeling ofwretchedness watched the others munching,chewing and smacking their lips.When they got up from the table someone,breathing stewed fruit-juice and the sourscent of wheaten bread over him, poured ahandful of millet down the leg of his boot inorder to protect him against the evil eye. Allthe way back to his own house the millet hurthis feet; the tight collar band of his shirt162

choked him, and under the depressing influenceof the marriage rites, in a cold, desperate furyGrigory muttered curses to himself.XXIIBy the time they reached the Melekhovs'yard, the horses, though they had rested a bitat the Korshunovs, were exhausted. Theirharnesses were spattered with foam. But thedrunken drivers urged them on ruthlessly.The procession was met by the old Melekhovs.Pantelei, his silver-inlaid black beardglistening, held the icon, and his wife stoodat his side, her thin lips set stonily.Amid a shower of hops and wheat grainGrigory and Natalya approached them toreceive their blessing. As he blessed them atear ran down Pantelei's face, and he frownedand fidgeted, annoyed that anyone should bewitness of his frailty.The bride and bridegroom went into thehouse. Darya, red from the vodka, the ride, andthe sun, dashed out on to the steps and pouncedon Dunya."Where's Pyotr?""I haven't seen him!""He ought to go for the priest, and he'snowhere to be found, curse him!"11* 163

She found Pyotr, who had drunk more vodkathan was good for him, lying in a cart, groaning.She swooped on him like a kite. "You'vehad too much, you heathen! Get up and run forthepriest!""Clear off! I don't know you. Who are youordering about?" Pyotr protested, scrabblingabout in the straw and fowls' dung.With tears in her eyes Darya thrust twofingers into his mouth, gripped his lollingtongue, and helped him to ease himself. Thenshe poured a pitcher of cold well-water overhis head, wiped him dry with the horse blanketand took him to the priest.Less than an hour later Grigory was standingat Natalya's side in the church, clutchinga wax candle in his hand, his eyes wanderingover the wall of whispering people round him,and repeating to himself four words that wouldnot leave his head: "You've had your fling!"Behind him the puffy-faced Pyotr coughed.Somewhere in the crowd he saw Dunya's eyestwinkling; he thought he recognized otherfaces. He heard the dissonant chorus of voicesand the droning responses of the deacon. Hewas fettered with apathy. He followed FatherVissarion round the lectern, treading on theheels of the priest's battered boots; he haltedwhen Pyotr gave a gentle tug at his frock-coat.164

He stared at the flickering little tongues ofcandleflame, and struggled with the sleepy torporwhich 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'sglance. And the corners of Pyotr's lips twitched,stifling a smile. "Soon now." Then Grigorykissed his wife's moist, insipid lipsthree times,the church began to smell foully of extinguishedcandles, and the crowd pressed towards the door.Holding Natalya's large, rough hand in his,Grigory went out into the porch. Someoneclapped his hat on his head. A warm breezefrom the east brought the scent of wormwoodto his nostrils. The cool of evening came fromthe steppe. Lightning flickered beyond theDon, rain was coming; outside the whitechurch fence, above the hum of voices he heardthe gentle inviting tinkle of the bells on therestive horses.xxniThe Korshunovs did not arrive at theMelekhovs' house until after the bride andbridegroom had gone to the church. Severaltimes Pantelei went to the gate to see whether165

they were coming, but the grey road, lined witha growth of prickly thorns, was completelydeserted. He shifted his eyes towards the Don.The forest was turning a golden yellow. Theripened reeds bent wearily over the Don-sidemarshes. Blending with the dusk, thesad bluedrowsiness of early autumn enwrapped thevillage, the Don, the chalky ridge of hills, theforest lurking in a lilac mist beyond the river,and the steppe. At the cross-roads the sharpoutline of the wayside cross was silhouettedagainst thesky.Pantelei's ears caught the scarcely audiblesound of wheels and the yapping of dogs. Twowagonettes turned out of the square into thestreet. In the first sat Miron with his wife athis side; opposite them was Grandad Grishakain a new uniform, wearing his Cross ofSt. George and his medals. Mitka drove, sittingcarelessly on the box, and not troublingto show the foaming horses his whip. In thesecond wagonette, Mikhei, leaning backward,tugged at the reins, trying to reduce the horses'gallop to a trot. His angular browless facewas scarlet, sweat was streaming down fromunder the broken peak of his cap.Pantelei threw open the gate, and the twowagonettes drove into the yard. Ilyinichna166

sailed down from the porch, the hem of herdress trailing in the dust."Welcome, dear friends!Do our poor housethe honour of entering." She bent her corpulentwaist in a bow.His head on one side, Pantelei flung openhis arms and welcomed them: "We humblyyou to come in!"inviteHe called for the horses to be unharnessedand went up to the father of his daughter-inlaw.Miron brushed his sharovari with hishand to get the dust off them. Old Grishaka,shaken up by the wild ride, lagged behind."Come in, come in, my dears!" Ilyinichnainsisted."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 uniformwith. There's so much dust about at thistime of the year, it's hard to breathe.""Yes, indeed, it's very dry. . . , That's whatmakes the dust. . . . Don't trouble yourself, mydear, I'll just..". . Bowing to his slow-wittedhostess, old Grishaka backed away towardsthe bam and took refuge behind a paintedwinnowing machine."Can't you leave the old man alone, youfool!" Pantelei snorted, intercepting his wifeon the steps. "He wants to do something,167

are your brains,and you keep. . . . Wherewoman!""How should I know?" Ilyinichna protestedblushing. "You ought to guess. Never mind,take the guests to table."The bride's family were taken into the bestroom, where a crowd of already half-intoxicatedguests was sitting round the table. Soonafter their arrival the newly-married couplereturned from the church. As they enteredPantelei filled the glasses from a half-gallonbottle,tears standing in his eyes."Well, Miron Grigoryevich, here's to ourchildren! May their life be filled with good, asours has been. May they live happily, andenjoy the best of health."They poured Grandfather Grishaka a largeglass of vodka, and succeeded in sending halfof it into his beard-mildewed mouth and halfdown the stiff collar of his uniform. Glasseswere clinked together. The company drank anddrank. The hubbub was like the noise of amarket. A distant relation of the Korshunovs,Nikifor Koloveidin, who was sitting at the farend of the table, raised his glass and roaredthe traditional words:"It'sbitter!""Bitter! Bitter!" the guests seated aroundthe table clamoured after him.168

"Oh, bitter!" came the response from thecrowded kitchen.Scowling, Grigory kissed his wife's insipidlips and sent a hunted glance round the room.A crimson fever of faces. Coarse, drunkenlymuddy glances and smiles. Mouths chewinggreedily, slobbering on the embroideredtablecloth. A howl of voices.Koloveidin opened wide his gap-toothedmouth."It's bitter!" the long-service badges on thesleeve of his blue Guards uniform wrinkled ashe raised his glass."Bitter!" the cry was taken up once more.Grigory stared with hatred into Koloveidin'smouth and noticed the livid tongue betweenhis teeth as he cried, "Bitter!""Kiss, little chicks!" Pyotr spluttered, twitchinghis vodka-soaked moustache.In the kitchen Darya, flushed and intoxicated,began a song. It was taken up by the othersand passed into the best room. The voicesblended, but above all the rest rose Christonya'srumble, shaking the window-panes.The song ended and eating was resumed."Here's to a good time, good people...!""Try this mutton!""Take your paw away, my husband's looking!"169

"Bitter! Bitter!""No, I don't want any of your mutton. MaybeI like sterlet better. Yes, I do . . . it's juicy.''"Cousin Proshka, let's have another one.""Ah, that warms the cockles of yourheart. .". .In the kitchen the floor groaned and shook,heels clattered, and a glass fell to the floor,but the crash was lost in the general uproar.Across the heads of those sitting at the tableGrigory glanced into the kitchen. The womenwere dancing now, to the accompaniment ofshouts and whistles. They shook their amplebottoms (there was not a thin one there, foreach was wearing five or six skirts), wavedlace handkerchiefs, and worked their elbowsin the dance.The grating notes of the accordion soundedimperatively. The player began the tune of theCossack dance. A shout went up:"A circle! Form a circle!""Squeeze up a bit!" Pyotr begged, pushingthe perspiring women aside.Grigory roused himself and winked atNatalya:"Pyotr's going to dance the 'Cossack'! Youwatch him!""Who with?""Don't you see? With your mother."170

Marya Lukinichna set her arms akimbo, herhandkerchief in her left hand. Pyotr went upto her with mincing steps, cut a fine caper andretreated to his place. Lukinichna picked upher skirt as though about to step over a puddle,picked out the rhythm with her toe, and dancedamid a roar of approbation, kicking out herlegs like a man.The accordion player rushed out a volley oflow notes that swept Pyotr into action, andwith a shout he dropped to a squatting positionand danced round, smacking the palms of hishands against the legs of his boots and bitingthe tip of his moustache in the corner of hismouth. He swung his feet in and out at greatspeed; hisdamp forelock tossed wildly on hishead, but could not keep up with his feet.Grigory's view was blocked by the crowdat the door. He heard only the shouts of thedrunken guests and the drumming of ironshodheels, like the crackle of a burning pineboard.Then Miron danced with Ilyinichna; hestepped out seriously and with his accustomedbusinesslike air. Pantelei stood on a stool towatch them, dangling his lame leg and clickinghis tongue. Instead of his legs his lips andear-ring danced.The dance was taken up by experts and by171

others who could not even bend a leg properly.All of them were shouted at:"Go it!""Smaller steps! Oh, you. .\"."His legs are light enough, but his bottomgets in his way.""Oh, get on with it!""Our side's winning.""Come on!""Tired, are you? I'll crack a bottle over yourhead if you don't dance."Grandfather Grishaka was completely drunk.He embraced the bony back of his neighbouron the bench, and buzzed like a mosquito inhisear:"What year did you first see service?"His neighbour, an old man bent like anancient oak, replied:"1839, my son!""When?" Grishaka stuck out his ear."1839, I told you.""What's your name? What regiment did youserve in?""Maxim Bogatiryov. I was corporal inBaklanov's regiment.""Are you related to the Melekhovs?""What?""I asked, are you related?"772

"Uh-huh! I'm the bridegroom's grandfatheron hismother's side.""In Baklanov's regiment, did you say?"The old man, vainly munching a piece ofbread with his toothless gums, gazed atGrishaka with faded eyes, and nodded."So you must have been through theCaucasian campaign?""I served under Baklanov himself, may herest in heaven, helped to conquer the Caucasus.We had some rare Cossacks in our regiment.They were as tall as the guards, though theyweren't so straight. Great, long-armed, broadshoulderedfellows, not like the ones nowadays.That's the men we had, my son! His excellencythe late general was good enough to give methe cat for stealing a carpet. .". ."And I was in the Turkish campaign. Eh?Yes, I was there."Old Grishaka puffed out his sunken chestjingling with medals."We took a village at dawn, and at mid-daythe bugler sounded the alarm.""We were fighting around Rossitz and ourregiment, the Twelfth Don Cossack, wasengaged with the janissaries.""The bugler sounded that alarm. . ..""Yes," Grishaka went on, beginning to getannoyed and angrily waving his hand. "The173

Turkish janissaries serve their tsar and wearwhite sacks on their heads. Huh? White sackson their heads."", . . The bugler sounded the alarm, and Isaid to my comrade: 'We'll have to retreat,Timofei, but first we'll have that carpet off thewall.' ""I have been decorated with two Georges,awarded for heroism under fire. I took aTurkish major alive." Grandfather Grishakabegan to weep and to bang his withered fist onhis neighbour's spine. But the latter, dippinga piece of chicken in the cherry jelly, lifelesslystared at the soiled tablecloth and mumbled:"And just listen to what sin the evil spiritled me into, my son!" The old man's eyesstared fixedly at the white creases of thetablecloth as if they saw not a tableclothsoaked in vodka and soup but the dazzlingsnowy folds of the Caucasian mountains. "I'dnever before taken anything that wasn't mine,but now I happened to see that carpet, and Ithought, 'That would make a good horsecloth.' ""I've seen those parts myself. I've been inlands across the sea as well," Grishaka triedto look his neighbour in the eyes, but the deepsockets were overgrown with shaggy thicketsof eyebrows and beard. So he resorted tocraft. He wanted to win his neighbour's atten-174

tion for the climax of his story, and he plungedinto the middle of it without any preliminaries:"And the captain gives the order: 'In troopcolumns at the gallop! Forward!'"But the old Baklanov regiment Cossackthrew back his head like a charger at the soundof the trumpet and, dropping his fist on thetable, whispered:"Lances at the ready! Draw sabres, Baklanov'smen!" His voice suddenly grew stronger,his faded eyes glittered and blazed. "Baklanov'sboys!" he roared, opening wide his toothlessyellow jaws. "Into attack-forward!"And he gazed at Grishaka with a youthfuland intelligent look, and let the tears tricklingover his beard fall unwiped.Grishaka also grew excited:"He gave us this command, and waved hissword. We galloped forward, and the janissarieswere drawn up like this," he drew asquare on the tablecloth with a shaky finger,"and firing at us. Twice we charged them.Each time they beat us back. Whenever wetried, their cavalry came out of a little woodon their flank. So our troop commander gavethe order and we turned and went at them.We smashed them. Rode them down. Whatcavalry in the world can stand up againstCossacks? They fled into the wood. I saw175

their officer just in front of me, riding on abay. A good-looking officer, black whiskershe had. He looked back at me and drew hispistol. Bang! But he missed me. I spurred myhorse and caught up with him. I was going tocut him down, but then I thought better of it.After all, he was a man too. So I grabbed himround the waist with my right arm, and heflew out of the saddle. He bit my arm, but Itook him all the same..". .Grishaka glanced triumphantly at his neighbour,but the old man's great angular head hadfallen on to his chest, and he was snoringcontentedly.

PART TWOSergei Platonovich Mokhovcould trace his ancestrya long way back.During the reign of Peter the First a statebarge had been travelling down the Don toAzov with a cargo of biscuit and gunpowder.The Cossacks of the little rebel town of Chigonaki,nestling on the bank of the upper Don,fell on the barge by night, destroyed the sleepyguards, pillaged the biscuit and gunpowder andsank the vessel.The tsar ordered out soldiers from Voronezh,and they burned down the town of Chigonaki,ruthlessly put the guilty Cossacks to thesword, and hanged forty of them on a floatinggallows, which, as warning to the unruly villages,was sent sailing down the Don.12—1933 m

Some ten years later the spot where thehearths of the Chigonaki huts had smokedbegan again to be inhabited by Cossack settlersand those who had survived the sacking.The stanitsa grew up again with defensiveramparts round it. At the same time, a secretagent of the tsar, a Russian peasant namedMokhov, was sent to Chigonaki from Voronezh.He traded in knife-hafts, tobacco, flints, andthe other odds and ends necessary tothe Cossacks'everyday life. He bought up and resoldstolen goods, and twice a year journeyed toVoronezh, ostensibly to replenish his stocks,but in reality to report to the authorities thatthe stanitsa was for the time being quiet andthe Cossacks were not contemplating any freshmischief.It was from this Russian peasant NikitaMokhov that the merchant family of Mokhovswas descended. They took deep root in theCossack earth; they multiplied and grew intothe district like sturdy roadside weeds, reverentlypreserving the half-rotten credentialsgiven to their ancestor by the governor ofVoronezh. The credentials might have beenpreserved until this day had they not beenburned in their wooden box behind the iconduring a great fire which occurred in the lifetimeof Sergei Mokhov's grandfather. This178

Mokhov had already ruined himself once bycard-playing, but was getting on to his feetengulfed everything. Afteragain when the fireburying his paralytic father, Sergei had tobegin afresh, starting by buying bristles andfeathers. For five years he lived miserably,swindling and squeezing the Cossacks of thedistrict out of every kopeck, then he suddenlyjumped from "peddler Seryozhka" to "SergeiPlatonovich," opened a little drapery shop,married the daughter of a half-demented priest,from whom he got a sizeable dowry, and setup as a linen draper. Sergei Platonovich beganto trade in textiles at just the right moment.On the instructions of the army authorities,about this time the Cossacks were migrating inentire villages from the left bank of the Don,where the ground was unproductive and sandy,to the right bank. Buildings sprang upround the young stanitsa of Krasnokutskaya;new villages hatched out on the edge of formerestates, on the banks of the rivers Chir,Chomaya and Frolovka, and over valleys andravines in the steppe, side by side with Ukrainiansettlements. And instead of having tojourney fifty versts or more for goods theyfound Sergei Mokhov's shop, its fresh dealshelves packed with attractive commodities,right on the spot. Sergei flung his business12* 179

wide, like a full-size accordion, and traded ineverything requisite to simple village lifehides,salt, kerosene, haberdashery. He evenbegan to supply agricultural machinery. Reapers,seeders, ploughs, winnowers from theAksaisk factory were drawn up in neat orderoutside the shop, whose cool green shutterskept itwell protected from the summer's heat.It is hard to count the money in another's purse,but it seems that the quick-witted Sergei'strading yielded him considerable profit, forwithin three years he had opened a grain elevator,and the following year after the deathof his first wife he began the construction of asteam flour-mill.He squeezed Tatarsky and the neighbouringvillages tightly in his swarthy fist with itssparse covering of glossy black hairs. Therewas not a home that was not in debt to SergeiMokhov: a green slip with an orange bordersaying that a reaper had been given on creditto so-and-so, a bride's outfit for the daughterto someone else (time to marry the girl off andthe Paramonovo elevator was cutting its priceson wheat-"Put it on my account, Mokhov"),and so it went on. Nine hands were employedat the mill, seven in the shop, and four labourers:altogether twenty mouths dependenton the merchant's pleasure for their daily bread.180

He had two children by his first wife: the girlLiza and a boy two years younger, the sluggish,scrofulous Vladimir. His second wife, Anna, adry, sharp-nosed creature, was childless. Allher belated mother-love and accumulated spleen(she had not married until the age of thirtyfour)were poured out on the children. Her nervoustemperament had a bad influence onthem, and their father paid them no moreattention than he gave his stable-hand or cook.His business activities occupied all his time.The children grew up uncontrolled. His insensitivewife made no attempt to penetrate intothe secrets of the child mind, the affairs of herlarge household took too much of her time, andthe brother and sister grew up alien to eachother, different in character, as though theywere not related. Vladimir was sullen, sluggish,with a sly look and unchildish seriousness.Liza, who lived in the society of the maid andthe cook (the latter a dissolute, much too experiencedwoman), early saw the seamy side oflife. The women aroused an unhealthy curiosityin her, and while still an angular and bashfuladolescent, left to her own devices, she hadgrown as wild as the true-love flower in theforest.The unhurrying years flowed by. The oldgirew older and the young grew green of leaf,IB!

One evening Sergei Platonovich glanced athis daughter across the tea-table, and wasstartled, Liza, who had just left high school,had grown into a slender good-looking girl. Helooked at her and the saucer filled with ambercolouredtea trembled in his hand. How likeher mother she was! God, her very image!"Liza, turn your head sideways!" He had neverbefore noticed how amazingly his daughterresembled her mother.Vladimir Mokhov, a narrow-chested, sicklyyellowlad now in the fifth form at school, waswalking through the mill yard. He and hissister had recently returned home for the summervacation, and, as usual, he had gone alongto look at the mill, jostle among the floursprinkledcrowd and listen to the steady rumbleof cog-wheels and rollers, and the hiss ofwhirling belts. It ministered to his vanity tohear the respectful murmur of the Cossackcustomers: "The master's heir. . .Carefully picking his way among the wagonsand the heaps of dung, Vladimir reached thegate. Then he remembered he had not beento see the engine room, and turned back.Close to the red oil-tank, at the entrance tothe engine room, the mill-hand Timofei, ascalesman nicknamed "Knave," and Timofei'sm."

assistant David were kneading a great ring ofclay with bare feet, their trousers rolled upabove their knees."Ah! The master!" the scalesman greetedhim jokingly,"Good-afternoon. What are you doing?""Mixing clay," David said with an unpleasantsmile, dragging his feet out of the clingingmass, which smelled of dung. "Your father'scareful of the rubles, and won't hire women todo it. Your father's a screw, that he is," headded, making a squelching noise with his feet.Vladimir flushed. He felt an unconquerabledislike for the ever-smiling David and hiscontemptuous tone, even for his white teeth."What do you mean, 'a screw'?""He's terribly mean, he'd eat his own dirt ifit paid him," David explained with a smile.The others laughed approvingly. Vladimirfelt all the smart of the insult. He stared coldlyat David."So you're . . , dissatisfied?""Come into this mess and mix it yourself,and then you'll know. What fool would besatisfied? It would do your father good to dosome of this. Take some of the fat off hisbelly," David replied. He trod heavily aroundthe ring of clay, kneading it with his feet, nowsmiling gaily. Foretasting a sweet revenge,183

Vladimir turned over a fitting reply in hismind."Good!" he said slowly. "I'll tell Papa you'renot satisfied with your work."He glanced sidelong at the man's face, andwas startled by the impression he had caused.David's lips were twisted in a forced pitifulsmile, and the faces of the others were cloudedover. All three went on kneading the clayfor a moment in silence. Then David tore hiseyes away from his muddy feet, and said in awheedling, bitter tone: "I was only joking,Volodya.""I'll tell Papa what you said." With tears ofinjury in his eyes for his father and himself,and for David's miserable smile, Vladimirwalked away."Volodya! Vladimir Sergeyevich !" Davidcalled after him in alarm, and stepped out ofthe clay, letting his trousers fall over his bespatteredlegs.Vladimir halted.heavily.David ran to him breathing"Don't tell your father! Forgive me, fool thatI am. Honest to God, I just said it to teaseyou.""All right, I won't tell him," Vladimir repliedwith a grimace, and walked on towards the gate.Pity for David had won. He walked along by184

the white fence with a feeling of relief. Fromthe forge in the corner of the mill-yard, thecheerful tapping of a hammer could be heard,now soft and muffled as it struck the iron, nowa hard and ringing double tap on the anvil."What did you want to say that for?"Knave's deep voice reached his ears. "Don'tstir dung, and it won't stink.""The swine!" Vladimir thought indignantly."So he answers back. . . , Shall I tell Father ornot?" Glancing back, he saw David wearinghis everlasting smile, and decided: "I'll tell!"A horse and wagon stood hitched to a postoutside the shop. Children were chasing a twitteringgrey cloud of sparrows off the roof ofthe fire-house. From the verandah came thesonorous baritone of the student Boyarishkin,and another voice-cracked and husky.Vladimir went up the steps of the house.The leaves of the wild vine grew thickly overthe porch and verandah and hung in foaminggreen bunches from the carved blue-paintedeaves.Boyarishkin was shaking his blue-shavenhead and addressing the teacher Balanda, ayoung man but already bearded."When I read him, despite the fact that I'mthe son of a toiling Cossack and naturally hateall privileged classes, just imagine it, I feel an185

acute pity for that moribund section of society.I nearly turn into a nobleman and landlordmyself, I study their ideal woman withrapture. I even take their interests to heart,damn it! Yes, my friend, that's what a geniuscan do. He can even make you change yourcreed."Balanda toyed with the tassel of his silksash and examined the red embroidery on thehem of his shirt, smiling ironically. Liza layback in the armchair. The conversationevidently did not interest her in the least. Witheyes that always seemed to be looking forsomething they had lost she was staringaimlessly at Boyarishkin's blue,razor-scratchedhead.Bowing to them, Vladimir went to his father'sprivate room and knocked. Sergei Platonovichwas sitting on a cool leather couch, turningover the pages of the June issue of RusskoyeBogatstvo. A yellowed bone paper-knifelay at his feet."Well, what do you want?"Vladimir hunched his shoulders slightly andstraightened the folds of his shirt."As I was coming back from the mill,"Vladimir began uncertainly. But then he recalledDavid's dazzling smile, and gazing at hisfather's corpulent belly in its tussore waistm

coat, he resolutely continued: "I heard David,the mill-hand, say. . .."Sergei Platonovich listened attentively tohisson's story, and said: "I'll sack him. You maygo." Then he bent with a groan to pick up thepaper-knife.In the evenings the intelligentsia of the villagewere in the habit of gathering at SergeiMokhov's house. There was Boyarishkin, a studentof the Moscow Technical School; the punyteacher Balanda, eaten up with conceit and tuberculosis;his cohabitant the teacher Marfa,a shapely girl whose petticoat always showedindecently, and who never seemed to grow anyolder; and the postmaster, an eccentric, rathermusty bachelor smelling of sealing-wax andcheap scent. Occasionally the young lieutenant,Yevgeny Listnitsky, rode over from his father'sestate. The company would sit drinking tea onthe verandah, carrying on a pointless conversation,and when there was a lull in the talkone of the guests would get up and set goingthe host's expensive inlaid gramophone.On rare occasions, during the great holidays,Sergei Platonovich liked to cut a dash: he invitedguests and regaled them with expensivewines, fresh caviare, ordered from Bataisk forthe occasion, and the finest of hors-d'oeuvres.At other times he lived frugally. The one thingt87

in regard to which he exercised no self-restraintwas the purchase of books. He lovedreading, and liked to get to the bottom of thingswith his own mind, which was tenacious asbindweed.His partner, Yemelyan KonstantinovichAtyopin, a fair-haired man with a pointedbeard and hidden slits of eyes, rarely visitedMokhov. He was married to a former nun, hadhad eight children by her in fifteen years ofmarried life, and stayed at home most of thetime. He had begun his career as a regimentalclerk, and the fusty spirit of cringing and ingratiationbrought from there permeated hisfamily also. His children walked on tiptoe inhis presence, and talked in whispers. Everymorning after washing, they lined up in thedining-room under the black hanging coffinof the huge clock. Their mother stoodbehind them, and as soon as the dry coughwas heard from the bedroom, they wouldbegin discordantly "Our Father" and otherprayers.Yemelyan Konstantinovich would be dressedand emerge from the bedroom by the time theprayers were ended. Screwing up his tiny greeneyes, he would extend his fleshy hand as thoughhe were a bishop, while the children approachedhim in single file to kiss it. Then Yeme-188

lyan Konstantinovich would kiss his wife onthe cheek and ask,lisping:"Polya, is the tea ready?""It is, Yemelyan Konstantinovich.""Pour me some strong tea."He was the shop's accountant. He coveredthe pages under their bold-faced headings,"Debit" and "Credit," with his flowery clerk'shandwriting. He read the Stock Exchange News,adorning his lumpy nose with a gold-rimmedpince-nez for which he had no need. He treatedhisemployees politely."Ivan Petrovich, please show the Tauridacalico to the customer."His wife called him Yemelyan Konstantinovich,his children-Papa, his shop assistantsblah-blah.The two village priests. Father Vissarion andthe pious Father Pankraty, were not on friendlyterms with Sergei Platonovich. They had along-standing quarrel with him. Nor were theyon very amicable terms with each other. Thefractious, intriguing Father Pankraty was cleverat making trouble for his neighbours, and thewidower Father Vissarion with a syphilitictwang in his voice that belied his affable nature,who lived with a Ukrainian housekeeper,held himself aloof, and had no love for Father189

Pankraty because of his inordinate pride andintriguingcharacter.All except the teacher Balanda owned theirown houses. Mokhov's big house, faced withmatch-board and painted blue, stood in thesquare; right opposite, in the centre of thesquare squatted his shop with its glass doorand faded signboard. Attached to the shop wasa long, low shed with a cellar, and a hundredpaces farther on rose the brick wall of thechurch yard and the church itself with a cupolathat looked like a ripe green onion. Beyond thechurch were the whitewashed, officiallyseverewalls of the school, and two smart-lookinghouses, one blue, with blue-painted fences, belongingto Father Pankraty; the other brown(to avoid any resemblance) with carved fencingand a broad balcony, belonging to Father Vissarion.Then came Atyopin's strangely narrowtwo-storied house, the post office, the thatchedand iron-roofed houses of the Cossacks andfinally the sloping back of the mill, with rustytin cocks on its roof.The inhabitants of the village lived behindtheir barred and bolted double shutters, cutoff from all the rest of the world. Every evening,unless they were paying a visit to a neighbour,each family shot the bolts of their doors,190

unchained their dogs in the yards, and onlythe sound of the wooden tongue of the nightwatchman's clapper disturbed the silence.IIOne day towards the end of August MitkaKorshunov happened to meet Liza Mokhovadown by the river. He had just rowed acrossfrom the other side, and as he was fasteningup his boat he saw a light gaily-painted skiffskimming the stream. It was being rowed bythe student Boyarishkin. His shaven headglistened with perspiration, and the veinsstood out on his forehead.Mitka did not recognize Liza in the skifffirst,for her straw hat threw her face into shadow.Her sunburnt hands were pressing abunch of yellow water-lilies to her breast."Korshunov!" she called, shaking her headat Mitka. "You've deceived me.""Deceived you?""Don't you remember, you promised to takeme fishing?"Boyarishkin dropped the oars and straightenedhis back. The skiff thrust its nose into theshore with a scrunch."Do you remember?" Liza laughed, as shejumped out.191at

"I haven't had the time. Too much work todo," Mitka said apologetically, catching hisbreath as the girl approached him."No, it's impossible," Boyarishkin interrupted."I've had enough, Yelizaveta. You havehad all the service you will get from me! Thedistance we have covered over this confoundedv/ater! My hands are all blisters. Give me dryland."Boyarishkin planted a long bare footon thegravelly shore and mopped his forehead withthe top of his crumpled student's cap. Withoutreplying, Liza went up to Mitka. He clumsilyshook the hand she offered him."Well, then, when shall we go fishing?" sheasked with a toss of her head, narrowing hereyes."Tomorrow if you like. We've done thegot more time now.""You're not deceiving me this time?""No, I'm not!"threshing and I've"Will you come early?""At dawn.""I'll be waiting for you.""I'll come, honestly I will.""You haven't forgotten the window?""I'llfind it.""I am going away soon, I expect. And I'dlike to go fishing first."192

Mitka toyed silently with the rusty key forlocking up the boat, and looked straight at herlips."Will you be through soon?" asked Boyarishkin,examining a shell lying in his palm."In a minute."She was silent a moment, then, smiling toherself, she asked:"You've had a wedding in your family,haven't you?""Yes, my sister's.""Whom did she marry?" Then, without waitingfor an answer, she smiled again mysteriouslyand fleetingly. "Do come, won't you?" Onceagain, as it had on the verandah of Mokhov'shouse her smile stung Mitka like a nettle.He watched her to the boat. Boyarishkinpushed off clumsily and rowed away, whileLiza smiled over his head at Mitka, who wasstill toying with the key, and nodded farewell.When the boat was well out, Mitka heardBoyarishkin quietly ask: "Who is that fellow?""Just an acquaintance.""Not an affair of the heart?"Mitka did not catch her answer above thecreak of the rowlocks. He saw Boyarishkinthrow himself back with a laugh, but could notsee Liza's face. The lilac ribbon on her hat,stirring gently in the breeze, caressed the slope13—1933 193

of her bare shoulder with a melting softnessthat teased Mitka's misty glance.Mitka, who rarely went fishing with rod andline, had never prepared for the occasionwith such zeal as on that evening. He choppedsome dung straw and boiled up the millet overa fire on the vegetable patch, then sorted outhis hooks, renewing the lines that were rotten.Mikhei, who was watching his preparations,asked: "Take me with you, Mitka. You won'tbe able to manage alone,""I'll manage."Mikhei sighed."It'sa long time since we went out together.I'd just like the feel of a twenty-pounder pullingon the line."Mitka frowned into the hot column of steamrising from the pot and said nothing. Whenhe had finished he went into the back room.Grandfather Grishaka was sitting by the window,with round, copper-rimmed spectacles onhis nose, studying the Gospels."Grandad!" Mitka said, leaning his backagainst the door-frame.The old man looked at him over his spectacles."Eh?""Wake me up at the first cock.""Where are you off to so early?"t94

"Fishing."The old man had a weakness for fish but hemade a pretence of opposing Mitka's designs."Your father said the hemp must be beatentomorrow. There's no time to laze about."Mitka stirred from the door and tried strat-egy-"Oh, all right then. I wanted to give you atreat but as there's the hemp to be done, I won'tgo.""Stop, where are you off to?" the old mantook alarm and pulled off his spectacles. "I'llspeak to your father about it, you can go.Tomorrow's Wednesday, I could just do with abit of fish. All right, I'll wake you up. Go on,you young ass, what are you grinning at?"At midnight the old man, holding up hislinen trousers with one hand and gripping hisstick in the other, floated like a trembling whiteshadow across the yard to the barn, enteredthe bam and jabbed his crutch into Mitka'ssleeping body. In the barn the smell of newlythreshedgrain and mice droppings mingledwith the stale cobweb-choked air of a place thatis never lived in.Mitka was sleeping on a rug by the corn-bin.Grishaka poked at him with his stick, but couldnot rouse him for some time. At first he pokedlightly, whispering:13* 195

"Mitka! Mitka! Hey, Mitka!"But Mitka only sighed and drew his legs up.Grishaka grew more ruthless and began to borethe stick into Mitka's stomach. With a gaspMitka seized the end of the stick and woke upsuddenly."How you sleep!" grumbled the old man."Quiet, Grandad. Don't bumble," Mitkamuttered sleepily, groping for his boots.The lad made his way to the square. The villagecocks were already crowing for the secondtime. As he passed Father Vissarion's house heheard a cock flap its wings in the hen-coop andgive a mighty bellow worthy of the head deacon,while the hens clucked in alarm,A night watchman was asleep on the stepsof the shop, his nose tucked into the sheepskinwarmth of his collar.Mitka reached Mokhov's fence, set down hisfishing tackle, and on tiptoe, so as not to disturbthe dogs, crept into the porch. He triedHethe cold iron latch. The door was shut fast.clambered across the banister of the verandahand went up to the window. It was half-closed.Through the black gap came the sweet scent ofa girl's warm, sleeping body and the mysteriouslysweet smell of perfume."Yelizaveta Sergeyevna!"Mitka thought he had called very loudly. He196

waited. Silence. "Suppose I'm at the wrongwindow! Suppose Mokhov's asleep in there! I'llbe for it then. He'll use a gun!""Yelizaveta Sergeyevna, coming fishing?"If he'd mistaken the window there'd be somefish caught all right!"Are you getting up?" he said in irritation,and thrust his head through the window opening."Who's there?" a low startled voice soundedin the darkness."It's me, Korshunov. Coming fishing?""Oh! Just a minute."There was a sound of movement inside. Herwarm, sleepy voice seemed to smell of mint.Mitka saw something white and rustling movingabout the room."I'd rather sleep with her than get coldfishing," he thought vaguely with the smell ofthe bedroom in his nostrils.After a while her smiling face, framed in awhite kerchief, appeared at the window."I'm coming out this way. Give me yourhand." As he helped her down, she looked closelyinto hiseyes."I didn't take long, did I?""It's all right, we'll be in time."They went down to the Don. She rubbed hersleep-swollen eyes with a pink hand.197

"I was sleeping so sweetly. I could have slepton. It's too early to go yet.""We'll be just in time."They followed the first lane from the squareleading down to the river. During the night theriver had risen, and the boat, which had beenleft high and dry the evening before, was nowrocking on the water a little way out."I'll have to take off my shoes," she sighed,measuring the distance to the boat with hereyes."Let me carry you," Mitka proposed."No, I'd better take my shoes off.""Carrying you would be easier.""I'd rather not," she said, with embarrassmentin her voice.Mitka embraced her legs above the kneeswith his left arm, and, lifting her easily,splashed through the water. She clutched involuntarilyat the finn, dark column of his neckand laughed with a cooing softness.If Mitka had not stumbled over a stone usedby the village women when washing clothes,there would not have been a brief, accidentalkiss. She gasped and pressed her face againstMitka's hard cracked lips, and he came to ahalt two paces away from the boat. The waterswirled over the tops of his boots and chilledhis feet.198

Unfastening the boat, he pushed it off andjumped in. He rowed standing. The waterrustled and wept under the stern. The boatgently breasted the stream, making for theopposite bank. The fishing rods jumped andclattered at the bottom of the boat."Where are you taking me?" she asked,glancing back."To the other side."The keel grated on the sandy shore. Withoutasking permission he picked the girl up in hisarms, and carried her into a clump of hawthorn.She bit at his face, scratched, gave oneor two stifledscreams, and feeling her strengthebbing, she wept angrily, but without tears.They returned about nine o'clock. The skywas wrapped in a ruddy yellow haze. A strongbreeze danced over the river, maning the waves.The boat danced over the waves, and thecold frothy spray sprinkled on Liza's pallidface and clung to her lashes and the strands ofher hair. She wearily closed her vacant eyes,twisting in her fingers a flower that had falleninto the boat. Mitka rowed without looking ather. A small carp and a bream lay goggle-eyedat his feet, their mouths twisted in death; Mitka'sface wore an expression of mingled guilt,content and anxiety."I'll take you to Semyonov's landing stage.199

It will be nearer for you," he told her, as heturned the boat into the stream."All right/' she whispered.Along the deserted shore the dusty wattlefences pined in the hot wind, drenching the airwith the smell of burnt brushwood. The heavyover-ripe caps of the sunflowers, pecked bysparrows, drooped low, scattering fluffy seedsover the ground. The meadowland was emeraldwith the young aftermath. Colts were friskingabout in the distance; and the hot southerlywind wafted up the echoing laughter of thebells tied round their necks.As Liza was getting out of the boat Mitkapicked up a fish and held it out to her."Here, take the catch."Her lashes flickered in alarm, but she tookthe fish."Well, I'm going."Holding the fish by the willow twig Mitkahad fixed through their gills, she turned miserablyaway. Gone were her recent assurance andgaiety, left behind in the hawthorn bushes."Liza!"She turned round, surprise and irritation inher frown."Come back a minute."And when she came closer he said, annoyedat his own embarrassment, "We were a bit care-2Q0

less. Your dress at the back . . . there's a stainon it. It's only a little one. .". .A hot flush spread over her face and neck.After a moment's silence, Mitka advised: "Goby the back ways,""I'll have to pass through the square in anycase. ... I meant to put my black skirt on," shewhispered, looking at Mitka with regret andsudden hatred."Let me green it a bit with a leaf," Mitkasuggested simply, and was surprised to see thetears come into her eyes.Like the rustling whisper of a summer breezethe news flew round the village. "Mitka Korshunov'sbeen out all night with Sergei Platonovich'sdaughter." The women talked about itas they drove out the cattle to join the villageherd in the morning, as they stood in the narrowshade of the well-sweeps with the greydust swirling round them and water drippingfrom their buckets, or as they beat out theirwashing on the flat stones down by the river."Her own mother's dead you know.""Her father never has a minute to spare, andher stepmother just doesn't trouble.""The watchman says he saw a man tappingat the end window at midnight. He thought atfirst it was someone trying to break in. He ranto see who it waS/ and found it was Mitka."201

"The girls these days, I don't know whatthey're coming to.""Mitka told my Nikita he's going to marryher.""He'd better wipe his nose first.""He forced her, they say.""Don't you believe."it. . .The rumours flowed round main street andback street, smearing the girl's good name, asa clean gate is smeared with thick tar.Finally they descended on the greying headof Mokhov himself and crushed him to theground. For two days he went neither to theshop nor to the mill. His servants, who liveddownstairs, came to him only at dinner.On the third day Sergei Platonovich had hisdapple-grey stallion harnessed to his droshki,and drove to the stanitsa, bowing remotely tothe Cossacks he met on the way. The droshkiwas followed by a highly-varnished carriage,which swished out of the yard, drawn by a pairof prancing black horses. Yemelyan the coachman,sucking his pipe, which had becomepermanently attached to his greying beard,shook out the blue silk of the reins and the twoblack horses went prancing down the street.Liza could be seen sitting pale-faced behindYemelyan's craggy back. She held a light valiseon her knees and was smiling sadly. At the202

gate she waved her glove to Vladimir and herstepmother.Pantelei Prokofyevich happened to be limpingout of the shop at the moment, and hestopped to ask the yardman Nikita: "Where'sthe master's daughter going?"And Nikita, condescending to the simple humanweakness, replied: "To Moscow, to study."The next day an incident occurred which waslong the subject of talk down by the river, underthe shadow of the well-sweeps, and whenthe cattle were being driven out to graze. Justbefore nightfall (the village herd had alreadyreturned from the steppe) Mitka went to seeSergei Platonovich. He had waited until eveningin order to avoid meeting anyone, for he camenot merely to make a friendly call, but to askfor the hand of Mokhov's daughter, Liza.He had met her perhaps four times, not more.At the last meeting the conversation had takenthe following course:"Liza, will you marry me?""Nonsense!""I shall care for you, I'll love you. We havepeople to work for us, you shall sit at the windowand read your books.""You're a fool!"Mitka took offence, and said no more. Thatevening he went home early, and in the203

morning he announced to his astonishedfather:"Father, arrange for my marriage.""Don't be a fool.""Honestly, Father, I'm not joking.""In a hurry, aren't you? Who're you smittenon-crazy Marfa?""Send the match-makers to Sergei Platonovich."Miron Grigoryevich carefully set down thecobbling tools with which he was mending harness,and roared with laughter."You're in a funny vein today, my son."But Mitka stuck to his guns, and his fatherflared up."You fool! Sergei Platonovich has a capitalof over a hundred thousand rubles. He's a merchant,and what are you? Clear off, or I'llleather you with this strap.""We've got fourteen pairs of bullocks, andlook at the land we own. Besides he's a muzhik,and we're Cossacks.""Clear off!" Miron said curtly. He did not likelong discussions.Mitka found a sympathetic listener only inhis grandfather. The old man attempted to persuadeMiron in favour of his son's suit."Miron!" old Grishaka said. "Why don't youagree? As the boy's taken it into his head. . ,204."

"Father, you're a great baby, God's truth youare! Mitka's silly enough, but you're....""Hold your tongue!" Grishaka rapped hisstick on the floor. "Aren't we good enough forthem? He ought to take it as an honour for aCossack's son to wed his daughter. He'll giveup, and gladly too. We're known all over thecountryside. We're not farm-hands, we're masters.Go and ask him, Miron. What's stoppingyou? Let him give his mill as the dowry."Miron snorted and went out into the yard. SoMitka decided to wait until evening and thengo to Mokhov himself. He knew that his father'sobstinacy was like a well-rooted elm: youmight bend it, but you could never break it. Itwas not worth trying.He went whistling as far as Mokhov's frontdoor, then grew timid. He hesitated a moment,and finally went through the yard to the sidedoor. On the steps he asked the maid in hercrackling starched apron: "Master at home?""He's drinking his tea. Wait!"Mitka sat down and waited, lit a cigarette,smoked it, and crushed the end on the floor.Mokhov came out, brushing crumbs off hiswaistcoat. When he saw Mitka he frowned, butsaid: "Come in."Mitka entered Mokhov's cool private roomthat smelled of books and tobacco, feeling that205

the courage with which he had been chargedso far had been sufficient to last only to themerchant's threshold. The merchant went to histable, and swung round on his heels: "Well?"Behind his back his fingers scratched at the topof the table."I've come to find out . .." Mitka plungedinto the cold slime of Mokhov's piercing eyesand shuddered. "Perhaps you'll give me Liza?"Despair, anger, fear, all combined to bring hisface out in perspiration, fine as dew during adrought.Mokhov's left eyebrow quivered, and his upperlip writhed back from the gums. He stretchedout his neck and leaned all his body forward:"What? Wha-a-at? You scoundrel! Get out!I'll have you before the ataman! You son of abitch!"Encouraged by this shout, Mitka watched thegrey-blue blood flooding into Mokhov's cheeks."Don't take it as an insult. I only wanted tomake up for what I've done."Mokhov rolled his bloodshot eyes and threwa massive iron ash-tray at Mitka' s feet. It reboundedand struck him on the knee. But hestoically bore the pain, and jerking open thedoor, shouted, baring his teeth with resentmentand pain:"As you like, Sergei Platonovich, just as you206

like, but I meant it. . . . Who would want hernow? I thought I'd cover her shame. But now. . . even a dog won't touch a gnawed bone."Pressing a crumpled handkerchief to his lips,Mokhov followed on Mitka's heels. He barredthe way to the main door, and Mitka ran outinto the yard. Here the master had only to winkto Yemelyan the coachman, and as Mitka wasstruggling with the stout latch at the wicketgate,four unleashed hounds tore round the cornerof the barn. Seeing a stranger, they boundedacross the clean-swept yard straight at him.In 1910, Sergei Platonovich had brought backa pair of black curly-haired pups from the fairat Nizhny Novgorod. In a year those black,curly, big-mouthed pups shot up like yearlingcalves. At first they snapped at the skirts ofthe women who passed Mokhov's yard, thenthey learned to pull the women to the groundand bite their legs, and it was only when theyhad killed Father Pankraty's calf and a pair ofAtyopin's hogs that Sergei Platonovich orderedthem to be chained up. Now the dogs were letloose only at night, and once every spring forthemating.Before Mitka could turn round the foremostdog was up at his shoulders with its teeth fastenedinto his jacket. The writhing black bodiesbit and tore at him. Mitka fought them off207

and tried to keep his balance. He saw Yemelyan,hispipe scattering sparks, disappear intothe kitchen, and heard the door slam behindhim.By the steps, leaning against a drain-pipe,stood Sergei Platonovich, his hairy white fistsclenched. Swaying and staggering, Mitka toreopen the gate and dragged the bunch of snarling,hot-breathed dogs after him on his bleedinglegs. He seized one by the throat and chokedit, and passing Cossacks with difficulty beatoff the others.IllNatalya fitted well into the Melekhov household.Although he was rich and employed labourers,her father had brought up his childrento work. Hard-working Natalya won thehearts of her husband's parents. Ilyinichna, whosecretly did not like her elder clothes-lovingdaughter-in-law Darya, took to Natalya fromthe very first."Sleep on, sleep on, little one! What are youout so early for?" she would protest kindly,bustling about the kitchen on her stout legs."Go back to bed, we'll manage without you."And Natalya who had got up at dawn to helpin the kitchen would go back to the best roomto complete her rest,208

Even Pantelei, who was usually strict in regardto household matters, said to his wife:"Listen, wife, don't wake Natalya. She workshard enough as it is. She's going out withGrisha to plough today. But whip up thatDarya. She's a lazy woman, and bad. Shepaints her face and blacken^ her brows, thebitch.""Let her take it a bit easy, the first year,"sighed Ilyinichna, remembering her own backbreakinglife,Grigory had begun to get used to his newlymarriedstate; but after two or three weeks herealized with fear and chagrin that he had notcompletely broken with Aksinya. Somethingwas left like a thorn in his heart, and the painwould not go soon. The feeling which, in theexcitement of marriage, he had dismissed witha careless wave of the hand was deep-rooted.He thought he could forget, but it refused tobe forgotten, and the wound bled. Even beforethe wedding Pyotr had asked him when theywere threshing together:"Grisha, but what about Aksinya?""Well, what about her?""Won't you feel sorry to throw her over?""Someone else will pick her up," Grigory hadsaid with a laugh."Well, you know best," Pyotr said, biting at14—1933 209

the chewed tip of his moustache, "but don'tmake a hash of your marriage.""Love grows old and the body cold," Grigoryreplied lightly.But it had not worked out like that. As hedutifully caressed his wife, trying to inflameher with his own youthful zest, he met withonly coldness and an embarrassed submissionfrom her. Natalya shrank from bodily delights;she had inherited something of her mother'sslow, unresponsive blood, and as he recalledAksinya's passionate fervour Grigory sighed:"Your father must have made you on ice, Natalya.You're too chilly by half."And when he met Aksinya she would smilewith a vague darkening of the pupils and herwords clung like the mud at the bottom of astream."Hullo, Grisha! How's love with your youngwife?""All right," Grigory would reply evasively,and escape as quickly as possible from her caressingglance.Stepan had evidently made up his quarrelwith his wife. He visited the tavern less frequently,and one evening, as he was winnowinggrain on the threshing-floor, he suggested, forthe first time since the beginning of the trouble:"Let's sing a song, Aksinya!"210

They sat down, their backs against a heap ofthreshed, dusty wheat. Stepan began an armysong, Aksinya joined in with her full, throatyvoice. They sang well together, as they had inthe first years of their married life, when theyused to jog back from the fields under the crimsonhem of the sunset glow and Stepan wouldsit on the load and sing an old song, as longand sad as the wild and desolate road acrossthe steppe. Aksinya with her head resting onthe bulging hoops of her husband's chest wouldtake up the tune. The horses would pull thecreaking wagon and the shaft-bow would bobup and down. And from afar the old men of thevillage would listen to the song."She's got a fine voice, that wife of Stepan's.""Aye, nice singing.""And what a voice Stepan has got, clear asa bell."And as they sat on the earthen banks roundtheir cottages watching the dusty purple of thesunset, the old men would exchange remarksacross the street, about the song, where it camefrom, and about those who had loved it.Grigory heard the Astakhovs singing, andwhile he was threshing (the two threshing-floorsadjoined) he could see Aksinya as self-assuredas before, and apparently happy. Or so itseemed to him.14* 211

Stepan was not on speaking terms with theMelekhovs. He worked on the threshing-floor,swinging his great sloping shoulders, occasionallymaking a jesting remark to Aksinya. Andshe would respond with a smile, her black eyesflashing. Her green skirt hovered constantlybefore Grigory's eyes. His neck was continuallybeing twisted by a strange force which turnedhis head in the direction of Stepan's yard. Hedid not notice that Natalya, who was helpingPantelei. spread out the sheaves for threshing,intercepted every involuntary glance with herown yearning, jealous gaze; he did not seePyotr, who was driving the horses round thethreshing circle, wrinkling his nose with a faintgrin as he watched his brother.The earth groaned under the crushing weightof the stone rollers and with the muffled rumblein his ears Grigory groped hazily in his mindand failed to catch the scraps of thought thatslipped elusively out of range of his consciousness.From near and distantthreshing-floors camethe sound of threshing: the shouts of drivers,the whistle of knouts, the rattle of the winnowingdrums. The village, fat with the harvest,basked in the September warmth, stretchingalong the Don like a beaded snake across aroad. In every farmyard with its wattle fence,212

under every Cossack roof, each brimming bitter-sweetlife whirled on, separate and apartfrom the rest. Old Grishaka had taken a chilland was suffering with his teeth; Mokhov,crushed by his shame, clawed his beard, weepingand grinding his teeth in solitude; Stepannursed his hatred for Grigory in his heart and hisiron fingers tore at the patchwork quilt in hissleep; Natalya would run to the shed and threwherself on the heap of cowdung fuel, shakingand huddling into a ball as she wept over herdesecrated happiness; Christonya, who had solda calf at the fair, then spent the money on drink,was tortured by pangs of conscience; Grigorysighed with insatiable longing and renewedpain; Aksinya, as she caressed her husband,flooded her undying hatred for him with tears.David had been discharged from the mill, andsat night after night with Knave inthe carters'shed, while Knave, his angry eyes flashing,would declare:"Just wait! They'll have their throats cut beforelong. One revolution wasn't enough forthem. Wait till we have another 1905, then we'llsettle scores. We'll settle scores!" he shook hisscarred finger threateningly, and with a shrugadjusted the jacket flung across his shoulders.And over the village slipped the days, passing into the nights; the weeks flowed by, the2tS

months crept on, the wind howled over the hill,warning of bad v/eather to come, and, glazedwith the clear greenish-blue of autumn, theDon flowed on indifferently to the sea.IVOne Sunday at the end of October Fedot Bodovskovdrove to the stanitsa on business. Hetook with him four braces of fattened ducks andsold them at the market; he bought his wifesome cotton print, and was on the point of drivinghome (with one foot on the wheel he wastightening the hame strap), when a stranger,obviously not of those parts, came up tohim."Good-afternoon," he greeted Fedot, puttinga sunburnt hand to the edge of his black hat." 'Afternoon," said Fedot and paused inquiringly,narrowing his Kalmyk eyes."Where are you from?""One of the villages.""And which village may that be?""Tatarsky."The stranger drew a silver cigarette-caseof his pocket and offered Fedot a cigarette.out"Is yours a large village?""No thanks, just had one. Our village? Prettybig. Three hundred families or thereabouts."214

"Is there a church there?"""Of course.""Any blacksmiths there?""Aye, there's a smithy.""Is there a workshop at the mill?"Fedot fastened the rein to his horse's bit, andlooked distrustfully at the man's black hat andthe furrows in the broad white face, fringedwith a black beard."What do you want to know for?""I'm coming to live at your village. I've justbeen to the district ataman. Are you going backempty?""Aye.""Will you take me back with you? I'm notalone. Iboxes."have my wife with me and a couple of"I can take you."Having agreed about the price, they drove toFroska the bun-maker's where his passengerwas lodging, collected the man's thin, blondwife, put the boxes in the back and set out onthe return journey. Clicking his tongue andflicking the plaited reins over the horse's backs,Fedot twisted his angular head round from timeto time; he was eaten up with curiosity. Hispassengers sat quietly behind him. Fedot firstasked for a cigarette, then he inquired:"Where are you from?"21^

"From Rostov.""One o' them?""What did you say?""Were you born there?""Er, yes."Fedot wrinkled his bronzed cheeks andpeered at the distant clumps of steppe grass. Theroad began to climb and half a verst from theroad, in the grey-brown brushwood on top ofthe ridge Fedot's practised eye spotted thescarcely visible movements of bustards' heads."Pity Ihaven't got a gun, or Fd be out afterthe bustards. There they go," he sighed, pointingwith his thumb."I don't see anything," his passenger replied,blinking shortsightedly.Fedot watched the bustards flutter into a gullyand twisted himself round to study his passengersmore closely. The man was of averageheight, but thin; his close-set eyes had a slytwinkle in them. He smiled frequently as hetalked. His wife, wrapped in a knitted shawl,was dozing and Fedot couldn't see her face."What are you coming to live in our villagefor?""Fm a mechanic. Fm thinking of starting aworkshop. I can do carpentry too."Fedot stared suspiciously at the man's bighands, and catching his2Wgaze, the stranger add-

ed: "I'm also an agent for the Singer Sewing-Machine Company.""What's your name?" Fedot asked."Stockman.""So you're not Russian, then?""Yes, I'm a Russian. But my grandfather wasa Lett by birth."In a short while Fedot had learned that OsipDavydovich Stockman had formerly worked ata factory, then somev/here in the Kuban, thenin the South-Eastern Railway workshops.And a great number of other facts the inquisitiveFedot elicited concerning the stranger'slife.After a while the conversation flagged. Fedotwatered his sweating horse at a wayside spring,and drowsy with the journey and the jolting ofthe cart, he began to doze. It was another fiveversts to the village. He fastened the reins tothe wagon and lay back comfortably. But hewas not allowed to go to sleep."How's life in your parts?" Stockman askedhim bouncing and swaying with the motion ofthe cart."Not so bad, we get our bread.""And the Cossacks generally, are they satisfiedwith life?""Some are, some aren't. You can't pleaseeverybody,"217

"That's true," the man assented, and went onasking his tricky probing questions."You live pretty well, you say?""Pretty well.""The annual army training must be a nuisance?Eh?""Army training? We're used to it. Nothing toworry about when you're in the army.""But it's hard on you Cossacks to have to supplyall the equipment.""Yes, the sons of swine!" Fedot said withsudden animation and glanced sidelong at thewoman. She averted her eyes.I"Our authorities are a bad lot. . . . Whenwent to do my service I sold my bullocks andbought a horse and they rejected him.""Rejected him?" Stockman said with assumedamazement."Right out. His legs were no good, they said.I argued with them, I tried everything. 'He'sgot legs like a prize stallion,' I said, 'it's justhis funny way of stepping, that's all.' But no,they wouldn't pass him. It's enough to ruinyou!"The conversation went on briskly. Fedotjumped off the wagon and began to talk freely ofthe village life. He cursed the village atamanfor his unjust division of the meadowland, andpraised the way things were run in Poland,218

where his regiment had been stationed. Stockman,casting sharp glances at Fedot from hisnarrowed eyes, smoked mild cigarettes in aringed bone holder and smiled frequently,the frown furrow in hisbutwhite sloping foreheadstirred slowly and heavily, as though drivenfrom within by hidden thoughts.They reached the village in the early evening.On Fedot's advice Stockman went to thewidow Lukeshka and rented two rooms fromher."Who is that you brought back with you?"Fedot's neighbours asked him as he drove pasttheirgates."An agent.""What kind of angel?""You're fools, that's what you are. An agent,I said. He sells machines. He gives them awayfree to the handsome ones, but to such as you.Auntie Marya, he sells them.""Look at yourself, you devil. Your Kalmyksnout is ugly enough to frighten a horse!""Kalmyks and Tatars come first in thesteppe, so don't you joke about them," Fedotparried.Mechanic Stockman lodged at the cross-eyed,long-tongued Lukeshka's. And the night hadscarcely passed before all the women's tonguesin the village were wagging.219

"Have you heard the news, neighbour?""What news?""Fedot the Kalmyk has brought a foreignerdown.""Really?""So help me God. He wears a hat and hisname is Shtopel or Shtokal. .". ."He's not from the police?""No, he's an exciseman.""It's all lies, my dears. He's a book-keeper,they say, just like Father Pankraty's son.""Pashka, my dove, run to Lukeshka and askher quietly: 'Who's that living with you,auntie?' ""Run quickly, child!"Next day Stockman reported to the villageataman.Fyodor Manitskov, who was in his third yearas ataman, turned the newcomer's passport overand over, then handed it to the clerk, who alsoturned it over and over. They exchangedglances, and the ataman, once a sergeant-major,authoritatively waved his hand."You can stay."The newcomer bowed and leftthe room. Fora week he did not put his nose outside Lukeshka'shouse keeping like a suslik to his burrow.He could be heard tapping with an axe, preparinga workshop in the tumble-down outdoor220

kitchen. The women's interest in him diedaway; only the children spent all day peepingover the fence and watching the stranger withunabashed curiosity.VThree days before Intercession Grigory andhis wife drove out to the steppe to plough. Panteleiwas unwell; he leaned heavily on his stickand wheezed with pain as he stood in the yardseeing them off."Plough up the two strips on the other sideof the common, by Red Dell, Grisha.""All right. What about the one up by WillowBank?" Grigory asked in a hoarse whisper; hehad caught a cold while fishing and had a clothround his throat."That can wait till after the holiday. You'llhave enough to do as it is, so don't be greedy.There must be fifteen acres up there.""Will Pyotr be coming to help?""He's going to the mill with Darya. We wantto get our milling done before the crowds begin."As Ilyinichna put some freshly-baked bunsin Natalya's jacket she whispered: "Perhapsyou'll take Dunya with you, to lead the bullocks?""Two people are enough."221

"All right, my dear. Christ be with you."Arching her slender figure under the weightof a load of damp washing, Dunya went paston her way to the Don to rinse the clothes. Asshe went by she called to Natalya:"Natalya, there's lots of sorrel in Red Dell.Pull some up and bring it home.""Now then, be off with you, chatterbox!"Pantelei said shaking his stick at Dunya.The three pairs of bullocks dragged the upturnedplough out of the yard, gouging thedrought-hardened earth. Grigory kept adjustingthe kerchief bound round his neck as hev/alked along at the roadside, coughing. Natalyawalked at his side, a bag with their food in itswinging on her back.A crystal stillness enveloped the steppe. Beyondthe common, on the other side of the humpbackedhill the earth was being combed withploughs, and the drivers were whistling; buthere along the high-road there was only theblue-grey of stunted wormwood, the roadsideclover nibbled by sheep, and the ringing glassycool of the sky above, criss-crossed with flyingthreads of jewelled gossamer.After seeing the ploughmen on their way,Pyotr and Darya made ready to drive to themill. Pyotr winnowed the wheat in the granary,Darya sacked it and carried it to the cart.222

Pantelei harnessed the horses carefully adjustingthe traces."Going to be long?""Coming," Pyotr answered from the granary.When they arrived at the mill they foundthe yard crowded with wagons. The scales weresurrounded by a dense throng. Pyotr threw thereins to Darya and jumped down from the cart."My turn soon?" he asked Knave the scalesman."You'll get there.""Who's being served now?""Number thirty-eight."Pyotr turned to fetch his sacks. As he did sohe heard cursing behind him. A hoarse, ill-temperedvoice barked: "You oversleep yourself,and then you want to go out of your turn. Getaway, khokhol*, or I'll give you one."Pyotr recognized the voice of HorseshoeYakov. He stopped to listen. The sound ofshouting swelled in the weighing-room. Thencame the sharp smack of a blow and an elderly,bearded Ukrainian with his cap crushed onthe back of his head came tumbling outthrough the doorway."What's that for?" he shouted, holding hischeek.* Khokhol -a derogatory term for a Ukrainian.223

"I'll wring your neck!""But look here. ,". ,"Mikifor, help!"Horseshoe Yakov, a spirited, stocky artilleryman,who had earned his nickname becauseof the horseshoe marks left on his face by thekick of a horse, came running out of the weighing-room,rolling up his sleeves. A tall Ukrainianin a pink shirt struck hard at him from behind.But Yakov stayed on his feet."Brothers,they're beating up the Cossacks!"he cried.Cossacks and Ukrainians, who were at themill in large numbers, came running from allsides into the wagon-filled yard. A fight beganround the main entrance. The door gave wayunder the pressure of the struggling bodies.Pyotr threw down his sack and with a grunt ranlightly towards the melee. Standing up on thecart, Darya saw him press into the middle ofthe crowd, knocking the others aside. Shegroaned as she saw him carried to the mill wall,flung down and trampled underfoot.Mitka Korshunov came skipping round thecorner from the machine-room, brandishing aniron bar. The same Ukrainian who had struckat Yakov from behind burst out of the strugglingcrowd, a torn pink sleeve fluttering outbehind him like a bird's broken wing. Bent dou-224

le, his hands touching the ground, he ran tothe nearest cart and pulled out a shaft as if itwere a match-stick. Hoarse cries rang out overthe yard. A crunching sound. Blows. Groaning.A steady roar of shouting. The three Shamilbrothers came running out of their house. OnearmedAlexei caught his feet in a pair of reinsleft lying on the ground and sprawled at thegate. He jumped up and went bounding acrossthe lined-up cart-shafts, pressing his armlessleft sleeve to his stomach. His brother Martinbent down to tuck in the trouser leg, which hadcome out of his white sock. The shouting atthe mill rose to a crescendo. Somebody let outa cry that floated high over the mill rooflike a wind-blown thread of cobweb, andMartin straightened up and dashed after hisbrothers.Darya stood watching from the cart, pantingand wringing her hands. Around her, womenwere squealing and wailing, horses pricked uptheir ears restlessly, bullocks bellowed andpressed against the carts. Pursing his lips Mokhovstalked past pale-faced, his belly bobbing upand down like an egg under his waistcoat. Daryasaw the Ukrainian with the tattered shirtcut Mitka Korshunov down with the shaft, thenext moment he himself was sent headlong byone-armed Alexei's iron fist. Scenes from the15—1933 225

fight passed before Darya's eyes like scraps ofcoloured rag. Without surprise she saw Mitka,on his knees, sweep Mokhov's legs from underhim with the iron bar. Mokhov threw outhis arms and crawled like a crab tothe weighing-shed,there to be kicked and trodden underfoot.Darya laughed hysterically, the blackarches of her painted brows cracked with herlaughter. But she stopped abruptly as she sawPyotr; swaying, he had made his way out of theheaving, yelling mob, and was lying under acart, spitting blood. Darya ran to him with ashriek. Cossacks came hurrying from the villagewith stakes; one of them flourished a crowbar.The fighting was taking on fantastic proportions.It was no mere tavern brawl or Shrovetidefisticuffs between villages. At the door ofthe weighing-shed a young Ukrainian lay witha broken head in a pool of blood; bloodystrands of hair fell over his face. It looked asthough he was departing his pleasant life.Herded together like sheep, the Ukrainianswere slowly being driven towards the unloading-shed.Things would have taken a bad turn,had not an old Ukrainian had an inspiration.Darting into the shed, he pulled a flaming brandout of the furnace and ran towards the shedwhere the milled grain was stored: a thousandpoods and more of flour. Smoke streamed over226

his shoulder like muslin and sparks, daylightdimmed,scattered about."I'll set it afire!" he screamed, raising thecrackling brand towards the thatched roof.The Cossacks wavered and came to a halt. Adry, blustering wind was blowing from theeast, carrying the smoke away from the roofof the shed towards the group of Ukrainians.One goodly spark in the dry rush thatch, andthe whole village would go up in flames.A low murmur arose from the Cossacks. Someof them began to back away towards the mill,while the Ukrainian, waving the brand abovehis head and scattering fiery rain, shouted:"I'll burn it! I'll burn it! Out of the yard!"With fresh red-blue bruises on his scarredface Horseshoe Yakov, the man who had startedthe fight, was the first to leave the yard. Theother Cossacks streamed hurriedly after him.Throwing their sacks hastily on to their wagons,the Ukrainians harnessed their horses, then,standing up in their wagons, waving the endsof the leather reins around their heads, andwhipping up their horses frantically, they toreout of the yard and away from the village.One-armed Alexei stood in the middle of theyard, his empty knotted sleeve jerking on hishard flat belly, his eye and cheek twitching asusual.15* 227

"To horse, Cossacks!""After them!""They'll not go far."Mitka Korshunov, theas ifworse for wear, madeto dash out of the yard. A fresh ripple ofdisturbance passed over the crowd of Cossacksround the mill. But at that moment an unfamiliarfigure in a black hat appeared from theengine room and approached the group withhasty steps; his piercing eyes narrowed intoslits darted over the crowd as he raised his handand shouted:"Stop!""Who are you?" Yakov demanded, scowling."Where'd you spring from?""Bash him!""Stop, villagers!""Who are you calling villagers, you bobtail?""Muzhik. Give him one,"The dirtyYakov!"bumpkin!""That's right, black his eyes for him!"The man smiled diffidently, but without asign of fear. He took off his hat and wiped hisbrow with a gesture of complete simplicity;his smile was utterly disarming."What's the matter?" he asked, waving hishat at the blood by the door of the weighingshed.228

"We've been beating up the khokhols," onearmedAlexei replied peaceably, eye and cheektwitching."But what for?""They wanted to go out of turn/' Yakov explained,stepping forward and wiping a clot ofblood from his nose with a sweep of the arm."We gave 'em something to remember us by.""Pity we didn't go after them. . . . Nothing toburn in the steppe.""We got scared, he wouldn't have dared setfire to it.""He'd have done it all right, he was desperate.""The khokhols are a mighty bad-temperedlot," Afonka Ozerov said with a grin.The m.an waved his hat in Ozerov's direction."And who are you?"Ozerov spat contemptuously through hiswidely-spaced teeth, and, watching the flight ofthe spittle, planted his feet apart."I'm Cossack. But you . . . what are you, agypsy?""You and Iare both Russians."Do you know that?""You're lying," Afonka declared deliberately."The Cossacks are descended from the Russians."And I tell you the Cossacks are the sons ofCossacks."229

!"Long ago," the man explained, "serfs ranaway from the landowners and settled along theDon, They came to be known as Cossacks.""Go your own way, man!" Alexei said withrestrained anger, clenching his heavy fist andblinking hard."The swine wants to make muzhiks out of usWho is he?""He's the new fellow living with cross-eyedLukeshka," another explained.But the moment for pursuit of the Ukrainianswas past. The Cossacks dispersed, animatedlydiscussing the fight.That night, in the steppe some eight verstsfrom the village, as Grigory wrapped himselfin his thick prickly sheepskin, he said wistfullyto Natalya:"You're a stranger, somehow! You're like thatmoon, you neither chill a man, nor warm him.I don't love you, Natalya; you mustn't be angry,I didn't want to say anything about it, butthere it is; we can't go on like this. I'm sorryfor you; it looked as if we were coming closerlately, but I can't feel anything in my heart.It'sjust empty. Like the steppe tonight."Natalya stared up at the inaccessible starrypastures, at the shadowy, ghost-like cloak ofthe clouds floating above her, and was silent.230

From somewhere in the bluish-black wildernessabove a belated flight of cranes called to eachother with voices like little silver bells.The withered grass had a sad, dead smellabout it. On a hillock flickered the ruddy glowof a ploughman's camp-fire.Grigory awoke just before dawn. A threeinchlayer of snow covered his sheepskin. Thesteppe was hidden beneath the shimmering, virginalblue of the fresh fall; the clearly-markedtracks of a hare that had lost its way on thefirst snow ran close by the spot where he lay.VIFor many years past, if a Cossack travelledalone along the road to Millerovo and fell inwith Ukrainians (the Ukrainian villages beganat Lower Yablonovsky and stretched for seventy-fiveversts, as far as Millerovo), he had beenobliged to yield them the road, or they wouldset about him. So the Cossacks were in thehabit of driving to the railway station ingroups, and then they were not afraid of fallingin with Ukrainians out in the steppe andexchanging invective:"Hey, khokhol! Give us the road! Think youcan live on the Cossacks' land, you swine, andnot let them pass!"231

The Ukrainians, who had to cart their grainto the elevator at Paramonovo on the Don, werenot to be envied either. Fights would break outwithout cause, simply because they were "khokhols,"and once a man was a "khokhol," he hadto be beaten up.Many centuries ago a diligent hand had sownthe seeds of caste hatred in the Cossack landand cultivated them with care, and the seed hadyielded rich fruit. The earth flowed with theblood shed in these brawls between Cossackand newcomer from the Ukraine and Russia.Some two weeks after the battle of the milla district police officer and an inspector arrivedin the village. Stockman was the first to be examined.Rummaging in his brief case, the inspector,a young official from the Cossack nobility,asked him: "Where were you living before youcame here?""At Rostov.""What were you imprisoned for in 1907?"Stockman's eyes glided over the inspector'sbrief case and his bowed head with its scurfyside parting."For disturbances.""Hm! Where were you working then?""At the railway workshops,""What as?""Mechanic."232

"You're not a Jew, are you? Or a convertedone?""No. I think""I'm not interested in what you think. Haveyou been in exile?""Yes, I have."The inspector raised his head, and bit hisclean-shaven, pimply lips."I advise you to clear out of this district," hesaid, adding to himself, "and I'll see to it thatyou do.""Why, inspector?"The answer was another question."What did you talk to the Cossacks about onthe day of the fightat the mill?""Well..". ."All right, you can go."Stockman went out on to the verandah ofMokhov's house (the authorities always madethe merchant's house their headquarters) andglanced back at the painted double doors withashrug.VIIWinter came on slowly. After Intercessionthe snow melted and the herds were drivenout to pasture again. For a week a south windblew, warming the earth; a late stunted greengave a last bright gleam in the steppe. The thaw233

lasted until St. Michael's Day, then the frostreturned and heavy snow fell, and the vegetablepatches by the Don, where the snow had driftedto the top of the fences, were criss-crossedwith the marks of hares' feet. The streets weredeserted.The smoke of dung fuel hung low over thevillage, and rooks pecked about on the heapsof ash scattered by the roadside. The smoothsledge-track wound in a faded grey-blue ribbonthrough the village.A village assembly was to be held to arrangefor the allotment and cutting of brushwood. TheCossacks crowded round the steps of the villageadministration in their sheepskins andgreatcoats, until the cold drove them inside. Behinda table, beside the ataman and clerk, therespected village elders with their silvery beardswere gathered; the younger Cossacks withbeards of various colours and those with nobeard at all stood round in groups and mutteredto one another out of the warmth of their coatcollars. The clerk covered sheet after sheet of paperwith close writing, while the atamanwatched over his shoulder, and a restrained humfilled the chilly room,"The hay this year. ,". ."Aye, the meadow hay is good, but thesteppe hay is all clover,"234

"In the old days they'd be grazing in thesteppe till Christmas.""That was all right for the Kalmyks."A throaty cough."The ataman's getting a neck like a wolf'son him. So fat he can't turn his head.""Fed himself up like a pig, the devil!""Hullo, Grandpa, trying to scare the winteraway? What a sheepskin you've got on!""Time for the gypsy to sell his coat soon.""Did ye hear of the gypsy lad who spent thenight in the steppe and hadn't anything to coverhimself with except a fishing net? When the coldstarted creeping round his guts, he wakes up,pushes his finger through a loop in the net andsays to his mother: 'So that's where thedraught's coming from. I thought it was chilly.' ""I fear we'll have some slippery days soon.""Better get the oxen shod.""I've been cutting the willows down in Devil'sgully. Good stuff there.""Button your fly, Zakhar. If you get frostbite,your woman'll turn you out of the house,""What's this I hear about you taking overone of the common bulls, Avdeyich?""I decided not to. That Parasha woman'sgoing to take care of it. I'm a widow, she says,the more the merrier. All right, I says, it maygive you an addition to the family, , ,235."

"Haw-haw-haw!""Now, elders! What about the wood-cutting?Quiet there!""Yes, I says, if you get an addition, you'llneed a godfather.""A little quieter, please."The meeting began. Toying with his rod ofoffice, the ataman called out the names, pluckingicicles out of his beard with his little finger.Now and then the door slammed at the back ofthe room and people squeezed in amid cloudsof cold air."You can't fix the wood-cutting for Thursday!"Ivan Tomilin attempted to shout downthe ataman and rubbed his purple ears, cockinghis head in its blue artillery cap on oneside."Why not?""You'll rub your ears off, gunner!" somebodycalledout."We'll sew on a pair of bull's ears for him.""On Thursday half the village will be goingout to bring in hay. A fine way to arrangethings. .". ,"You can leave that till Sunday!""Elders!""What now!""Good luck to him!"A howl of derision arose from the assembly.23&

Old Matvei Kashulin leaned across the ricketytable and, pointing his smooth ash stickat Tomilin, croaked furiously."The hay can wait! It's for the community tosay. Ye're always agin everybody else. Ye'rea young fool, my lad! And that's that!""You've got no brains to boast about, anyway.". . one-armed Alexei joined in, his disfiguredcheek twitching. For six years he hadbeen quarreling with old Kashulin over a stripof land. Alexei beat up the old man everyspring, although the strip that Kashulin hadgrabbed was not big enough to swing a cat inanyway."Shut up, jelly-face!""Pity you're out of my reach, or I'd bloodyyour nose for you," Alexei threatened,"Why, you one-armed twitcher. .!"."Now then, enough of this bickering. .", ."Go outside if you want to try your strength.""Chuck it, Alexei, look how the old fellow'sbristling up, he'll lose his hat in a minute.""Put 'em in the cooler if they won't behave."The table groaned as the ataman brought hisheavy fist down on it with a crash."I'll call the watchman in in a moment, ifthere isn't silence." When order was restored,he added: "Wood-cutting will begin on Thursdayat dawn."237

"Well, what do you say, elders?""Good luck to it!""God grant it!""They don't listen much to the old folk nowadays!""They'll listen all right. Do they think theyMy Alexander, when Ican do what they like?gave him his portion, he wanted to start a fightover it, laid hands on me, he did. I put him inhis place though. 'I'll go to the ataman this.'minute,' I says, 'and have you thrashed, . .That cooled him off all right. .". ."And one other thing, elders. I've received anorder from the district ataman." The villageataman raised his voice and twisted his neck;the stiff collar of his uniform was cutting intohis chin, "Next Saturday the youngsters are togo to be sworn in at the district ataman's office.They are to be there by the afternoon."Pantelei Prokofyevich was standing by thewindow nearest the door, holding up his lameleg like a crane. At his side Miron Grigoryevichwas sitting on the window-sill, smiling intohis ruddy beard. His short fair eye-lashes werefluffed with hoar-frost, his big brown freckleshad turned grey in the cold. The younger Cossackswere crowded close by, winking and smilingat one another. In the middle of theirgroup, hisblue-topped quardsman's cap thrust238

ack on his smooth bald head, his unageingface everlastingly blushing likea ruddy winterapple, stood Avdeyich Sinilin,Avdeyich had served in the Ataman's Lifeguards,and had come back with the nickname"Braggart." He had been one of the first inthe village to be assigned tothe Ataman's Regiment.He had always been a little queer inthe head, but on active service something verystrange had happened to him. From the veryfirst day of his return he had begun to tell astonishingstories of service at the court and hisextraordinary adventures in St. Petersburg.His astounded listeners at first believed him,drinking it all in with gaping mouths, but thenthey discovered that Avdeyich was the biggestliar the village had ever produced, and theyopenly laughed at him. But he was not to beabashed (although he was always so red in theface you could never tell if he was blushing),and did not give up his lying. As he grew olderhe began to get annoyed when caught out in alie, and would resort to his fists; but if his listenersonly laughed and said nothing he grewmore and more expansive in his story-telling.As far as his farming was concerned he wasa practical and hard-working Cossack, in everythinghe acted sensibly, sometimes cunningly,but when the subject turned to his service in239

the Lifeguards-everyone simply threw up theirhands and doubled up with laughter.Avdeyich stood in the middle of the room,rocking on his heels. Glancing round the assembledCossacks, he observed in his ponderous,bass voice:"Speaking of service, these days the Cossacksaren't at all what they were. They're justshrimps, no size at all. You could crack any one.''of 'em in half just by sneezing at him. But . .and he smiled contemptuously, "I saw someCossack skeletons once! Ah! They were Cossacksin those days!""Where did you dig the skeletons up, Avdeyich?"smooth-faced Anikushka asked,nudging his neighbour."Don't start telling any of your lies, Avdeyich,with the Holy Day so near," Pantelei said,wrinkling up his nose and tugging his ear-ring.He did not like Avdeyich's bragging habits."It isn't in my nature to lie, brother," Avdeyichreplied firmly, and stared in astonishmentat Anikushka, who was shaking as though withfever. "I saw these skeletons when we werebuilding a house for my brother-in-law. As wewere digging the foundation we came to agrave. So down here by the Don, next thechurch there must have been a cemetery in theold days,"240

"Well, what about the skeletons?" Panteleiasked impatiently, getting ready to go,"Arms-that long." Avdeyich said extendingboth his rake-like arms. "Head as big as a cauldron-trueas I live!""You'd better tell the youngsters how youcaught a robber in St. Petersburg," Miron suggested,as he rose from the window-sill."There's nothing really to tell," Avdeyich replied,affected by a sudden attack of modesty"Tell us, tell us, Avdeyich!""Well, it was like this," Avdeyich clearedhis throat and drew his tobacco pouch out ofhis trouser pocket. He replaced the two coppercoins that had dropped out of the pouch,poured a pinch of tobacco on to his palm, andran a beaming eye over his audience. "Some villainhad escaped from prison. They looked forhim all over the place, but do you think theycould find him? They just couldn't. All the authoritieswere beaten."Well, one night the officer of the guard callsme to him: 'Go into the imperial palace,' hesays. 'His Imperial Majesty wants to see you.'So in I went. I stood to attention, but he clapsme on the shoulder and says: 'Listen!' he says,'Ivan Avdeyich, the biggest villain in our kingdomhas done a bunk. Find him, even if youhave to stand on your head to do it. And don't16—1933 241

let me see you till you have!' 'Very good. YourImperial Majesty!' Isays. Yes, lads, that was afacer. ... So I took three of the best horses inthe tsar'sstables and set out."Lighting a cigarette, Avdeyich surveyed thebowed heads of his listeners and, warming tohis subject, boomed out of the cloud of smokeenveloping his face:"I rode all day, and I rode all night, until onthe third day I came up with the villain nearMoscow. I clapped the bird into my coach, andhauled him back to St. Petersburg. I arrived atmidnight, all covered with mud, and wentstraight to His Imperial Majesty himself. Allsorts of counts and princes tried to stop me, butin I marched. Hm. . . . Well, I knocks at thedoor. 'May I come in. Your Imperial Majesty?''Who is it?' 'It's me,' I says, 'Ivan Avdeyich Sinilin.'I heard a noise in the room, and heardHis Majesty himself cry out: 'Maria Fyodorovna,Maria Fyodorovna! Get up quick andget a samovar going. Ivan Avdeyich hasarrived.' "There was a roar of laughter from thewhoCossacksat the back of the crowd. The clerk,had been reading a notice about stray cattle,stopped in the middle of a sentence, and theataman stretched out his neck like a goose andstared hard at the guffawing crowd.242

Avdeyich's face clouded and his eyes wandereduncertainly over the faces before him."Wait a bit!""Ha-ha-ha!""Oh, he'll be the death of us!"" 'Get a samovar going! Avdeyich has arrived!'Ha-ha-ha!"The assembly began to break up. A constantsteady creaking rose from the frozen steps ofthe administration house. On the trampled snowoutside Stepan Astakhov and a tall, longsliankedCossack, the owner of the windmill,were wrestling to get themselves warm.The Cossacks gathered round shouting advice."Throw him, the heathen!""Knock the stuffing out of him, Stepan!""Don't grab him there! Think you're clever!"old Kashulin shouted, hopping about like asparrow; and in his excitement he failed to noticea large bright dewdrop hanging shyly fromthe tip of his bluish nose,VIIIWhen Pantelei returned from the meeting hewent at once to the room which he and his wifeoccupied. Ilyinichna had been unwell for somedays, and her puffy face reflected her weariness16* 243

and pain. She lay propped up high on a plumpfeather bed with a pillow at her back. At thesound of Pantelei's footsteps she turned herhead; her eyes rested on his breath-dampenedbeard and matted whiskers with the look ofseverity that had become a habit with her, andher nostrils twitched. But the old man smelledonly of frost and sour sheepskin. "Sober today,"she thought, and contentedly laid downher knitting-needles."Well, what about the wood-cutting?""They've decided to begin on Thursday."Pantelei stroked his moustache. "Thursdaymorning," he added, sitting down on a chest atthe side of the bed. "Well, feeling any better?""Just the same. Shooting pains in all myjoints.""I told you not to go into the water, you fool.And in autumn too ! You knew what would happen,"Pantelei fumed, tracing broad circles onthe floor with his stick. "There were plenty ofother women to ret that hemp, curse the stuff. . . curse it all!""I couldn't let the hemp be wasted. Thereweren't any women. Grisha was out ploughingwith his. Pyotr and Darya had gone off somewhere."The old man blew into his cupped hands andbent towards the bed.244

"And how's Natalya?"There was a note of anxiety in Ilyinichna'svoice asshe replied:"I don't know what to do. She was cryingagain the other day. I went out in the yardand found someone had left the bam door wideopen. I went up to shut it, and there she wasstanding by the millet bin. I asked her whatwas the matter, but she said she only had aheadache. I can't get the truth out of her.""Maybe she's poorly?""I don't think so. Either someone's given herthe evil eye, or else it's Grisha. . ."He hasn't taken up again with that woman,by any chance?""Goodness, no! What a thing to say!" Ilyinichnaexclaimed in alarm. "What do you takeStepan for-a fool? No, I haven't heard anything."Pantelei sat with his wife a little longer, thenwent out. Grigory was in his room sharpeningfishing hooks with a file. Natalya was smearingthem with lard, and carefully wrappingeach in a separate rag. As Pantelei limped byhe stared at her inquisitively. Her sallow cheekswere flushed like an autumn leaf. She hadgrown noticeably thinner during the pastmonth, and there was a new, wretched look inher eyes. The old man paused at the door.245."

"He's killing the girl!" he thought, as he glancedback at Natalya's smooth head bowed overthe bench. Grigory sat near the window. Hisblack tousled forelock jerked with every strokeof the file."Drop that, devil take you!" the old manshouted, turning livid in a sudden frenzy. Grigorylooked up startled."I've got two more points to sharpen. Dad.""Drop it, I tell you! Get ready for the woodcutting.The sledges aren't ready at all, and yousit there sharpening hooks," he added morequietly, and lingered at the door, evidentlywanting to say something else. But he went out.Grigory heard him giving vent to the rest ofhis anger on Pyotr.As Grigory pulled on his coat, he heard hisfather shouting in the yard:"Haven't you watered the cattle yet, youyoung lounger? And who's been meddling withthat stack by the fence? Didn't I say it wasn'tto be touched? You'll use up all the best hay,damn you, then what will you feed the bullockson in spring?"A good two hours before dawn on Thursday,Ilyinichna woke Darya: "Get up! Time to lightthe fire!"Darya ran in her shift to the stove, foundsome matches and struck a light,246

"Get a move on!" Pyotr nagged his wife,coughing as he lit a cigarette."They don't go and wake that Natalya up!Am I to tear myself in two?" Darya grumbledcrossly, still only half-awake."Go and wake her up yourself," Pyotr advisedher. But the advice was unnecessary, for Natalyawas already up. Pulling on her blouse,she went out to get fuel for the fire."Fetch some kindling," her sister-in-law commanded."Tell Dunya to fetch the water, Darya, doyou hear?" Ilyinichna called hoarsely, movingabout the kitchen with difficulty.The kitchen smelled of fresh hops, harness,and the warmth of human bodies. Darya shuffledabout in her felt boots, rattling the pots;under her pink shift her small breasts quivered.Married life had not soured or withered her.Tall and slender, supple as a willow switch, shelooked like a girl.She walked with a twisting movement of theshoulders; she laughed at the shouts of her husband;a firm row of small close-set teethshowed under the fine rim of her shrewishlips."You ought to have brought some fuelbricksin overnight. They would have dried inthe stove," Ilyinichna grumbled.247

"I forgot. Mother, It can't be helped," Daryaanswered.Dawn broke before the meal was ready. Panteleihurried over his breakfast,. blowing on thethin porridge. Grigory ate slowly and moodily,his jaw muscles working up and down, andPyotr, unnoticed by his father, amused himselfwith teasing Dunya, who was suffering withtoothache and had her face bound up.The sound of sledge-runners was heard fromthe street. Bullock sledges were moving downto the river in the grey dawn. Grigory andPyotr went out to harness their sledges. As hewent Grigory wound a soft scarf, his wife'sgift, around his neck, and gulped in the dryfrosty air. A raven flew overhead with a full,throaty cry. The swish of its slowly flappingwings could be heard distinctly in the frostystillness. Pyotr watched its flight and remarked:"Flying south, to the warm."Behind a rosy little cloud, as gay as a girlishsmile, a tiny slip of moon gleamed dimly.The smoke from the chimneys rose in columns,reaching towards the inaccessibly distant, goldenpointed blade of the waning moon:The river was not quite frozen over oppositethe Melekhovs' house. Along the edges of thestream the ice was firm and green under drifts248

of snow. But beyond the middle where springsflowed from the Black Bank, a gap in the iceyawned sombre and menacing out of the corrodedwhiteness. The water was freckled withthewild duck that were wintering there.with the old bullocks,Pantelei drove off firstleaving his sons to follow later. On the slopedown to the river-crossing Pyotr and Grigorycaught up with Anikushka. With a new axehandle sticking out of his sledge, and wearinga broad green sash he was walking at the sideof his bullocks, while his wife, a stunted sicklywoman, held the reins."Hullo, neighbour, surely you're not takingyour woman with you?" Pyotr shouted to him.Anikushka, hopping up and down to keepwarm, grinned and went over to the brothers."Yes, I am, to keep me warm.""You'll get no warmth from her, she's toolean.""That's true; and I feed her with oats, butstill she doesn't fatten!""Shall we be cutting in the same strip?" Grigoryasked, jumping off the sledge."Yes, if you'll give me a smoke.""You've always been a scrounger, Anikushka.""The sweetest things in life are begged andstolen," Anikushka chuckled, wrinkling hishairless womanish face in a smile.249

The three drove on together. The forest waslaced with rime, and of a virgin whiteness. Anikushkarode in front, lashing his whip againstthe branches overhead. The needle-sharp snowcrystals showered down on his wife."Don't play about, you devil!" she shouted athim, as she shook the snow off."Drop her into the snow head first," Pyotradvised trying to get his whip under the bullock'sbelly to speed its pace.At a turn of the road they met Stepan Astakhovdriving two yoked bullocks back towardsthe village. The leather soles of his felt bootssqueaked on the snow as he strode along. Hiscurly forelock hung below his fur cap like abunch of white grapes."Hey, Stepan, lost your way?" Anikushkashouted as he passed.my way be damned! We swung over,"Lostand the sledge snapped its runner on a stump.So I've got to go back," Stepan cursed obscenelyand his fierce light eyes narrowed insolentlyas he passed Pyotr."Left your sledge behind?" Anikushka asked,turning round.Ignoring the remark, Stepan cracked hiswhip at the bullocks that were heading awayfrom the track and gave Grigory a long hardstare as he passed on. A little farther on the250

group came to a sledge abandoned in the middleof the road. Aksinya was standing by it. Holdingdown the edge of her sheepskin with herleft hand, she was gazing along the road intheirdirection."Out of the way or I'll run you over. Oho,you're the wife for me!" Anikushka roared. Aksinyastepped aside with a smile, and sat downon the overturned sledge."You've got your own wife with you."tail,"Yes, she sticks to me like a burr on a pig'sotherwise I'd give you a lift.""Thank you kindly."As Pyotr came up to her he gave a quickglance back at Grigory. Grigory was smilinguncertainly, anxiety and expectation expressedin all his movements."Good health to you, neighbour," Pyotr greetedher, touching his cap with his mitten."Praise be.""What, sledge broken?" Pyotr asked."Yes, it is," she replied slowly without lookingat Pyotr, and rising to her feet, turnedtowards Grigory. "Grigory Panteleyevich,I'd like a word with you," she said as hecame up.Asking Pyotr to look after his bullocks fora moment, Grigory turned to her. Pyotrlaughed suggestively, and drove on.251

The two stood silently regarding each other.Aksinya glanced cautiously around, then turnedher liquid black eyes again to Grigory'sface. Shame and joy flamed in her cheeks anddried her lips. Her breath came in sharp gasps.At a turn in the road Anikushka and Pyotrdisappeared behind the brown oak trunks.Grigory looked straight into Aksinya's eyesand saw in them a spark of stubborn recklessness."Well, Grisha, do as you please, but I can'tlive without you," she said firmly, and pressedher lips together waiting for his answer.Grigory made no reply. The forest was lockedin silence. A glassy emptiness rang in his ears.The surface of the road, polished smooth bysledge-runners,the grey rag of sky, the forest,dumb, deathly drowsy. ... A sudden cry of araven near by seemed to rouse Grigory fromhis momentary lethargy. He raised his headand watched the bird winging away in silentflight. He was surprised when he heard himselfsay:"It's going to be warm. He's making for thewarm." He seemed to shake himself and laughedhoarsely. "Well..". . He turned his intoxicatedeyes furtively on Aksinya, and suddenlysnatched her tohim.252

IXDuring the winter evenings a little groupof villagers gathered in Stockman's room at Lukeshka'shouse. There were Christonya, andKnave from the mill, a greasy jacket drapedover his shoulders, the ever-smiling David (nowthree months a loafer), the engineman, IvanAlexeyevich Kotlyarov, sometimes Filka thecobbler, and always Misha Koshevoi, a youngCossack who had not yet done his regular armyservice.At first the group played cards. Then Stockmancasually brought out a book of Nekrasov'spoetry. They began to read the volume aloud,and liked it. Then they went on to Nikitin, andabout Christmas-time Stockman suggested thereading of a dog-eared, unbound booklet.Koshevoi, who had been to the church schooland could read aloud, glanced contemptuouslyat the greasy pages."You could make noodles of it, it's sogreasy," he said in disgust.Christonya roared with laughter; Davidsmiled dazzlingly. But Stockman waited forthe merriment to die away, and then said:"Read it, Misha. It's interesting. It's allabout the Cossacks."253

Bending his head over the table, Koshevoispeltout laboriously:"A Short History oi the Don Cossacks," andthen glanced around expectantly."Read it!" Kotlyarov said.They laboured through the book for threeevenings, reading about the free life of thepast, about Pugachov, Stenka Razin and KondratyBulavin. Finally they came down to recenttimes. The unknown author poured scornon the Cossacks' miserable existence; scoffedat the authorities and the system, the tsar'sgovernment and the Cossackry itself whichhad hired itself out to the monarchs as theirhenchmen. The listeners grew excited and beganto quarrel among themselves. Christonya,his head touching the roof-beam, spoke up inhis booming voice. Stockman sat at the door,smoking a pipe, his eyes smiling."He's right! It's all true!" Christonya burstout."It's not our fault such shame was broughtupon the Cossacks." Koshevoi spread his armsin perplexity and puckered up his handsomeface.He was thick-set, broad in the shoulders andhips, almost square. From the cast-iron foundationof his body rose a firm brick-red neck onwhich his small, gracefully set head looked254

strange, with its effeminately soft cheeks, smallobstinate mouth and dark eyes under thegolden slab of curly hair.The engineman Kotlyarov, a tall thin Cossack,was steeped to the bone in Cossack traditions,and his round protruding eyes flashedas he vigorously defended the Cossacks:"You're a muzhik, Christonya, you've only gota drop of Cossack blood in you to a bucketfulof water. Your mother was mated with a muzhikfrom Voronezh.""You're a fool, you're a fool, brother!"Christonya boomed. "I stand for the truth.""I wasn't in the Lifeguards," Kotlyarovsaid slyly. "They're all fools there.""There are some pretty hopeless cases inthe rest of the army too.""Shut up, muzhik!""And aren't the muzhiks just as much menas you?""They're muzhiks, they're made of bast andstuffed with brushwood.""When I was serving in Petersburg, brother,I saw many things," Christonya said, hissouthern accent coming out strongly. "Once ithappened that we were on guard at the tsar'spalace, inside and outside. We used to rideround the walls on horseback, two this wayand two that. When we met we used to ask:255

'All quiet, no disorders anywhere?' and thenwe'd ride on. We weren't allowed to stop andtalk. And they chose us for our looks. Whenwe had to take our turn on guard at the doorsthey'd choose each pair so as they should bealike in their faces and their figures. Oncethe barber even had to dye my beard becauseof this stupidity. I had to take a turn at guardwith a Cossack in our squadron with hair thatwas a kind of bay colour. Plagued if I knowhow he got like it, must have been scorchedby a fire or something. They searched allthrough the regiment and there wasn't anotherlike him. So the troop commander sent me tothe barber to have my beard dyed. When Ilooked in the glass afterwards my heart almostbroke. I looked as if I was on fire.Honestly I did. Made my fingers sizzle totouch the thing!""Now he's off, the old windbag. But whatwere we talking about?" Kotlyarov interruptedhim,"About the people.""Well, tell us about them. What the blitheringhell do we want to hear about your beardfor!""Well, as I was saying-I once had to takea turn on guard outside. We were riding along,me and my comrade, when a mob of students256

came running round the corner. Thick as fliesthey were! As soon as they saw us they roared:Hah!' and then again: 'Hah!' And before weknew where we were they had surrounded us,'What are you riding about for, Cossacks?'they asked. And I said: 'We're keeping guard,and you let go those reins, young fella' ' andclapped my hands on my sword. 'Don't get mewrong, Cossack, I'm from Kamenskaya Districtmyself,and I'm studying in the uniservity,or the univorsity, or whatever you call it, onesaid. We make to ride on, and one fellow witha big nose pulls out a ten-ruble pieceand says:'Drink to the health of my dead father,' Andthen he pulls a picture out of his pocket.'Look, that's my father,' he says, 'take it as akeepsake.' Well, we took it, we couldn't refuse.And they went off again. Just then a lieutenantcomes riding out of the back gates of thepalace with a troop of men. 'What's happened?'he shouts. And I tell him students had comeand begun talking to us, and we had wantedto sabre them according to instructions, but asthey had set us free we had ridden off. Whenwe went off duty later, we told the corporalwe'd earned ten rubles and wanted to drinkthem to the memory of the old man, showinghim the picture. In the evening the corporalbrought some vodka, and we had a good time17—1933 257

for a couple of days. But afterwards we foundout what the trick was. It turned out that thisstudent, the young bastard, had given us apicture of the biggest trouble-maker in Germany.I had hung it over my bed; he had agrey beard and looked a decent sort of chap.But the lieutenant saw it and asked: 'Wheredid you get that picture from, you son of agun?' So I told him, and he began swearingat me and punching me in the face: 'Do you.'know who that is? He's their ataman Karl. . .Drat it, I've forgotten his name. Now, whatwas it. . .?""Karl Marx?" Stockman suggested with abroad smile."That's it, Karl Mars," Christonya exclaimedjoyfully. "He got me into trouble all right.Why, sometimes the tsarevich Alexei and histutors used to come into the guardroom. Theymight have seen it. What would have happenedthen?""And you keep praising the muzhiks. Whata trick they played on you," Kotlyarovchuckled."But we drank the ten rubles. It was thebearded Karl we drank to, but we drank allthe same!""He deserves to be drunk to," Stockmansmiled, playing with his cigarette-holder.258

"Why, what good did he do?" Koshevoiqueried."I'll tell you another time, it's getting latenow." Stockman held the holder between hisfingers, and ejected the dead cigarette-end witha slap from the other hand.After long sifting and testing, a little groupof ten Cossacks began to meet regularly inStockman's workshop. Stockman was the heartand soul of the group and he worked straighttowards a goal that only he fully understood.He ate into the simple understandings andconceptions like a worm into wood, instillingrepugnance and hatred towards the existingsystem. At first he found himself confrontedwith the cold steel of distrust, but he was notto be repulsed. Even that could be worn away.XOn the sandy slope of the left bank of theDon lies Vyeshenskaya stanitsa, the most ancientstanitsa of the upper Don. Originallycalled Chigonaki, it was moved to a newsite after being sacked during the reign ofPeter the First, and renamed Vyeshenskaya,It was formerly an important link alongthe great water-way from Voronezh to Azov.Opposite Vyeshenskaya the Don bends like17* 259

a Tatar bow, turns sharply to the right, andby the little village of Bazki majesticallystraightens again, carries its greenish-bluewaters over the chalky base of the hills on thewest bank, then, with thickly-clustered villageson the right and occasional stanitsas on theleft, down to the sea, to the blue Sea of Azov.At Ust-Khoperskaya it joins with its tributarythe Khoper, and at Ust-Medveditskaya,with the Medveditsa, and then it flows on deepand full-watered amid a riotous growth ofpopulous villages and stanitsas.The stanitsa of Vyeshenskaya stands amongyellow sand-drifts. It is a bald cheerless placewithout orchards. In the square stands an oldchurch, grey with age, and six streets run outof the square in lines parallel with the river.Where the Don bends towards Bazki, a lake,about as wide as the Don in the dry season,branches off into a thicket of poplars. The farend of Vyeshenskaya slopes down to this lake,and in a smaller square, overgrown with goldenprickly thorn, is a second church, with greencupolas and green roof, matching the green ofthe poplars on the other side of the lake.Beyond the village to the north stretches asaffron waste of sands, a stunted pine plantation,and creeks whose water is pink from thered-clay soil. Here and there in the sandy260

wilderness are rare oases of villages,meadowland,and a rusty scrub of willows.One Sunday in December a dense crowd offive hundred young Cossacks from all the villagesin the district was assembled in thesquare outside the old church. Mass ended, thesenior sergeant, a gallant old Cossack withlong-service decorations, gave an order, andthe youngsters drew up in two long stragglingranks. Sergeants rushed to and fro to get themdressed off."Ranks!" the sergeant boomed and makinga vague gesture with his hand, snapped: "Formfours."The ataman entered the churchyard, dressedaccording to form and wearing a new officer'sgreatcoat, his spurs jingling, and followed bythe military policeman,Grigory Melekhov who was standing next toMitka Korshunov heard him whisper:"My boot pinches like hell.""Stick it out, they'll make you an ataman.""We'll be going inside soon."As if to confirm this, the senior sergeant fellback a pace or two, turned sharply on his heelsand shouted:"Right turn. Forward march!"The column filed through the wide-open261

gate, and the church dome rang with the soundof tramping feet.Grigory paid no attention to the words ofthe oath of allegiance being read by the priest.By his side stood Mitka Korshunov, his facecontorted with the pain of his tight new boots.Grigory's upraised arm grew numb, an achingjumble of thoughts was running through hismind. As he came up to the crucifix and kissedthe silver, damp with the moisture of manylips, he thought of Aksinya, and of his wifeWith the suddenness of a flash of forked lightninghe had a vision of the forest, its browntrunks and branches fluffed with white down,and the humid gleam of Aksinya's black eyesunder her kerchief. . . .When the ceremony was ended they weremarched out into the square and were againdrawn up in ranks. Blowing his nose andstealthily wiping his fingers on the lining ofhis coat, the sergeant addressed them:"You're not boys any longer now, you'reCossacks. You've taken the oath and you oughtto understand what's what. You've grown upinto Cossacks and you've got to guard yourhonour, obey your fathers and mothers and allthe rest of it. You were boys once, you've hadyour fun and games-used to play tipcat in theroad, I expect-but now you must think about262

your future service. In a year's time they'll becalling you up into the army. . .." Here thesergeant blew his nose again, shook his handclean and, drawing on his rabbit's down gloves,ended: "And your fathers and mothers mustthink about getting you your equipment. Theymust fit you out with an army horse, and . . .in general. . . . And now, home you go and Godbe with you, my lads."Grigory and Mitka joined up with the restof the lads from their village, and they set offtogether for home.They walked back along the Don. The smokeof cottage stoves hung in wisps over the villageof Bazki, and bells were ringing faintly. Mitkalimped along behind the others, leaning on aknotty stake that he had broken out of a fence."Take your boot off," one of the lads advised."I'll get my foot frost-bitten," Mitka repliedhesitantly."You can keep your sock on."Mitka sat down on the snow and tugged offhis boot. Then he walked on, stepping heavilyon his stockinged foot. The thick knitted stockingmade a sharp imprint in the crisp snow."What road shall we take?" the stumpyshock-headed Alexei Beshnyak asked."Along the Don," Grigory answered forthem all.263

They walked on, talking and jostling oneanother off the road. Each of them was pulledover by the others, who piled on top of him.Between Bazki and Gromkovsky Mitka was thefirst to spot a wolf crossing the Don."Look, lads, there's a wolf!"The young Cossacks started shouting andcatcalling and the wolf loped off, then halted,standing sideways, not far from the oppositebank."Catch him!""Yah!""It's you he's looking at, Mitka, walking inyour sock.""What a fat neck he's got!""Look, there he goes!"The grey form stood stiffly for a moment,as though carved out of granite, then took ahurried leap and slunk away into the willowsgirding the bank.It was dusk when they reached the village.Grigory made his way along the ice to the paththat led up to his home. A disused sledge stoodin the yard; in a heap of brushwood pilednear the fence the sparrows were twittering.He felt the smell of habitation, of charredsoot, and the steamy odour of the stables.Grigory went up the steps of the house andglanced in at the window. The hanging lamp264

shed a dim yellow glow through the room.Pyotr was standing in its light with his backto the window. Grigory brushed the snow offhis boots with the besom at the door, andentered the kitchen amid a flurry of steam."Well, I'm back.""You've been quick. You got frozen, I expect,"Pyotr replied in an anxious and hurriedtone.Pantelei was sitting with his head bowed inhis hands, his elbows on his knees. Darya wasspinning at the droning spinning-wheel. Natalyawas standing at the table with her back toGrigory, and did not turn round on his entry.Glancing hastily around the kitchen Grigoryrested his eyes on Pyotr. His brother's agitatedlyexpectant face told him that somethingwas amiss."Taken the oath?""Uh-huh."Grigory took off his outdoor clothes slowly,playing for time, and turning over in his mindall the possibilities which might have led tothis chilly and silent welcome. Ilyinichna cameout of the best room, her face expressing heragitation."It's Natalya!" Grigory thought, as he satdown on the bench beside his father.''Get him some supper," his mother said to265

Darya, indicating Grigory with her eyes.Darya stopped in the middle of her spinningsong,and went to the stove, her girlish figureswaying from the waist. The kitchen was engulfedin a silence broken only by the heavybreathing of a goat and its newly-born kid.As Grigory sipped his soup he glanced atNatalya. But he could not see her face. She wassitting sideways to him, her head bent overher knitting-needles. Pantelei was the first tobe provoked into speech by the general silence.Coughing artificially, he said:"Natalya is talking about going back to herparents."Grigory pressed some bread-crumbs into aball, and said nothing."And why's that?" his father asked, hislower lip quivering: the first sign of a comingoutburst offrenzy."I don't know," Grigory replied as he roseand crossed himself."But I know!" his father raised his voice."Don't shout, don't shout!" Ilyinichna interposed."Yes, there's no cause for shouting." Pyotrmoved from the window to the middle of theroom. "It's up to her. If she wants to stay, shecan stay; if she doesn't, well . . . God be withher!"266

"I'm not blaming her. Of course it's a disgraceand asin before God to leave your husband,but I don't blame her. It's not her fault,but that son of a bitch's." Pantelei pointedto Grigory who was warming himself at thestove."Who have I done wrong?" Grigory asked."You don't know? You don't know, youdevil?""No, Idon't."Pantelei jumped up, overturning the bench,and went close up to Grigory. Natalya droppedher stocking and the needles clattered to thefloor. At the sound a kitten jumped down fromthe stove and, with its head on one side andpaw curved, began to pat the ball of wool towardsthe chest."What I say to you is this," the old man beganslowly and deliberately. "If you won't livewith Natalya, you can clear out of this houseand go wherever your feet will carry you.That's what I say to you. Go where your feetwill carry you," he repeated in a calm voice,and turned and picked up the bench.Dunya sat on the bed, her round frightenedeyes darting from one to the other."I don't say this in anger. Dad," Grigory'svoice was jarringly hollow. "I didn't marry ofmy own choice, it was you who married me267

off. As for Natalya, I'm not stopping her. Shecan go to her father, if she wants to.""You clear out yourself.""I will!""Go to the devil!""I'm going. I'm going, don't be in a hurry."Grigory reached for the sleeve of his short furcoat lying on the bed, his nostrils dilated, hiswhole body quivering with a boiling anger thatwas just like his father's. The same mingledTurkish and Cossack blood flowed in theirveins, and at that moment their resemblance toeach other was extraordinary."Where are you going?" Ilyinichna groaned,seizing Grigory' sarm. But he pushed her awayforcibly and snatched up his fur cap."Let him go, the sinful swine! Let him go,curse him! Go on, go! Clear out!" the old manthundered throwing the door wide open.Grigory ran out on to the steps, and the lastsound he heard was Natalya's loud uncontrollableweeping.The frosty night held the village in its grip,prickly snow was falling from the black sky,the cracking of the ice on the Don resoundedlike cannon shots. Grigory ran panting out ofthe gate. At the far end of the village dogswere barking discordantly, and yellow pointsof light shone through the frosty haze.268

He walked aimlessly down the street. Theblackness of the Astakhovs' windows gleamedwith the brilliance of a diamond."Grisha!" he heard Natalya's yearning cryfrom the gate."You go to hell!" Grigory grated his teethand hastened his steps."Grisha, come back!"He stumbled drunkenly into the first crosslane,and for the last time heard her distant,anguished cry:.""Grisha, darling. . .He swiftly crossed the square and stoppedat a fork in the road, wondering where tospend the night. He decided on Misha Koshevoi.Misha lived with his mother, sister andtwo little brothers in a lonely straw-thatchedhouse right by the hill, Grigory entered theiryard and knocked at the tiny window."Who is it?""Is Misha there?""Yes, who is it wants him?""It's me, Grigory Melekhov."After a moment, Misha, awakened from hisfirst sleep, opened the door."You, Grisha?""Me.""What do you want at this time of night?""Let me in,we'll talk inside,"269

In the passage, Grigory gripped Misha'selbow and cursing himself for being unable tofind the right words, whispered: "I want tospend the night with you. I've fallen out withmy people. Have you got room for me? Anywherewill do.""We'll fix you up somewhere. What's the rowabout?""I'll tell you later. , . . Where's the doorhere? I can't see it."They made Grigory a bed on the bench. Helay thinking, his head tucked under his sheepskinso as not to hear the whispering ofMisha's mother, who slept in the same bed asher daughter. What was happening at homenow, he wondered. Would Natalya go back toher father or not? Well, life had taken a newturn. Where should he go? And the answercame swiftly. He would send for Aksinya tomorrow,and go with her to the Kuban, faraway from here . . . far, far away. . . .Rolling steppeland, villages, stanitsas, unknown,unloved, floated before Grigory'sclosed eyes. And beyond the rolling hills, beyondthe long grey road lay a welcoming landof blue skies, a fairy-tale land with Aksinya'slove, in all its rebellious late-flowering strength,to make it the more attractive.270

His sleep was troubled by the approachingunknown. Before he finally dozed off he triedhard to recall what it was that oppressed him.In his drowsy state his thoughts would floweasily and smoothly, like a boat going downstream,then suddenly they would come upagainst something, as though the boat hadstrucka sandbank. He wrestled with the bafflingobstacle. What was it that lay in his path?In the morning he awoke and at once rememberedwhat it was-his army service! Howcould he go away with Aksinya? In the springthere was the training camp, and in the autumnthe army draft.He had some breakfast, and called Mishaout into the passage."Misha, go to the Astakhovs for me, willyou?" he said. "Tell Aksinya to come to thewindmill this evening after dark.""But what about Stepan?" Misha said hesitantly."Say you've come on some business orother.""All right, I'll go.""Tell her to be sure to come.""Oh, all right."In the evening Grigory went to the mill andsat there smoking, hiding the cigarette in hiscuff. Beyond the mill the wind was stumbling271

over withered maize stalks. A scrap of torncanvas flapped on the chained and motionlesssail. It sounded like a great bird flapping roundthe mill, unable to fly away. Aksinya did notappear. The sun had set in the west in a fading,gilded lilac, from the east the wind beganto blow freshly; darkness was overtaking themoon stranded among the willows. Above thewindmill the ruddy, blue-streaked sky wasdeathly dark; the last sounds of busy dayhovered over the village.He smoked three cigarettes in succession,thrust the last end into the trodden snow, andgazed round in anxious irritation. Half-thawedcart-tracks from the mill to the village showeddarkly in the snow. There was no one in sight.He rose, stretched himself, and moved towardsthe light twinkling invitingly in Misha'swindow. He was approaching the yard, whistlingthrough his teeth, when he stumbled intoAksinya. She had evidently been running: shewas out of breath, and the faint scent of thewinter wind, or perhaps of fresh steppe hay,came from her fresh cold mouth."I waited and waited, I thought you weren'tcoming.""I had to get rid of Stepan.""You've made me frozen, you wretch!"272

"I'm hot, I'll warm you." She flung open herwool-lined coat and wrapped herself roundGrigory like hops round an oak,"Why did you send for me?""Take your arms away, somebody may pass.""You haven't quarrelled with your people,have you?""I've left them. I spent the night with Misha.I'm a homeless dog now.""What will you do now?" Aksinya relaxedthe grip of her arms and drew her coat tightwith a shiver. "Let's go over to the fence,Grisha, We can't stand here in the middle ofthe road."They turned off the road, and Grigory,sweeping away the drift-snow, leaned againstthe frosty crackling wattle fence."You don't know whether Natalya has gonehome, do you?""I don't. . . . She'll go, I expect. How can shestay here?"Grigory slipped Aksinya's frozen hand upthe sleeve of his coat, and squeezing herslender wrist, he said:"And what about us?""I don't know, dear. Whatever you thinkbest.""Will you leave Stepan?""Without a sigh. This evening, if you like."18—1933 273

"And we'll find work somewhere, and livesomehow.""They can put me in the shafts as long asI'm with you, Grisha. Anything to be withyou."They stood close together, each warming theother. Grigory did not want to stir; he stoodfacing into the wind, his nostrils quivering, hiseyelids closed. Aksinya, her face pressed intohis armpit, breathed in the familiar, intoxicatingscent of his sweat; and on her shamelesslyavid lips, hidden from Grigory's eyes, trembleda joyous smile of happiness fulfilled."Tomorrow I'll go and see Mokhov. He maybe able to give me work," Grigory said, shiftinghis grip on Aksinya's wrist, which hadgrown damp with perspiration under hisfingers. Aksinya did not speak, nor did sheraise her head. The smile slipped like a dyingwind from her face, and the anxiety and fearlurking in her dilated eyes gave them the lookof a frightened animal. "Shall I tell him ornot?" she thought, as she remembered that shewas pregnant. "I must tell him," she decided,but immediately, trembling with fear, she droveaway the terrible thought. With a woman's instinctshe sensed that this was not the momentto tell him; she realized that she might loseGrigory for ever; and uncertain whether the274

child leaping beneath her heart was Grigory'sor Stepan's, she deceived her conscience, anddid not tell him."Why are you trembling? Are you cold?"Grigory asked, wrapping his coat about her."I am a little. ... I must go, Grisha. Stepanwill come back and find me away.""Where's he gone?""To Anikei's to play cards."They parted. The agitating scent of her lipsremained on Grigory's lips; the scent of thewinter wind, or perhaps that faint, farawayscent that comes from the hay after a springshower in the steppe.Aksinya turned into a by-way; bending low,she almost ran. By a well, where the cattle hadchurned up the autumn mud, she stumbled awkwardly,her foot slipping on a frozen clod; andfeeling a lacerating pain in her belly she caughtat the fence. The pain died away, but in herside something living, moving, beat angrily andstrongly time and again.XINext morning Grigory went to see Mokhov.Mokhov had just returned from the shop andwas sitting with Atyopin in the dining-roomwith its rich oak-coloured wall-paper, sipping18* 275

strong, claret-coloured tea. Grigory left his capin the hall and went in,"I'd like to have a word with you, Sergei Platonovich,""Ah, Pantelei Melekhov's son, isn't it? Whatdo you want?""I've come to ask whether you could give mea job."As Grigory spoke the door creaked, and ayoung officer in a khaki tunic with a lieutenant'sepaulettes entered. Grigory recognized him asthe young Listnitsky whom Mitka Korshunovhad outraced the previous summer. Mokhovmoved a chair up for the officer, and turnedback to Grigory."Has your father come down in the world,that he is putting his son out to work?" he inquired,"I'm not living with him any more,""Left him?""Yes.""Well, I'd gladly take you on. I know yourfamily to be a hard-working lot,I haven't any work for you to do."but I'm afraid"What's the matter?" Listnitsky inquired,pulling his chair up to the table."This lad is looking for work.""Can you look after horses? Can you drivea team?" the officer asked as he stirred his tea.276

"I can. I've had the care of our own sixhorses.""I want a coachman. What are your terms?""I'm not asking for much.""In that case come to my father at our estatetomorrow. You know the house? At Yagodnoye,about twelve versts from here."i"Yes, I know it.""Then come tomorrow morning and we shallsettle the matter."Grigory went to the door. As he turned thehandle he hesitated, and said: "I'd like to havea word with you in private. Your Honour."Listnitsky followed Grigory out into the semidarknessof the passage. A rosy light filtereddimly through the Venetian glass of the doorleading to the balcony."Well, what isit?""I'm not alone. .". . Grigory flushed darkly."I've got a woman with me. . . . Perhaps youcan find something for her to do?""Your wife?" Listnitsky inquired, smiling andraising his eyebrows."Someone else's.""Oh, I see. All right, we'll fix her up as cookfor the servants. But where is her husband?""Here in the village.""So you've stolen another man's wife?""She wanted to come."277

"A romantic affair! Well, come along tomorrow.You may go now."Grigory arrived at Yagodnoye at about eightthe next morning. The house was surroundedby a peeling brick and plaster wall. Outbuildingsstraggled over the big yard: a wing witha tiled roof, the date 1910 picked out with tilesof a different colour; the servants' quarters, abath-house, stables, poultry-house and cattleshed,a long barn and coach-house.The house was large and old, and nestled inan orchard. Beyond it rose a grey wall of barepoplars and the meadow willows, empty rooks'nests swinging in their brown tops.As he entered the yard Grigory was welcomedby a pack of Crimean borzois. An old bitch,rheumy-eyed and lame, was the first to sniff athim and follow him with drooping head. In theservants' quarters a cook was quarrelling witha young, freckled maid. A thick-lipped old gafferwas sittingin a cloud of tobacco smoke onthe door-step. The maid conducted Grigory tothe house. The hall reeked of dogs and uncuredpelts. On a table lay the case of a double-barrelledgun and a game-bag with a frayed greensilk fringe."The young master will see you," the maidcalled to Grigory through a side door.Grigory glanced apprehensively at his muddy27B

oots, and entered. Listnitsky was lying on abed next to the window. On the eider-down wasa box containing tobacco and smoking utensils.The officer made himself a cigarette, buttonedup the collar of his white shirt, and remarked:"You're in good time. Wait, my father willbe here in a minute."Grigory stood by the door. Presently he heardthe sound of footsteps in the ante-room, and adeep bass voice asked through the door: "Areyou asleep, Yevgeny?""Come in."An old man wearing black Caucasian feltboots entered. Grigory gave him a sidewaysglance. He was immediately struck by the thincrooked nose and the white arch of his moustache,stained yellow by tobacco under the nose.Old Listnitsky was tall and broad-shouldered,but gaunt. He wore a long camel-hair tunacthat hung loosely, the collar encircling hisbrown wrinkled neck like a noose. His fadedeyes were set close to the bridge of his nose."Papa, here's the coachman I spoke to youabout. The lad's from a decent family.""Whose son is he?" the old man asked in abooming voice."Melekhov's.""Which Melekhov's?""Pantelei Melekhov's."279

"I knew Prokofy, I remember Pantelei too.Lame, isn'the?""Yes, Your Excellency," Grigory replied, comingstiffly to attention. He recalled his father'sstories of the retired General Listnitsky, a heroof the Russo-Turkish war."Why are you seeking work?" the old maninquired."I'm not living with my father. Your Excellency.""What sort of Cossack will you make ifyouhire yourself out? Didn't your father providefor you when you left him?""No, Your Excellency.""Hm, that's another matter. You want workfor your wife as well?"The younger Listnitsky's bed creaked heavily.Grigory, glancing in his direction, saw the officerwinking and nodding his head."That's right. Your Excellency.""None of your 'excellencies.' I don't like them.Your wage will be eight rubles a month. Forboth of you. Your wife will cook for the servantsand seasonal workers. Is that satisfactory?""Yes.""Move in tomorrow morning. You'll occupythe previous coachman's quarters.""How did the hunting go yesterday?" List-280

nitsky asked his father, lowering his narrowfeet on to the carpet."We started a fox out of the gully at Gremyachyand chased it as far as the woods, but itwas an old one and fooled the dogs.""Is Kazbek still limping?""He must have sprained his foot. Hurry up,Yevgeny, breakfast is getting cold."The old man turned to Grigory and snappedhis bony fingers."Quick march! Be here at eight."Grigory went out. On the far side of the bamthe borzois were sunning themselves on a patchof ground bare of snow. The old bitch with therheumy eyes trotted up to Grigory, sniffed athim from behind and followed him a little waywith head still drooping mournfully, thenturned back.XIIAksinya had finished her cooking early. Shebanked up the fire, washed the dishes, andglanced out of the window looking on to theyard. Stepan was standing by the wood-pileclose to the fence bordering on the Melekhovs'yard. A half-smoked cigarette hung from thecorner of his firm lips. The left-hand corner ofthe shed was tumbling down, and he was selectingposts suitable for its281repair.

Aksinya had arisen with two rosy blushesin her cheeks and a youthful glitter in her eyes.Stepan noticed the change, and as he was havingbreakfast he could not forbear to ask:"What's happened to you?""What's happened?" Aksinya echoed him,flushing."Your face is shining as though you hadsmeared yourself with oil.""It's the heat of the fire." And turning awayshe glanced stealthily out of the window to seewhether Misha Koshevoi's sister was coming.But the girl did not arrive until late in theafternoon. Tormented with waiting, Aksinyastarted up:"Do you want me, Mashutka?""Come out for a moment."Stepan was standing before a scrap of mirrorfixed into the whitewashed stove, combing hisforelock and chestnut moustache with a stumpyox-horn comb. Aksinya looked at him nervously."You aren't going out, are you?"He did not answer immediately, but put thecomb into his trouser pocket, and picked up apack of cards and his tobacco pouch which werelying on the stove ledge. Then he said: "I'mgoing along to Anikushka's for a while.""And when are you ever at home? You spendevery night at cards. And all night, too."282

"All right, I've heard that before.""Are you going to play pontoon again?""Oh, drop it, Aksinya. Look, there's someonecoming to see you."Aksinya sidled out into the passage. Thefreckled, rosy-faced Mashutka welcomed herwith a smile."Grisha's back.""Well?""He told me to tell you to come along to ourhouse as soon as it's dark."Seizing the girl's hand, Aksinya drew her towardsthe outer door."Softer, softer, dear! Did he tell you to sayanything else?""He said you're to get your things togetherand take them along."Burning and trembling, unable to keep herfeet still, Aksinya turned and glanced at thekitchen door."Lord, how am I to. ... So quickly? Well . . .wait. Tell him I'll be along as soon as I can.But where will he meet me?""You're to come to our house.""Oh, no!""All right, I'll tell him to come out and waitfor you."Stepan was drawing on his coat as Aksinyawent in.283

"What did she want?" he asked between twopuffs at a cigarette."Who?""The Koshevois' girl.""Oh, she came to ask me to cut out a skirtfor her,"Blowing the ash off his cigarette, Stepan wentto the door."Don't wait up for me," he said as he wentout.Aksinya ran to the frosted window anddropped to her knees before the bench. Stepan'sfootsteps sounded along the path trodden out inthe snow to the gate. The wind caught a sparkfrom his cigarette and carried it back to thewindow. Through the melted circle of glass Aksinyacaught a glimpse of his fur cap and theoutline of his swarthy cheek.Feverishly she turned jackets, skirts and kerchiefs-herdowry-out of the great chest andthrew them into a large shawl. Panting andwild-eyed, she passed through the kitchen forthe last time, and putting out the light, ran onto the steps. Someone emerged from the Melekhovs'house to see to the cattle. She waited untilthe footsteps had died away, fastened thedoor by the chain, then ran down to the Don.Strands of hair escaped from her kerchief andtickled her cheeks, and as she made her way by284

side lanes to the Koshevois' hut, clutching herbundle, her strength ebbed and her feet draggedleadenly, Grigory was waiting for her atthe gate. He took the bundle and silently led theway into the steppe.Beyond the threshing-floor Aksinya slowedher pace and caught at Grigory's sleeve. "Waita moment," she said."What for? The moon will be late tonight, wemust hurry.""Wait, Grisha!" She halted, doubled up withpain,"What's the matter?" Grigory turned back toher."Something . . , inside me. I must have liftedsomething heavy." She licked her dry lips,screwing up her eyes in pain till she saw pinpointsof fire, and clutched at her belly. Shestood a moment, bowed and miserable, andthen, poking her hair under her kerchief, set offagain."I'm all right now, come along.""You haven't even asked where I'm takingyou to. I might be leading you to the nearestcliff to push you over," Grigory said smilinginthe darkness."It's all the same to me now. I can't go back."Her voice trembled with an unhappy laugh.That night Stepan returned at midnight as285

usual. He went first to the stable, threw thescattered hay back into the manger, removedthe horse's halter, then went to the house. "Shemust have gone out for the evening," hethought, as he unfastened the chain. He enteredthe kitchen, closed the door fast, and struck amatch. He had been in a winning vein thatevening, and so was quiet and drowsy. He litthe lamp, and gaped at the disorder of the kitchen,not guessing the reason, A little astonished,he went into the best room. The openchest yawned blackly. On the floor lay an oldjacket which Aksinya had forgotten in her hurry.Stepan tore off his sheepskin and ran backto the kitchen for the light. He stared aroundthe best room, and at last he understood. Hedropped the lamp, and, scarcely aware of whathe was doing, tore his sabre from the wall,gripped the hilt until the veins swelled in hisfingers, raised Aksinya's blue and yellow jacketon its point, threw the jacket up in the air andwith a short swing of the sabre slashed it intwo as it fell.Grey, savage in his wolfish grief, he threw thepieces of the old jacket up to the ceiling againand again; the sharp steel whistled as it cutthem in their flight.Then, tearing off the sword-knot, he threwthe sabre into a corner, went into286the kitchen,

and sat down at the table. His head bowed,with trembling iron fingers he sat stroking theunwashed table-top.XIIITroubles never come singly. The morningafter Grigory left home, through Het-Baba'scarelessness Miron Korshunov's pedigree bullgored the throat of his finest mare. Het-Babacame running into the house, white, distractedand trembling:"Trouble, master! The bull, curse him, the."damned bull. . ."Well, what about the bull?" Miron asked inalarm."He's done the mare in. Gored her. .". .Miron ran half-dressed into the yard. Bythe well Mitka was beating the red five-yearoldbull with a stake. The bull, his head downand dewlap dragging over the ground, waschurning up the snow with his hoofs and scatteringa silvery powder around his tail. Insteadof yielding before the drubbing, he bellowedhuskily and stamped his hind-feet as thoughabout to charge. Mitka beat him on his noseand sides, cursing the while and paying noheed to Mikhei, who was trying to drag himback by his belt,287

"Keep back, Mitka ... for Lord's sake.He'll gore you! Master, why don't you tellhim?"Miron ran to the well. The mare was standingby the fence, her head drooping sadly. Herdark heaving flanks were wet with sweat, andblood was running down her chest. Her lightbayback and sides were quivering, causinggreat shivers in her groin,Miron ran to look at her front. A rose-colouredwound, big enough to take a man's hand,and revealing the windpipe, gaped in her neck.Miron seized her by the forelock and raised herhead. The mare fixed her glittering violet eyeson her master as though mutely asking: "Whatnext?" And as if in answer to the question Mironshouted: "Run and tell someone to scaldsome oak bark. Hurry!"Het-Baba, his Adam's apple trembling inhisdirty neck, ran to strip some bark from a tree,and Mitka came across to his father, one eyefixed on the bull circling and bellowing aboutthe yard."Hold the mare by her forelock," his fatherordered. "Someone run for some twine. Quick!Or do you want a box on the ears?"They tied the string tightly round the mare'svelvety, slightly hairy upper lip so that sheshould not feel the pain.288

Old Grishaka came hobbling up. An infusion,the colour of acorns, was brought out ina painted bowl."Cool it down," he croaked. "It's too hot,isn't it? Miron, do you hear me?""Go inside. Dad. You'll catch cold out here."kill"I tell you to cool it down. Do you want tothe mare?"The wound was bathed. With freezing fingersMiron threaded raw twine through a darningneedle and sewed up the edges, making aneat seam. He had hardly turned away to goback to the house when his wife came runningfrom the kitchen, alarm written large on herflabby cheeks. She called her husband aside:"Natalya's here, Miron. . .! Oh, my God!""Now what's the matter?" Miron demanded,hisface paling."It's Grigory. He's left home!" Lukinichnaflung out her arms like a rook preparing forflight, clapped her hands against her skirt, andbroke intoa wail:"Disgraced before the whole village! Lord,what a blow! Oh. ,!".Miron found Natalya in a shawl and shortwinter coat standing in the middle of thekitchen. Two tears welled in her eyes, and hercheeks were deeply flushed.19-1933 289

"What are you doing here?" her father blusteredas he ran into the room. "Has your husbandbeaten you? Can't you get on together?""He's gone away!" Natalya groaned, swallowingdry tears, and she swayed and fell onher knees before her father. "Father, my lifeis ruined. . . . Take me back. . , . Grigory's goneaway with that woman. He's left me. Father,I've been crushed into the dust!" she sobbedout the half-finished phrases, gazing imploringlyup at her father's ruddy beard..""Wait, wait now, . ."There's nothing for me to live for there!Take me back!" She crawled on her knees tothe chest and dropped her head on to her arms.Her kerchief slipped off her head and her smoothstraight black hair fell over her pale ears. Tearsat such a time are like rain in a May drought.Her mother pressed Natalya's head against hersunken belly, whispering motherly foolishwords of comfort; but Miron, infuriated, ranout to the steps,"Harness up two sleighs!" he shouted.On the steps a cock, perched busily on theback of a hen, took fright at the shout, jumpedclear, and stalked off towards the bam, squawkingindignantly."Harness up two sleighs!" Miron kickedagain and again at the fretted balustrade of the290

steps until it was hopelessly ruined. He returnedto the house only when Het-Baba hurriedout from the stables with a pair of horses,harnessing them as he ran.Mitka and Het-Baba drove to the Melekhovs'for Natalya's possessions. In his abstractionHet-Baba sent a young pig in the road flying."Mebbe the master will forget all about themare now," he was thinking, and rejoiced, lettingthe reins hang loose. "But he's such anold devil, he'll never forget," and sneering tohimself, Het-Baba tried to get the whip lashunder the tenderest part of the horse's belly.XIVYevgeny Listnitsky held a commission aslieutenant in the Ataman's Lifeguards Regiment.Having had a tumble during the officers' hurdleraces and broken his left arm, he took furloughwhen he came out of hospital and went to staywith his father for six weeks.The old general lived alone at Yagodnoye.He had lost his wife while driving in the suburbsof Warsaw in the 1880's. Shots fired atthe Cossack general had missed him, but riddledthe carriage, killing his wife and coachman.Listnitsky was left with his two-year-oldson Yevgeny. Soon after this event the gen-19* 291

ieral retired, abandoned an estate of ten thousandacres in the Saratov Province which hadbeen granted to his great-grandfather in recognitionof his services during the war of 1812,and moved to Yagodnoye, where he lived anaustere and rigorous life.He sent his son Yevgeny to the cadets' corpsas soon as the lad was old enough, and occupiedhimself with farming. He purchasedblood stock from the imperial stables, crossedthem with the finest mares from England andfrom the famous Provalsky stables, and reareda new breed. He raised cattle and livestockon his own, and bought land, sowed grain(with hired labour), hunted with his borzois inthe autumn and winter, and occasionally lockedhimself in the dining hall and drank forweeks on end. He was troubled with a stomachcomplaint, and his doctor had strictly forbiddenhim to swallow anything solid; he hadto extract the goodness from all his food bymastication, spitting out the residue on toa silver tray held by his personal servantVenyamin.Venyamin was a half-witted, swarthy youngpeasant, with a shock of thick black hair. Hehad been in Listnitsky's service for six years.When he first had to wait on the general itmade him feel sick to watch the old man202

spitting out the chewed food. But he gotused to it.The other inhabitants of the estate were thecook Lukerya, the ancient stableman Sashka,and the shepherd Tikhon. From the very firstthe flabby pock-marked Lukerya, who with herhuge bottom looked like a yellow lump of unrisendough, would not allow Aksinya near thestove."You can cook when the master takes on extraworkers in the summer. Now I can manageby myself,"Aksinya was set to work washing the floorsof the house three times a week, feeding theinnumerable fowls, and keeping the fowl-houseclean. She worked with a will, trying to pleaseeveryone, even the cook. Grigory spent muchof his time in the spacious log-built stableswith Sashka the stableman. The old man wasone mass of grey hair, but everybody still familiarlycalled him "Sashka." Probably evenold Listnitsky, for whom he had worked morethan twenty years, had forgotten his surname.In his youth Sashka had been the coachman,but as he grew old and feeble and his sightbegan to fail he was made stableman. Stocky,covered with greenish-grey hair (even the hairon his hands was grey), with a nose that hadbeen flattened by a club in his youth, he wore293

'an everlasting childish smile and gazed out onthe world with blinking artless eyes. Theapostolic expression of his face was marred byhis broken nose and his hanging scarred underlip.In his army days Sashka had once got drunkand taken by mistake a swill of aqua regiainstead of vodka. The fiery liquid had weldedhis lower lip to his chin, leaving a crookedglowing pink scar. Sashka was fond of vodka,and when he was in his cups he would strutabout the yard as though he were master.Stamping his feet, he would stand under oldListnitsky's bedroom and call loudly andsternly:"Mikolai 'Lexeyevich! Mikolai Xexeyevich!"If old Listnitsky happened to be in his bedroomhe would come to the window."You're drunk, you good-for-nothing!" hewould thunder.Sashka would hitch up his trousers, andwink and smile. His smile danced diagonallyright across his face, from his puckered lefteye to the pink scar trailing from the rightcorner of his mouth; it was a crooked smilebut a pleasant one."Mikolai 'Lexeyevich, Your Excellency, Iknow you!" he would wag his lean, dirty fingerthreateningly.294

i"Go and sleep it off!" his master wouldsmile pacifyingly, twisting his drooping moustachewith all five nicotine-stained fingers."You can't take me in!" the stablemanwould laugh, going up to the railings of thefence. "Mikolai 'Lexeyevich, you're like me.You and me-we know each other like a fishknows water. You and me, we're rich. Ah!"Here he would fling his arms wide open toshow how rich. "We're known by everybody,all over the Don District, We, , .voice would suddenly grow mournful."Sashka'sand ingratiating:"Me and you-Your Excellency,everything's all right, only we've both got rottingnoses,""Why is that?" his master would ask, turningpurple with laughter and twitching hismoustache,"Through vodka!" Sashka would bark outthe words, blinking rapidly and licking hislips. "Don't drink, Mikolai 'Lexeyevich, orwe'll go broke-you and me. We'll drink everythingaway!""Go and drink this away!" old Listnitskywould throw out a twenty-kopeck piece, andSashka would catch it and hide it in his cap,crying:"Well, good-bye. General,""Have you watered the horses yet?" his295

master would ask with a smile, knowing whatwas coming."Oh, you lousy devil! You son of a swine!"Sashka would turn livid, and his voice wouldcrack with anger. "Sashka forget to water thehorses? Eh? Even if I was dead I'd still crawlfor a pail to water the horses. And he."thinks. . ,The old man would march off fuming at theundeserved reproach, cursing and shaking hisfist. Everything he did was forgiven, evendrinking and his familiarity with his master.He was indispensable as a stableman. Winterand summer he slept in the stables, in an emptystall. He was stableman and horse-doctor; hegathered herbs for the horses in the spring,and dug up medicinal roots in the steppe andin the valleys. Bunches of dried herbs hunghigh up on the stable walls: milfoil to cureheaves, snake-eye grass as an antidote for adder-bite,blackleaf for the feet, a small whiteherb that grows at the root of the willow totreat sores, and many other little-known remediesfor all the various ailments and diseasesof horses.Winter and summer, a subtle throat-ticklingaroma hung like a fine-spun web about thestall in which Sashka slept. Hay packed as296

hard as a board, covered with a horse-cloth,and his coat, smelling of horse sweat, servedas mattress and bedding to his plank-bed. Thecoat and a sheepskin were all the old man'sworldly goods.Tikhon, a huge, dull-witted Cossack, livedwith Lukerya, and secretly nursed a quite needlessjealousy of her and Sashka, Once everymonth he would take the old man by the buttonof his greasy shirt and lead him round tothe back of the house."Old man, don't you set your cap at mywoman,""That depends.". . Sashka would wink significantly."Keep off her!" Tikhon begged."I like 'em pock-marked, lad. I don't needvodka if you can give me a pock-markedwench. The more pock-marked they are thefonder they are of us menfolk, the hussies.""You ought to be ashamed of yourself atyour age, . . . And you a doctor, too; you lookafter the horses, you know all the secrets.""I can do all kinds of doctoring," Sashkapersisted."Keep off her, grandad. It's wrong,""I'llget that Lukerya one of these days, lad,I'll have her, my lad. You can say good-byeto Lukerya, I'llbe taking her away from you.297

She's like a currant pie, only with the currantspicked out. That's the kind for me!""Don't let me catch you or I'll kill you!"Tikhon would say, sighing and drawing somecopper coins out of his pocket.And so it went on month after month.Life mouldered away in a sleepy torpor atYagodnoye, The estate lay in a valley remotefrom all frequented roads, and from the autumnonward all communication with the neighbouringvillages was broken. In the winternights the wolf packs emerged from their forestlairs and terrified the horses with theirhowling. Tikhon used to go to the meadow tofrighten them off with his master's doublebarrelledgun, and Lukerya, wrapping herample bottom in her rough blanket, wouldwait in suspense for the sound of the shots, herlittle eyes disappearing into her greasy pockmarkedcheeks. At such times her imaginationtransformed the ugly bald-headed Tikhon intoa handsome and reckless youth, and when thedoor of the servants' quarters slammed andTikhon entered in a cloud of steam, she maderoom for him on the bed and, cooing affectionately,warmly embraced her frozen mate.In summer-time Yagodnoye hummed tilllateat night with the voices of labourers. The mastersowed some forty dessiatines with various298

crops, and hired labourers to harvest them.Occasionally Yevgeny came home, and wouldstroll through the orchard and over the meadow,and feel bored. The mornings he spentfishing in the pond. Plump^chested and of mediumheight, he wore a forelock Cossack fashionon the right side of his head. His officer'stunic fitted him snugly.During the first days of Grigory's life on theestate he was frequently in the young master'scompany. One day Venyamin came smilinginto the servants' quarters and, bowing hisfuzzy head, announced:"The young master wants you, Grigory."Grigory, as on many other occasions, wentto Yevgeny's room and stood at the door. Themaster pointed to a chair. Grigory seated himselfon the very edge."How do you like our horses?""They're good horses. The grey is fine.""Give him plenty of exercise, but don't gallophim.""So Grandad Sashka told me.""What about Sturdy?""The bay? He's a fine horse. Shoe's loosethough, I'll have to get him reshod."Screwing up his piercing grey eyes, theyoung master said: "You have to go to thetraining camp in May, don't you?"299

"Yes.""I'll speak to the ataman about it. You won'thave to go.""Thank you, sir."There was a momentary silence. Unbuttoningthe collar of his uniform, Yevgeny scratchedhis womanishly white chest."Aren't you afraid of Aksinya's husbandtaking her from you?""He's thrown her over; he won't take herback.""How do you know?""I saw one of the men from the village theother day when I went there for nails. He toldme Stepan was drinking hard. Says he doesn'twant Aksinya any more, thinks he'll find someonehotter.""Aksinya's a fine-looking woman," Listnitskyremarked thoughtfully, staring over Grigory'shead with something licentious in hissmile."Not bad," Grigory agreed, and his faceclouded.Yevgeny's furlough was nearly over. He nolonger wore a sling and could bend his armfreely.During the last few days of his stay Yevgenyspent a great deal of his time in Grigory'sroom. Aksinya had whitewashed the300

dirt-caked walls, scrubbed the window-frames,and scoured the floor with broken brick. Therewas a feminine warmth and cosiness in thecheerful empty little room. The officer, hisshort, fashionably-out coat thrown over hisshoulders, chose times for his visits when Grigorywas occupied with the horses. He wouldfirst go into the kitchen, stand joking withLukerya for a minute or two, then pass intothe farther room. He would sit down on astool, hunching his shoulders, and fix a shamelesslysmiling gaze on Aksinya. She wasembarrassed by his presence, and the knittingneedlestrembled in her fingers."Well, Aksinya, how are you getting on?"he would ask, puffing at his cigarette until theroom was filled with blue smoke."Very well, thank you." Aksinya wouldraise her eyes, and meeting the lieutenant'stransparent gaze, silently telling of his desire,she turned crimson. That naked stare of hiswas unpleasant and annoying. She replied disconnectedlyto his questions, avoiding his eyesand seeking an opportunity to leave the room."I must go and feed the ducks now,""There's no hurry. The ducks can wait," hesmiled, and his legs trembled in his tight ridingbreeches, and he continued toply her withquestions concerning her past life, using the301

deep tones of his voice, which was like his father'sand pleading lewdly with his crystalcleareyes.When Grigory came in, the fire would dieout of Yevgeny's eyes and he would offer hima cigarette, leaving soon after."What did he want?" Grigory would askAksinya, not looking at her."How should I know?" Remembering theofficer's look, Aksinya would laugh forcedly."He came in and just sat there like this, Grisha,"(she showed him how Yevgeny had satwith hunched back) "and sat and sat until Iwas sick of him.""Did you ask him in?" Grigory's eyes wouldnarrow angrily,"What do I need him for?""You watch out, or I'll kick him down thesteps one day."Aksinya would gaze at Grigory with a smileon her lips, and not be sure whether he wasspeaking in jest or earnest.XVThe winter broke up during the fourth weekof Lent. Open water began to fringe the edgesof the Don; the ice, melting from the top, turnedgrey and swelled spongily. In the evening302

a low murmur came from the hills, indicatingfrost according to the time-honoured saying,but in reality the thaw was already on its way.In the morning the air tingled with the lightfrost, but by noon the earth was bare inpatches, and in the nostrils was the scent ofMarch, of the frozen bark, of cherry-trees, androtting straw.Miron Korshunov took his time preparingfor the ploughing season, spending the lengtheningdays in the shed sharpening the teethof the harrows and repairing cartwheels. OldGrishaka usually fasted in the fourth week ofLent, He would come home from church, bluewith cold, and complain to his daughter-inlawLukinichna:"That priest makes me sick. He's no good.He's as slow with the service as a carter witha load of eggs.""You'd have been wiser to have fasted duringPassion Week, it's warmer by then.""Call Natalya," he replied. "I'll get her tomake me a pair of warmer stockings."Natalya still lived in the belief that Grigorywould return to her; her heart longed andwaited for him, and would not listen to thewarning whisper of sober reason. She spentthe nights in weary yearning, tossing on herbed,crushed by her undeserved and unexpect-303

:ed shame. Another woe was now added to thefirst, and she awaited its sequel in cold terror,fluttering about in her maiden room like awounded lapwing in a forest glade. From theearliest days of her return home her brotherMitka had begun to give her odd glances, andone day, catching her in the porch, he askedfrankly"Still hankering after Grisha?""What's it got to do with you?""I want to cheer you up."Natalya glanced into his eyes and was terrifiedby what she saw there. Mitka's green cat'seyes glittered and their slits gleamed greasilyin the dim light of the porch. Natalya slammedthe door and ran to her grandfather'sroom, where she stood listening to the wildbeating of her heart. The next day Mitka cameup to her in the yard. He had been tui^ningover fresh hay for the cattle, and green stalksof grass hung from his straight hair and hisfur cap, Natalya was chasing the dogs awayfrom the pigs' trough..""Don't fret yourself, Natalya. . ."I'll tell Father," she cried, raising herhands to protect herself."You're an idiot!""Keep away, you beast!""What are you shouting for?"304

"Go away, Mitka! I'll go at once and tellFather. How dare you look at me like that?Have you no shame! It's a wonder the earthdoesn't open and swallow you up.""Well, it doesn't, does it?" Mitka stampedwith his boots to confirm the statement andedged up to her."Don't come near me, Mitka!""I won't now, but I'll come at night. ByGod, I'll come!"Trembling, Natalya left the yard. Thatevening she made her bed on the chest, andtook her younger sister to sleep with her. Allnight she tossed and turned,her burning eyesseeking to pierce the darkness, her ears alertfor the slightest sound, ready to scream thehouse down. But the silence was broken onlyby the snores of Grishaka sleeping in the nextroom, and an occasional grunt from her sister.The thread of days unwound in that constantinconsolable grief that only women know.Mitka had not got over the shame of his recentattempt at marriage, and he went aboutmorose and ill-tempered. He went out everyevening and rarely arrived home again beforedawn. He carried on with women who likedto amuse themselves while their husbandswere soldiering and went to Stepan Astakhov'sto play cards for stakes. His father watched20—1933 305

his behaviour, but said nothing for the timebeing.Just before Easter, Natalya met PanteleiProkofyevich outside Mokhov's shop. Hecalled to her:"Wait a moment!"She halted. Her heart felt a pang of yearningas she saw her father-in-law's face, remotelyreminding her of Grigory."Why don't you come and see usold folks,sometimes?" the old man asked her, giving hera quick look, as though he himself had beenguilty of some offence against her. "The wifemisses you. . . . Well, how are you getting on?"Natalya recovered from her embarrassment."Thank you .". . she said, and after a moment'shesitation (she wanted to say "Father!"), sheadded: "Pantelei Prokofyevich, I've been verybusy at home.""Our Grisha . , . ah!" the old man shook hishead bitterly. "He's let us down, the scoundrel.And we were getting on so well together.""Oh well. Father," Natalya answered shrillywith a catch in her voice. "I suppose it wasn'ttobe."Pantelei fidgeted in embarrassment as hesaw Natalya's eyes fill. Her lips twisted in aneffort to hold back her tears,"Good-bye, my dear," he said,306"Don't grieve

over him, the son of a bitch! He's not worththe nail on your little finger. Maybe he'll comeback. I'd like to see him. I'd like to get athim."Natalya walked away with her head sunk onher breast. Pantelei stood shifting from foot tofoot as though about to break into a run. Asshe turned the comer Natalya glanced back;the old man was limping across the square,leaning heavily on hisstick.XVIAs spring approached, the meetings in Stockman'sworkshop were held less frequently.The villagers were preparing for the fieldwork, and only Ivan Alexeyevich the enginemanand Knave came from the mill, bringingDavid with them. On Maundy Thursday theygathered at the workshop in the early evening.Stockman was sitting on his bench, filing asilver ring made from a fifty-kopeck piece. Asheaf of rays from the setting sun streamedthrough the window, forming a square of dustyyellowish-pink light on the floor. The enginemanpicked up a pair of pincers and turnedthem over in his hand."I had to go to the master the other day toask about a piston." he remarked, "It will have20* S07

to be taken to Millerovo, we can't mend ithere. There's a crack in it this long." IvanAlexeyevich measured the length of his littlefinger."There's a works at Millerovo, isn't there?"Stockman said, scattering a fine silver dust ashe filed the coin."A steel foundry. I had to spend a few daysthere last year.""Many workers?""I should say four hundred or thereabouts.""And what are they like?" Stockman's tonewas deliberate."They're well off. They're none of yourpioletariat, they're muck.""Why is that?" asked Knave, who was sittingnext to Stockman, his stubby fingersclasped under hisknees.David, the mill-hand, his hair grey with flourdust, padded about the workshop, listeningwith a smile to the dry rustle of the shavingsthat he stirred up with his boots. He felt as ifhe were walking along a ravine deep in fallenscarlet leaves with the leaves giving easily andthe damp turf springing youthfully underfoot."Because they're too well off. Each has hisown little house, his wife, and every comfort.And a good half of them are Baptists into thebargain. The master himself is their preacher,308

and they suck one another's noses, and the dirton them is so thick you couldn't scrape it offwith a hoe.""Ivan Alexeyevich, what are these Baptists?"asked David, pouncing on the unfamiliar word."Baptists? They worship God in their ownfashion. A kind of sect, like the Old Believers.""Every fool goes crazy in his own fashion,"added Knave."As I was saying, I went to see Sergei Platonovich,"Ivan Alexeyevich continued hisstory, "and Atyopin was there, so he told meto wait outside. I sat down and waited andheard them talking through the door. Mokhovwas saying there- was going to be a war withthe Germans very soon; he had read it in a book.But Atyopin said there couldn't be a warbetween Germany and Russia."Ivan Alexeyevich so cleverly imitated Atyopin'slisp that David let out a short laugh, but,seeing Knave's sarcastic expression, immediatelyshut up." 'There can be no war with Germanybecause Germany's feeding on our grain,' "Ivan Alexeyevich continued to report the conversationhe had overheard. "Then I heard aa third voice: I found out afterwards it was theofficer, old Listnitsky's son. 'There will be awar,' he said, 'between Germany and France,309

over the vineyards, but it has nothing to dowith us.' What do you think, Osip Davydovich?"Ivan asked, turning to Stockman."I'm no good at prophecies," Stockmanreplied, staring fixedly at the ring in his outstretchedhand."Once they do start we'll have to be in ittoo. Like it or not, they'll drag us there by thehair," Knave declared."It's like this, boys," Stockman said, gentlytaking the pincers out of the engineman'shands. He spoke seriously, evidently intendingto explain the matter thoroughly. Knave seatedhimself comfortably on the bench, and David'slips shaped into an "O," revealing his strongteeth. In his concise vivid way Stockmanoutlined the struggle of the capitalist states formarkets and colonies. When he had finishedIvan Alexeyevich asked indignantly:"Yes, but where do we come in?""Your heads will ache from the drunkenorgies of others," Stockman smiled."Don't talk like a kid," Knave said sarcastically."You know the saying: 'When mastersquarrel, the peasants' forelocks shake.' ""Humph," Ivan Alexeyevich frowned as ifhe were trying to break down some greatunyielding lump of thought."What's that Listnitsky always calling on310

Mokhov for? After his daughter, eh?" Davidasked."The Korshunov brat has had a go therealready," Knave interposed maliciously."Ivan Alexeyevich, can't you hear? What'sthat officer nosing around there for?" Davidrepeated.Ivan Alexeyevich started as if he had beenstruck behind the knees with a whiplash."Eh? What were you saying?""He's been having a nap! We're talkingabout Listnitsky.""He was on his way to the station. Yes, andhere's some more news. When I went out ofthe house I saw . who do you think? Grigory. .Melekhov! He was standing outside with awhip in his hand. 'What are you doing here,Grigory?' I says. 'Taking Lieutenant Listnitskyto Millerovo Station.' ""He's Listnitsky's coachman," David explained."Picking the crumbs from the rich man'stable.""You're like a dog on a chain. Knave, you'dsnarl at anyone,"The conversation flagged. Ivan Alexeyevichrose to go."Hurrying off to service?" Knave got in glastdig.9U

"I do plenty of serving every day."Stockman accompanied his guests to thegate, then locked up the workshop and wentinto the house.The night before Easter Sunday the sky wasovercast with masses of black cloud, and rainbegan to fall. A raw darkness weighed on thevillage. At dusk the ice on the Don began tocrack with a protracted, rolling groan, andsqueezed by a mass of broken ice the first floeemerged from the water. The ice broke up allat once over a stretch of four versts, and drifteddownstream. The floes crashed against oneanother and against the banks, while in thebackground the church bell rang measuredlyfor service. At the first bend, where the Donsweeps to the left, the ice was dammed up.The roar and clash of the bumping floes reachedthe village. A crowd of lads had gathered inthe churchyard, which was already dotted withpuddles. Through the open doors came themuffled tones of the service, and lights gleamedwith festive brightness in the latticed windows,while in the darkness of the yard the ladstickled and kissed the girls, and whispereddirty stories to one another.The churchwarden's lodge was crowded withCossacks from villages all over the district.Weary with fatigue and the stuffiness of the312

oom, people slept on benches, even on thefloor.Men were sitting on the rickety steps,smokingand talking about the weather and thewinter crops."When will your lot be going out in thefields?""Should be moving about Thomas' day, Ireckon.""That's all right for you, the land roundyour way is sandy.""Some of it is, this side of the gully there'sa salt marsh.""The earth'll get plenty of moisture now.""When we ploughed last year it was likegristle, hard and sticky all the way over.""Dunya, where are you?" a high-pitchedvoice called from the steps of the lodge.From the churchyard gate a rough throatyvoice could be heard blustering: "A fine placeto be kissing, you. . . . Get out of here, youdirty young brats. What an idea!""Can't you find a partner for yourself? Goand kiss the bitch in our yard," a wobblyyoung voice retorted from the darkness."Bitch?! I'll learn you. . .."A squelchy patter of running feet, a rustle ofskirts.31^

IWater dripped from the roof with a glassytinkle; and again that slow voice, clinging asthe muddy black earth:"Been trying to buy a plough off Prokhor,offered him twelve rubles but he won't take it.He wouldn't let something go cheap, nothim..". .From the Don came a smooth swishing, rustlingand crunching, as though a buxom wench,dressed-up and tall as a poplar, were passingby, her great skirts rustling.At midnight, Mitka Korshunov, riding ahorse bareback, clattered through the stickydarkness up to the church. He tied the bridlerein to the horse's mane, and gave her a smackon her steaming flanks. He listened to thesquelch of the hoofs for a moment, then, adjustinghis belt, he went into the churchyard. Inthe porch he removed his cap, bent his headdevoutly, and thrusting aside the women,pressed up to the altar. The Cossacks werecrowded in a black mass on the left; on theright was a motley throng of women. Mitkafound his father in the front row, and grippinghim by the elbow, whispered into his ear:"Father, come outside for a moment."As he pushed his way out of the churchthrough the dense curtain of mingled odours,Mitka's nostrils quivered. He was overwhelmed

y the vapour of burning wax, the odour ofwomen's sweating bodies, the sepulchral stenchof clothes brought out only at Christmas andEaster time, and the smell of damp leather,moth balls, and the windiness of fast-hungeredbellies.In the porch Mitka put his mouth close tohis father's ear and said: "Natalya's dying."XVIIGrigory returned on Palm Sunday from hisjourney with Yevgeny to the station. He foundthe thaw had eaten away the snow; the roadhad broken up within a couple of days.At a Ukrainian village some twenty-fiveversts from the station he all but lost hishorses as he was crossing a stream. He hadarrived at the village early in the evening.During the previous night the ice had brokenup and started moving, and the stream, swollenand foaming with muddy brown water, threatenedthe streets. The inn at which he hadstopped to feed the horses on the way out layon the farther side of the stream. The watermight easily rise still higher during the night,and Grigory decided to cross.He drove to the point where he had crossedthe ice on the outward journey, and found them

stream had overflowed its banks. A piece offencing and half a cartwheel were eddying inthe middle. There were fresh traces oi sledgerunners on the bare sand at the edge. He haltedthe sweating foam-flecked horses andjumped down to look at the marks more closely.At the water's edge the tracks turned a little tothe left and disappeared into the stream. Hemeasured the distance to the other side withhis eyes: fifty paces at the most. He went tothe horses to check the harness. At that momentan aged Ukrainian came towards himfrom the nearest hut."Is there a good crossing here?" Grigoryasked him, waving his reins at the seethingbrown flood."Some folk crossed there this morning.""Is it deep?""No. But it might splash into your sleigh."Grigory gathered up the reins, and holdinghis knout ready, urged on the horses with acurt,imperative command. They moved unwillingly,snorting and snuffing at the water. Grigorycracked his whip and stood up on theseat.The bay on the left tossed its head andsuddenly pulled on the traces. Grigory glanceddown at his feet; the water was swirling overthe front of the sledge. At first the horses were'316

wading up to their knees, but suddenly thestream rose to their breasts. Grigory tried toturn them back, but they refused to answer therein and began to swim for it. The tail of thesledge was swung round by the current, andthe horses' heads were forced upstream. Thewater flowed in waves over their backs, andthe sledge rocked and pulled them backstrongly."Hey! Hey! To the right!" the Ukrainianshouted, running along the bank and wavinghisfur cap.In a wild fury Grigory kept shouting andurging on the horses. The water foamed ineddies behind the dragging sledge. The runnersstruck against a jutting pile,the remains of thebridge which had been swept away overnight,and the sledge turned over with extraordinaryease. With a gasp Grigory plunged inhead first, but he did not lose his grip of thereins. While he was tossed about by the rockingsledge, the water dragged at his legs andthe skirts of his sheepskin with gentle insistence.He succeeded in clutching a runner,dropped the reins, and hauled himself alonghand over hand, making his way to theswingle-tree. He was about to seize the ironshodend of the swingle-tree when the bay, initsstruggle against the current, lashed out with317

toreach the horse's head, and the animal fixedthe maddened, mortally terrified gaze of itsbloodshot eyes straight into his dilated pupils.Again and again he grasped at the slipperyleather reins, but they eluded his fingers.Somehow he managed at last to seize them.Abruptly his legs scraped along the ground.Dragging himself to the edge of the water, hestumbled forward and was knocked off his feetin the shallows by a horse's breast.Trampling over him, the horses tugged theits hindleg and struck him on the knee. Choking,Grigory threw out his hands and caught atthe traces. He felt himself being dragged awayfrom the horses, his grip weakened. Every fibrein his body tingling with the cold, he managedsledge violently out of the water and, exhausted,halted a few paces away, shuddering andsteaming. Unconscious of any pain, Grigoryjumped to his feet; the cold enveloped him asthough in unbearably hot dough. He wastrembling even more than the horses, and feltas weak on his legs as an unweaned infant.Slowly he gathered his wits, and turning thesledge on to its runners, drove the horses offat a gallop to get them warm. He flew into thestreet of the village as though attacking anenemy, and turned into the first open gatewithout slackening his pace.318

The host turned out to be a hospitableUkrainian; he sent his son to attend to thehorses and himself helped Grigory toundress.In a tone that brooked no refusal he orderedhis wife to light the stove. While his ownclothes were drying Grigory stretched himselfout on top of the stove in his host's trousers.After a supper of meatless cabbage soup hewent to sleep.He set off again long before dawn. A goodhundred and thirty-five versts' driving laybefore him, and every minute was precious.The untracked confusion of the flooded springsteppe was at hand; the melting snow hadturned every little ravine or gully into a roaringtorrent.The black, bare road exhausted the horses.Over the hard surface created by the earlymorning frost he reached a village lying fourversts off his route, and stopped at a crossroad.The horses were steaming with sweat;behind him lay the gleaming track of thesledge runners in the ground. He abandonedthe sledge and set off again, riding one horsebareback and leading the other by the reins.He arrived at Yagodnoye in the morning onPalm Sunday.Old Listnitsky listened attentively to hisstory of the journey, and went to look at the319

horses. Sashka was leading them up and downthe yard, angrily eyeing their sunken flanks."How are they?" the master asked. "Theyhaven't been overdriven, have they?""No. The bay's got a sore on his chest wherehis collar rubbed, but it's nothing," Sashka answeredwithout stopping the horses."Go and get some rest," Listnitsky motionedto Grigory with his hand. Grigory went to hisroom but he had only one night's rest. Thenext morning Venyamin came into the room ina new sateen shirt, his fat face beaming, andcalled to him:"Grigory, the master wants you. At once."The general was shuffling about the hall infelt slippers. Only after Grigory had coughedtwice did he look up."What do you want?""You sent for me.""Ah, yes! Go and saddle the stallion and myhorse. Tell Lukerya not to feed the dogs.They're going hunting."Grigory turned to leave the room. Hismaster stopped him with a shout: "D'you hear?And you're going with me."Aksinya thrust a cake into the pocket ofGrigory's coat and hissed: "He won't even leta man eat, the devil take him. Put on yourscarf at least, Grisha."320

Grigory led the saddled horses to the fence,and whistled to the dogs. Listnitsky came out,attired in a jerkin of blue cloth and girdledwith an ornamental leather belt. A nickelplatedflask in a cork case was slung at hisback; the whip hanging from his arm trailedbehind him like a snake.As he held the bridle for his master tomount Grigory was astonished at the ease withwhich old Listnitsky hoisted his bony body intothe saddle. "Keep close behind me," the generalcurtly ordered, as he lovingly gathered thereins in his gloved hand.Grigory rode the stallion. Its hind hoofswere not shod, and as it trod on the shards ofice it slipped and sat on its hind quarters. Theold general sat hunched but firm in the saddle.The horses moved on at a good pace. Thestallion strained at the bit and arched itsneck, squinting round at itsshortrider and trying tobite his knees. When they reached the top ofthe rise, Listnitsky put his horse into a fasttrot. The chain of hounds followed Grigory; theold black bitch ran with her muzzle touchingthe end of the stallion's tail. The horse tried toreach her by falling back on its hind quarters,but the bitch dropped behind, looking upplaintively, like an old woman, at Grigory ashe glanced round.21—1933 321

.They reached their objective, the Olshanskyravine, in half an hour. Listnitsky rode throughthe undergrowth along the brow of the slope.Grigory dropped down into the rain-washedravine, cautiously avoiding the numerous potholes.From time to time he looked up, andthrough the steely-blue of a straggling andnaked elder grove he saw Listnitsky's clean-cutfigure. As the old man leaned forward and rosein his stirrups, his blue, belted coat wrinkledat the back. Behind him the hounds were runningin a bunch along the undulating ridge. Ashe rode across the steep watercourse Grigoryleaned back in the saddle."I could do with a smoke," he thought, "I'lllet go of the reins and get my pouch." Pullingoff his glove, Grigory fumbled in his pocketfor some cigarette paper."After him!" the shout came like a pistolshot from the other side of the ridge.Grigory looked up sharply, smd saw Listnitskygalloping up the slope with upraisedwhip. . ."After him!"Slipping along with body close to theground, a moulting dirty-brown wolf was runningswiftly across the marshy rush and reedygrownbottom of the ravine. Leaping, a gully, itstopped and turned quickly, catching sight of322

the dogs. They were coming after it spread outin horseshoe formation, to cut it off from thewood at the end of the ravine.With a springy stride the wolf leaped on toa small hillock and headed for the wood. Theold bitch was cutting it off, husbanding herstrength in short strides, another hound, one ofthe best and fiercest in the pack, was comingup from behind. The wolf hesitated for amoment, and as Grigory rode up out of theravine he lost sight of it. When next he had agood view from the hillock the wolf was faraway in the steppe, making for a neighbouringravine. Grigory could see the hounds runningthrough the undergrowth behind it, and oldListnitsky riding slightly to the side, belabouringhishorse with the butt of his whip. As thewolf reached the ravine the hounds began toovertake it, and one, the grizzled hound knownas Hawk, seemed to hang like a whitish ragfrom the wolf's loins."After him!" the shout was wafted back toGrigory.Grigory put his horse into a gallop, vainlytrying to see what was happening ahead ofhim. His eyes were streaming with tears andhis ears were stuffed up with the whistlingwind. He was suddenly fired by the excitementof the hunt. Bending over his horse's neck, he21* 323

:flew along at a mad gallop. When he reachedthe ravine neither wolf nor dogs were to beseen. A moment or two later Listnitsky overtookhim. Reining in his horse sharply heshouted"Which way did they go?""Into the ravine, I think.""You overtake them on the left. After them!"The old man dug his heels into his horse'sflanks and rode off to the right. Grigory droppedinto a hollow, and with whip and shoutrode his horse hard for a verst and a half. Thedamp, sticky earth flew up under the hoofs,striking him on the face. The long ravinecurved to the right and branched into three.Grigory crossed the first fork, and then caughtsight of the dark chain of hounds chasing thewolf across the steppe. The animal had beenheaded off from the heart of the ravine, whichwas densely overgrown with oaks and alders,and was now making for a dry brush and thistle-covereddell.Rising in his stirrups, and wiping the tearsfrom his wind-lashed eyes with his sleeve,Grigory watched them. Glancing momentarilyto the left, he realized that he was in the steppeclose to his native village. Near by lay theirregular square of land which he and Natalyahad ploughed in the autumn. He deliberately324

guided the stallion across the ploughed land,and during the few moments in which theanimal was sliding and stumbling over theclods the zest for the hunt died to ashes withinhim. He now calmly urged on the heavilysweatinghorse, and glancing round to seewhether Listnitsky was looking, dropped intoan easy trot.Some distance away he could see the desertedcamping quarters of the ploughmen; a littlefarther off three pairs of bullocks were dragginga plough across the fresh, velvety soil.From our village, surely. Whose land isthat?That's not Anikushka, is it? Grigory screwedup his eyes trying to recognize the man followingthe plough.He saw two Cossacks drop the plough andrun to head off the wolf from the near-byravine. One, in a peaked, red-banded cap, thestrap under his chin, was waving an iron bar.Suddenly the wolf squatted down in a deepfurrow. The foremost hound flew right over itand fell with its forelegs doubled under it; theold bitch following tried to stop, her hindquarters scraping along the cloddy, ploughedground; but unable to halt in time, she tumbledagainst the wolf. The hunted animal shook itshead violently, and the bitch ricochetted off it.Now the mass of hounds fastened on the wolf,325

and they all dragged for some paces over theploughed land. Grigory was off his horse halfa minute before his master. He fell to hisknees, drawing back his hunting knife."There! In the throat!" the Cossack with theiron bar cried in a voice which Grigory knewwell. Panting heavily, he dropped down atGrigory's side, and dragging away the houndwhich had fastened on the hunted animal'sbelly, gripped the wolf's forelegs in one hand.Grigory felt under the animal's shaggy fur forits windpipe, and drew the knife across it."The dogs! The dogs! Drive them off," oldListnitsky croaked as he dropped from thesaddle.Grigory with difficulty managed to driveaway the dogs, then glanced towards his master.Standing a little way off was Stepan Astakhov.His face working strangely, he was turningthe iron bar over and over in his hands."Where are you from, my man?" Listnitskyturned to Stepan."From Tatarsky," Stepan answered after amomentary hesitation, and took a step in Grigory'sdirection,"What's your name?" Listnitsky asked."Astakhov.""When are you going home, my lad?""Tonight."326

ofListnitsky pointed to the wolf with his foot.The animal's jaws were snapping feebly in itsdeath agony and one of its hindlegs, with abrownish tuft . fur sticking to it, was stifflyraised."Bring us that carcass," he said. "I'll paywhatever it costs." He wiped the sweat fromhis purple face with his scarf, turned away,and slipped the flask off his back.Grigory went to his stallion. As he set footin the stirrup he glanced back. Tremblinguncontrollably, Stepan was coming towardshim, his great, heavy fists pressed against hischest.XVIIIOn Good Friday night the women gatheredin the house of Korshunov's neighbour, PelageyaMaidannikova, for a talk. Her husbandGavrila had written from Lodz that he wastrying to get furlough for Easter. Pelageya hadwhitewashed the walls and tidied up the hutas early as the Monday before Easter, andfrom Thursday onward she waited expectantly,running to the gate and standing at the fence,bare-headed and gaunt, the signs of herpregnancy showing in her face. Shading hereyes with her palm she stared down the road tosee whether he was coming. Gavrila had327

eturned from his regiment the previous year,bringing his wife a present of Polish chintz. Hehad spent four nights with her, and on thefifth day had got drunk, cursed in Polish andGerman, and with tears in his eyes had satsinging an old Cossack song about Poland thatdated from 1831. His friends and brothers hadsat with him, singing and drinking vodkabeforedinner.They said of Poland, it's a very rich land.But we found out it's as poor as the damned.And inthis said Poland there stands an inn,A Polish inn, belongs to the Polish king.And at this said inn three lads had a drink,A Prussian, a Pole, and a Don CossackRussian.The Prussian, he drinks vodka, and pays hisscore.The Pole, he drinks vodka, and pays somemore.The Cossack, he drinks-and the inn's aspoor as before.Then he walks around with clinking spurAnd the barmaid sees his eye is on her."Oh, mistress, dear, come live with me,"Come live with me, on the quiet Don,"The folk on the Don, they don't live yourway,328

"Don't weave, don't spin, don't sow, don'tmow,"Don't sow, don't mow, but they dress verygay."After dinner Gavrila had said good-bye to hisfamily and ridden off. And from that day Pelageyahad begun to watch the hem of her skirt.She explained to Natalya Korshunova howshe came to be with child. "A day or two beforeGavrila arrived, I had a dream," she said. "Iwas going through the meadow, and I saw ourold cow in front of me, the one we had soldlast holiday. She was going along with the milkdripping from her teats. Lord, I thought,however did I come to milk her so badly? Nextday old Drozdikha came for some hops, and 1told her my dream. And she told me to breaka bit of wax off a candle, roll it into a ball, andto take and bury it in some cowdung, formisfortune was watching at the window. I ranto do as she said, but I couldn't find the candle.I had had one, I knew, but the children musthave taken itto catch tarantulas. Then Gavrilaarrived, and trouble with him. Before that Ihad gone for three years without trouble, andnow look at me!" She prodded her swollenbelly.Pelageya fretted while waiting for her329

husband. She was bored with her own company,and so on the Friday she invited herwomen friends to come and spend the eveningwith her. Natalya came with an unfinishedstocking she was knitting, for when springcame Grandad Grishaka felt the cold all themore. She was unnaturally full of high spirits,and laughed more than necessary at the others'jokes, trying to hide her yearning for her husbandfrom them. Pelageya was sitting on thestove with her bare, violet-veined legs dangling,and bantering the young shrewish Frosya."How d'you come to beat your husband,Frosya?""Don't you know how? On the back, on thehead, and wherever I could lay my hands onhim.""I didn't mean that, I meant how did ithappen.""Itjust happened," Frosya answered unwillingly."If you were to catch your husband withanother woman would you keep your tonguequiet?" a tall gaunt woman asked deliberately."Tell us all about it, Frosya.""There's nothing to tell. . ."Oh, come on, we're all friends here."Spitting the husk of a sunflower seed intoher hand, Frosya smiled:330."

"Well, I'd noticed his goings-on for a longtime, and then someone told me he'd beencarrying on at the mill with a hussy fromacross the Don. I went out and found them bythe mill.""Any news of your husband, Natalya?" thegaunt woman interrupted, turning to Natalya."He's at Yagodnoye," she replied in awhisper."Do you think of living with him or not?""She might think of it, but he doesn't," theirhostess intervened. Natalya felt the hot bloodsurging to her face. She bent her head overher stocking and glanced from under herbrows at the women. Realizing that she couldnot hide her flush of shame from them, shedeliberately, yet so clumsily that everybodynoticed it, sent the ball of wool rolling fromher knees, and then bent down and gropedover the cold floor."Spit on him, woman! So long as you havea neck, you'll always find a yoke for it," onewoman advised her with unconcealed pity inher voice.Natalya's affected liveliness died away like aspark in the wind. The women's conversationturned to the latest scandal, to tittle-tattle andgossip. Natalya knitted in silence. She forcedherself to sit on until the party broke up, and331

then went home, with a half-formed decision inher mind. Shame for her uncertain situation(for she still would not believe that Grigoryhad gone for ever, and was ready to forgivehim and take him back) drove her on to afurther step. She resolved to send a lettersecretly to him, in order to learn whether hehad gone for good or whether he might changehis mind. When she reached home she foundGrishaka sitting in his little room reading anold, greasy leather-bound copy of the Gospels.Her father was in the kitchen mending a fishing-netand listening to a story Mikhei wastelling him about a recent murder. Her motherhad put the children to bed and was asleepover the ledge above stove, the blackened solesof her feet facing the door. Natalya took offher jacket and wandered aimlessly about therooms. In one corner of the front room therewas a pile of hempreed and the mice could beheard scampering and squeaking.She stopped for a moment in her grandfather'sroom, staring dully at the stack of devotionalbooks under the icons."Grandad, have you any paper?""What sort of paper?" Grishaka asked,puckering his forehead into a frown."Paper to write on."The old man fumbled in a psalter, and drew332

out a crumpled sheet of paper that smeltstrongly of incense."And a pencil?""Ask your father. Go away, my dear, anddon't bother me."She obtained a stump of pencil from herfather, and sitting down at the table, struggledagain with the thoughts that had tortured herfor so long, thoughts that evoked a numb,gnawing pain in her heart.She wrote:Grigory Panteleyevich,Tell me how I am to live, and whether mylite is quite lost or not. You leit home and youdidn't say a single word to me. I haven't doneyou any wrong, and I've waited lor you to untiemy hands, to say you've gone for good, butyou've gone away and are as silent as the grave.I thought you had gone oft in the heat of themoment, and waited for you to come hack, hutI don't want to come between you. Better oneshould he trodden into the ground than two.Have pity for once and write. Then I shallknow what to think, but now I stand in themiddle of the road.Don't be angry with me, Grisha, for the loveof Christ.333Natalya.

Next morning she promised vodka to Het-Baba and persuaded him to ride with theletter to Yagodnoye. Moody in expectation ofhis drinking spell, Het-Baba led a horse intothe yard, and without informing his masterwent jogging off to Yagodnoye.On his horse he looked awkward, as anystranger among Cossack riders does; his raggedelbows jerked as he trotted. The Cossackchildren playing in the street sent him offjeeringcries.with"Dirty Ukrainian!""Mind you don't fall off!""Looks like a dog on a fence!"He returned in the afternoon. He broughtwith him a piece of blue sugar-bag paper, andas he drew it out of his pocket he winked atNatalya."The road was terrible. I got such a shakingit near brought my liver up."Natalya read the note, and her face turnedgrey. The four words scribbled on the paperentered her heart like sharp teeth rending aweave.Live alone. -Grigory Melekhou.Hurriedly, as though not trusting her ownstrength, Natalya went into the house and laydown on her bed. Her mother was lighting the334

stove for the night, in order to have the placetidy early on Easter Sunday morning and toget the Easter cake ready in time."Natalya, come and give me a hand," shecalled toher daughter."I've got a headache. Mamma, I'll lie downfor a bit."Her mother put her head in at the door."Drink some pickle juice, it'll put you right inno time."Natalya licked her cold lips with her drytongue and made no reply.She lay until evening, her head covered witha warm woollen shawl, a light tremor shakingher huddled body. Miron and Grishaka wereabout to go off to church when she got up andwent into the kitchen. Beads of perspirationshone on her temples under her smoothlycombedhair, and her eyes were dim with anunhealthy, oily film.As Miron fastened his fly-buttons, heglanced at his daughter:"A fine time to fall sick. Daughter. Comealong with us to the service.""You go, I'll come along later.""In time to go home again, I expect?""No, I'll come when I've dressed."The men went out. Lukinichna and Natalyawere left in the kitchen. Natalya went listlessly335

ackward and forward from the chest to thebed, stared with unseeing eyes at the jumbledheap of clothing in the chest, her lips whispering,the same agonizing thoughts in her mind.Lukinichna decided she could not make up hermind which clothes to wear, and with motherlykindness she suggested: "Wear my blue skirt,dear. It will just fit you. Shall I get it foryou ?"Natalya had had no new clothes made forEaster, and Lukinichna, suddenly rememberinghow before she married her daughter hadloved to wear her dark-blue hobble skirt, pressedNatalya to take it, thinking she was worriedabout what to wear,"No, I'll go in this!" Natalya carefully drewout her green skirt, and suddenly rememberedthat she had been wearing it when Grigoryfirst visited her as her future bridegroom,when he had shamed her with that first fleetingkiss by the barn. Shaking with sobs, shefell forward against the raised lid of the chest."Natalya, what is the matter?" her motherexclaimed, clapping her hands.Natalya choked down her desire to screamand, mastering herself, gave a rasping, woodenlaugh."I don't know what's come over me today.""Oh, Natalya, I've noticed. .". .336

"Well, and what have you noticed.Mamma?" she cried with unexpected irritation,crumpling the green skirt in her fingers."You can't go on like this; what you need isa husband.""One was enough for me!"She went to her room, and quickly returnedto the kitchen, dressed, girlishly slender, abluish mournful flush in her pallid cheeks."You go on, I'm not ready yet," her mothersaid.Pushing a handkerchief into her sleeve, Natalyawent out. The rumble of the floating iceand the bracing tang of thaw dampness waswafted to her on the wind. Holding up her skirtin her left hand, picking her way across thepearly-blue puddles, she reached the church.On the way she attempted to recover her formercomparatively tranquil state of mind,thinking of the holiday, of everything vaguelyand in snatches. But her thoughts returnedstubbornly to the scrap of blue paper hiddenat her breast, to Grigory and the happy womanwho was now complacently laughing at her,perhaps even pitying her.As she entered the churchyard some ladsbarred her way. She passed round them, andheard the whisper:22—1933 337

"Who is she? Did you see?""Natalya Korshunova.""She's ruptured, they say. That's why herhusband left her.""That's not true. She got playing about withher father-in-law, lame Pantelei.""Oh, so that's it! And is that why Grigoryran away from home?""That's right. And she's still at ."it. . .Stumbling over the uneven stones, followedby the shameful, filthy whispering, she reachedthe church porch. The girls standing in theporch giggled as she turned and made herway to the farther gate. Swaying drunkenly,she ran home. At the gate of the yard she tooka quick breath and then entered, stumblingover the hem of her skirt, biting her lips tillthe blood came. Through the lilac darknessthe open doorway of the shed yawned blackly.With fierce determination she gathered her laststrength, ran to the door and hastily steppedacross the threshold. The shed was dry andcold, and smelled of leather harness and mustystraw. Gropingly, without thought or feeling,in a sombre yearning which clawed at hershamed and despairing soul, she made her wayto a comer. There she picked up a scythe bythe handle, removed the blade (her movementswere deliberately assured and precise); andi,338

throwing back her head, in a sudden joyousfire of resolution slashed her throat with itspoint. She fell as though struck down by theburning, savage pain, and vaguely aware thatshe had not completely carried out her intention,she struggled on to all fours, then on toher knees. Hurriedly (she was terrified by theblood pouring over her chest), with tremblingfingers she tore off the buttons of her jacket,then with one hand she drew aside her taut, unyieldingbreast, and with the other she guidedthe point of the scythe. She crawled on herknees to the wall, thrust the blunt end of thescythe blade into it, and throwing her armsbehind her head, pressed her chest firmly forward,forward. . . . She clearly heard and felttherevolting cabbage-like scrunch of the rendingflesh;a rising wave of intense pain flowedover her breast to her throat, and pressed ringingneedles into her ears. . . .The kitchen door scraped. Lukinichna gropedher way down the steps. From the belfry camethe measured tolling of the church bell. Withan incessant grinding roar the giant uprearedfloes were floating down the Don. The joyous,full-flowing, liberated river was carrying itsicy fetters away down tothe Sea of Azov.22* 339

XIXStepan walked up to Grigory and, seizingthe horse's stirrup, pressed hard against itssweating flank."Well, how are you,Grigory?""Praise be!""What are you thinking about? Huh?""What should I be thinking about?""You've carried off another man's wife. . . .Having your will of her?""Let go of the stirrup.""Don't be scared! I won't hit you.""I'm not afraid. Don't start that!" Grigoryflushed and raised hisvoice."I shan't fight you today. I don't want to. . . .But mark my words, Grigory, sooner or laterI'll kill you."" 'We'll see,' the blind man said!""Mark my words well. You've wronged me.You've gelded my life like a hog's. You seethere . ,." he stretched out his hands with theirgrimy palms upward. "I'm ploughing, and theLord knows what for. Do I need it for myself?I could shift around a bit and get through thewinter that way. It's only the loneliness of itallwrong,that gets me down. You've done me a greatGrigory."340

"It's no good complaining to me. The fullman doesn't understand the hungry,""That's true," Stepan agreed, staring up intoGrigory's face. And suddenly he broke into asimple, boyish smile which splintered the cornersof his eyes into tiny cracks. "I'm sorryonly for one thing, lad, very sorry. . . . You rememberthe year before last, that villagefight at Shrovetide?""No, I don't.""The day they killed the fuller. When thesingle men fought the married, don't you remember?Remember how I chased after you?You were young and weak then, a green rushcompared to me. I spared you that time, butif I'd hit you as you were running away, I'dhave split you in two. You ran quickly, allspringy-like; if I'd struck you hard in the ribsyou wouldn't be living in the world today.""Don't let it worry you, we'll have another goat each other yet."Stepan rubbed his forehead as though tryingto recall something. Old Listnitsky,leading hishorse by the reins, called to Grigory. Stillholding the stirrup with his left hand, Stepanwalked alongside the stallion, Grigory watchedhis every movement. He noticed Stepan'sdrooping chestnut moustache, the heavy scrubon his }ong-unshaven chin, the cracked paten t-341

leather strap of his military cap. His dirty face,marked with white runnels of sweat, was sadand strangely unfamiliar. As he looked Grigoryfelt that he might well be gazing from a hilltopat the distant steppe veiled in a rainy mist.A grey weariness and emptiness ashened Stepan'sfeatures. He dropped behind without aword of farewell. Grigory rode on at a walk."Wait a bit. And how is . . . how is Aksinya?"Knocking a lump of earth off his boot withthe whip, Grigory replied: "Oh, she's allright."He halted the stallion and glanced back.Stepan was standing with his feet planted wideapart, chewing a stalk between his teeth. Fora moment Grigory suddenly felt unaccountablysorry for him, but jealousy rose uppermost.Turning in his saddle, he shouted:"She doesn't miss you, don't worry!""Is that so?"Grigory lashed his horse between the earsand galloped away without replying.XXAksinya confessed her pregnancy to Grigoryonly during the sixth month, when she was nolonger able to conceal it from him. She had342

kept silentwould not believe itso long because she was afraid hewas his child she was carrying.During the first months of anxious expectationshe had sometimes been sick withoutGrigory noticing it, or if he had noticed it,without his guessing the reason why.Wrought up, she told him one evening, anxiouslyscanning his face the while for anychange in its expression. But he turned awaytothe window and coughed with vexation."Why didn't you tell me before?""I was afraid to, Grisha. I thought you mightthrow me over. .". .Drumming his fingers on the back of the bed,he asked:"Is it to be soon?""The beginning of August, I think.""Is it Stepan's?""No, it'syours!""So you say.""Reckon up for yourself. From the day of thewood-cutting it's. . ..""Don't make things up, Aksinya! Even if itwas Stepan's, what could you do about it? Iwant an honest answer."Weeping angry tears, Aksinya sat down onthe bench and broke into a fierce whisper."I lived with him so many years and nothingever happened! Think for yourself! I'm343

not an ailing Woman. ... I must have got itfrom you. . . . And you..". .Grigory talked no more about the matter. Anew thread of wary aloofness and a lightmocking pity was woven into his attitude toAksinya. She withdrew into herself, asking forno favours. During the summer she lost hergood looks, but pregnancy hardly affected hershapely figure; her general fullness concealedher condition, and although her face was thinnerit gained a new beauty from her warmlyglowingeyes. She easily managed her work ascook, especially as that year fewer labourerswere employed on the estate.Old Sashka grew fond of Aksinya, with thecapricious fondness of old age. Perhaps it wasbecause she treated him with daughterly care:washed his linen, mended his shirts, gave himsofter bits at the table. After seeing to hishorses old Sashka would come into the kitchen,fetch water, mash potatoes for the pigs, do allkinds of odd jobs, and hopping about roundher, expose the bare gums of his mouth as" hesaid:"You're good to me, and I'll repay you. I'lldo anything for you, Aksinya. I'd have beendone for without a woman's care. The lice wereeating me up. If you ever want anything, justask me."344

Yevgeny had arranged for his coachman tobe freed from the spring training camp, andGrigory worked at the mowing, occasionallydrove old Listnitsky to the district centre, andspent the rest of the time hunting with himafter bustards. The easy-going, comfortable lifebegan to spoil him. He grew lazy and stout,and looked older than his years. The only thingthat worried him was the thought of his forthcomingarmy service. He had neither horse norequipment, and he could hope for nothing fromhis father. He saved the wages he received forhimself and Aksinya, and even stinted himselfon tobacco, hoping to be able to buy ahorse without having to beg from his father.Old Listnitsky also promised to help him. Grigory'spresentiment that his father would givehim nothing was quickly confirmed. At the endof July Pyotr visited his brother, and in thecourse of conversation mentioned that hisfather was as angry with him as ever, and haddeclared that he wouldn't help him get a horse."Let him go tohad said.the local command for one," he"He needn't worry, I'll go to do my serviceon my own horse," Grigory declared, stressing"my own.""How'll you get it? Dance for it?" Pyotrasked, chewing hismoustache.345

"I'll dance for it, or beg for it, and if I can'tget it that way I'll steal it.""Good lad!""I'm going to buy a horse with my wages,"Grigory said more seriously.Pyotr sat on the steps, asking Grigory abouthis work, food, wages, and chewing the endsof his moustache, nodded his approval. Havingcompleted his inquiries, as he turned to go, hesaid to his brother:"You'd better come back, it'sno good stickingon your high horse. Do you expect to earnmore this way?""No, I don't.""Are you thinking of staying with her?""With who?""With this one.""Yes. Why not?""Oh, I just wondered."As Grigory went to see his brother off heasked at last: "How's everything at home?"iPyotr laughed as he untied his horse fromthe railing of the steps."You've got as many homes as a hare hasholes! Everything's all right. Mother missesyou. We've got in the hay, three loads of it."Grigory worriedly scanned the old mare hisbrother was riding: "No foal this year?""No, Brother, she's barren. But the bay346

which we got from Christonya has foaled. Astallion it is, a good one too. Long in the legs,sound pasterns, and a strong chest on him. It'llbe a good horse."Grigory sighed. "I miss the village, Pyotr,"he said. "I miss the Don. You never see runningwater here. It's a dreary hole!""Come and see us," Pyotr replied as hehoisted his body on to the mare's bony spine."Some day.""Well, good-bye.""A good journey."Pyotr had ridden out of the yard when, rememberingsomething, he called to Grigorywho was still standing on the steps:"Natalya ... I'd forgotten ... a terriblething. .". .The wind hovering vulture-like over thefarm carried the end of the sentence away fromGrigory's ears. Pyotr and the horse were envelopedin velvety dust, and Grigory shruggedshoulders and went off to the stables.hisThe summer was bone-dry. Little rain felland the corn ripened early. As soon as the ryewas garnered the barley was ripe and yellow.The four day-labourersand Grigory went outto reap it.Aksinya had finished work early that day,and she asked Grigory to take her with him.347

Despite his attempt to dissuade her, she quicklythrew a kerchief over her head, ran out, andcaught up with the wagon in which the menwere riding.The event which Aksinya anticipated withyearning and joyous impatience, and Grigorywith vague apprehension, happened during theharvesting. Feeling the symptoms, she threwdown the rake and lay under a stook. Her travailcame on quickly. Biting her blackenedtongue, she lay flat on the ground. The labourerswith the reaping machine passed her onthe turn and shouted. One of them, a youngman with a festering sore on his nose andnumerous folds in his yellow face that lookedas if it has been carved out of wood, calledout to her:"Hey, you! Get up, or you'll melt!"Grigory got one of the men to take his placeat the machine and went across toher."What's the matter?"Her lips writhing uncontrollably, she saidhoarsely:"I'm in labour. .". ."I told you not to come, you devil's bitch!Now what are we to do?""Don't be angry with me, Grisha. ..! Oh. . .!Oh, . . ! Grisha, harness the horse to the wagon.I must get home. . . . How could I, here348

. . . with the Cossacks . .." she moaned, as thepain gripped her like an iron band.Grigory ran for the horse. It was grazing ina hollow a little way off, and by the time hedrove up, Aksinya had struggled on to allfours, thrust her head into a pile ofdusty barley,and was spitting out the prickly ears shehad chewed in her pain. She fixed her dilatedeyes vacantly on Grigory, and set her teethinto her crumpled apron to prevent the labourersfrom hearing her horrible, rending cry.Grigory lifted her into the wagon and drovethe horse fast towards the estate."Oh! Don't hurry. . . . Oh, death! You're . . .shaking . . . me .". . Aksinya screamed as herhead knocked on the bottom of the wagon.Grigory silently plied the whip and swungthe reins around his head, without a glanceback at her.Pressing her cheeks with her palms, herstaring, frenzied eyes rolling wildly, Aksinyabounced about in the wagon as it swung fromside to side over the bumpy, little-used road,Grigory kept the horse at a gallop; the shaftbowbobbed up and down before his eyes, obscuringa dazzling white cloud that hung likepolished crystal in the sky. For a moment Aksinyaceased her shrieking howls. The wheelsrattled, and her head thudded heavily against349

the bottom-board. At first her silence did notimpress itself on Grigory, but then he glancedback. Aksinya was lying with a horribly distortedface,her cheek pressed hard against theside of the wagon, her jaws working like afish flung ashore. The sweat was pouring fromher brow into the deep sockets of her eyes.Grigory turned and raised her head, puttinghis crumpled cap under it. Glancing sidelongat him, she said firmly:"I shall die, Grisha. And that's all there isto it!"Grigory shuddered; a chill ran down hisbody to his toes. He sought for words of encouragement,of comfort, but could not findthem. His lips twisted harshly and he burstout: "Don't talk nonsense, you fool!" Then heshook his head, and leaning over backwards,squeezed her foot: "Aksinya, my littlepigeon..". .The pain died away and left Aksinya for amoment, then returned with redoubled force.Feeling something rending her belly, shearched her body and pierced Grigory's earswith a terrifying, rising scream. Grigory franticallywhipped up the horse.Then above the rattle of the wheels Grigoryheard her thin, feeble voice:"Grisha!"350

:He reined in the horse and turned his head.Aksinya lay in a pool of blood, her arms flungout. Between her legs a living thing was stirringand squealing. Grigory frenziedly jumpeddown from the wagon and stumbled to theback. Staring into Aksinya's panting, burningmouth, he guessed rather than heard the words"Bite through the cord ... tie it with cotton, . . from your shirt..". .With trembling fingers he tore strands ofthreads from the sleeve of his cotton shirt, andscrewing up his eyes till it hurt, he bit throughthenavel cord and carefully tied up the bleedingend with cotton.XXIThe estate of Yagodnoye clung to the side ofthe broad dry valley like a growth. The windblew changeably from north or south; thesun floated in the bluish whiteness of the sky;autumn rustled in on the heels of summer,winter clamped down with its frost and snow,but Yagodnoye remained sunk in its woodentorpor.So the days passed one after the other,alike as twins, and always the estate was cutoff from the rest of the world.The black whisperer-ducks with red ringslike spectacles roimd their eyes still waddled351

about the farmyard; the guinea-fowls werescattered about like beady rain; gawdy-featheredpeacocks miaowed throatily like cats fromthe stable roof. The old general was fond ofall kinds of birds, and even kept a maimedcrane. In November, when it heard the faintcall of the wild cranes flying to the south, itwrung the heart-strings with its copper-tonguedcry of yearning. But it could not fly, forone wing hung uselessly at its side. As thegeneral stood at the window and watched thebird stretching out its neck and jumping, flutteringoff the ground, he laughed opening hisbig mouth under the grey awning of his moustache,and the deep tones of his laughter rockedthrough the empty white-walled hall.Venyamin carried his fuzzy head as high asever, and spent whole days alone in the anteroom,playing cards with himself. Tikhon wasas jealous as ever of his pock-marked mistressand Sashka, the day-labourers, Grigory, themaster and even the crane to whom Lukeryawas devoting the tenderness which overflowedher widowed heart. Every now and then oldSashka would get drunk and beg for twentykopeckpieces under old Listnitsky's window.During all the time of Grigory's stay onlytwo events disturbed the mildewed torpor ofthe sleepy, monotonous life of Yagodnoye: the352

coming of Aksinya's child, and the loss of aprize gander. The inhabitants of Yagodnoyequickly grew accustomed to the baby girl, andfinding some of the gander's feathers in themeadow, concluded that a fox had carried himoff, and settled down again to their peacefulexistence.In the morning, when he awoke, the masterwould call in Venyamin."Did you dream of anything last night?""Why, of course, I had a wonderful dream.""Tell it to me," Listnitsky would ordercurtly, rolling himself a cigarette.And Venyamin would relate it.If the dreamhappened to be uninteresting or frightening,Listnitsky would get angry."You dolt! A fool is visited by foolishdreams."Venyamin started to invent gay and amusingdreams. But it was difficult for him. He startedto invent his gay dreams several days in advance,sitting on his trunk and shuffling thecards-puffy and oily as the cheeks of theplayer. His eyes staring fixedly, he exerted hisbrain until he reached a point where he stoppedhaving proper dreams altogether. Whenhe woke in the morning, he would strain hismemory, trying to recall what he had dreamed,but darkness lay behind him, black darkness.23—1933 353

He had dreamed nothing, not even seen a facein hissleep.Venyamin's store of artless inventions wassoon exhausted, and the master grew angrywhen he caught him repeating himself."You told me that dream about a horse lastThursday, damn you!""I dreamed it again, Nikolai Alexeyevich!Honest to God, I dreamed it again!" Venyaminlied calmly.In December Grigory was summoned tothedistrict administration at Vyeshenskaya. Therehe was given a hundred rubles to buy a horse,and was instructed to report two days afterChristmas at the village of Mankovo for thearmy draft.He returned to Yagodnoye in considerableagitation. Christmas was approaching, and hehad nothing ready. With the money he had receivedfrom the authorities plus his own savingshe bought a horse for a hundred and fortyrubles. He took Sashka with him and they purchaseda presentable enough animal, a sixyear-oldbay with one hidden blemish. OldSashka combed his beard with his fingers andsaid:"You won't get one cheaper, and the authoritieswon't see the flaw! They haven't gotenough gumption!"354

Grigory rode the horse back to Yagodnoye,putting it through its paces.A week before Christmas Pantelei arrivedunexpectedly at Yagodnoye. He did not driveinto the yard, but tied up hishorse and basketsledge at the gate, and limped towards the servants'quarters, rubbing the icicles off hisbeard that hung like a black log over the collarof his coat. Grigory happened to be lookingout of the window and saw his father approaching."Well I'm ... Father!"For some reason Aksinya ran to the cradleand wrapped up the child. Pantelei stumpedinto the room, bringing a breath of cold airwith him. He removed hisfur cap and crossedhimself facing the icon, then gazed slowlyaround the room."Good health!""Good-morning, Father!" Grigory replied,rising from the bench and striding to the centreof the room,'Pantelei offered Grigory an icy hand, and satdown on the edge of the bench, wrapping hissheepskin around him. He scarcely glanced atAksinya, who stood very still by the cradle."Getting ready for your service?""Of course."2:^^^355

Pantelei was silent, staring long and questioninglyat Grigory."Take your things off. Father, you must befrozen.""It doesn't matter.""We'll get the samovar going.""Thank you." The old man scraped an oldspot of mud off his coat with his finger-nail,and added: "I've brought your kit; two coats,a saddle, and trousers. You'll find them allthere in the sledge."Grigory went out and removed the two sacksof equipment from the sledge. When he returnedhisfather rose from the bench."When are you going off?" he asked his son."The day after Christmas. You aren't goingalready, are you. Father?""I want to get back early."He took leave of Grigory, and still avoidingAksinya's eyes, went towards the door. As heliftedthe latch he turned his eyes in the directionof the cradle, and said:"Your mother sends her greetings. She's inbed with trouble in her legs." After a momentarypause, he said heavily: "I shall ride withyou to Mankovo. Be ready when I come."He went out thrusting his hands into warm,knitted gloves. Aksinya, pale with the humiliationshe had suffered, said nothing. Grigory356

paced the room, glancing sideways at Aksinyaas he passed her, and constantly stepping on acreaking board.On Christmas Day Grigory drove his masterto Vyeshenskaya. Listnitsky attended mass,had breakfast with his cousin, a local landowner,and then ordered Grigory to get thesleigh ready for the return journey. Grigory hadnot finished his bowl of rich pork and cabbagesoup, but he rose at once, went to the stable,and harnessed the dapple-grey trotting-horseto the light sleigh.The wind was sifting the fine,tingling snowflakes;a silvery froth hissed through the yard;a soft fringe of hoar-frost hung from the treesbeyond the fence. The wind shook it down, andas it fell and scattered, it reflected a rainbowrichvariety of colours from the sun. On theroof close to the smoking chimney the chillyjackdaws' were chattering loudly. Startled bythe sound of footsteps, they flew off, circledround the house like dove-coloured snowflakes,then flew to the east, to the churchclearly outlined against the violet morning sky."Tell the master we're ready," Grigoryshouted to the maid that came to the steps ofthehouse.Listnitsky came out and climbed into thesleigh, his whiskers buried in the collar of his357

accoon coat. Grigory wrapped up his legs andadjusted the velvet-lined wolf-skin."Warm him up," Listnitsky said glancing atthe horse.Leaning back in his seat,his hands tense onthe quivering reins, Grigory watched the ruts,anxiously remembering the far from feeblebox on the ears the master had given him forhandling the sleigh awkwardly one day earlyin winter. As they drove down to the Don Grigoryreleased his grip on the reins and rubbedhis wind-seared cheeks with his glove.They arrived at Yagodnoye within twohours. Listnitsky had been silent throughoutthe drive, occasionally tapping Grigory on theback with his finger as a signal to stop whilehe rolled and lit a cigarette. Only as they weredescending the hill to the house did he ask:"Early tomorrow morning?"Grigory turned sideways in his 'seat, anddragged his frozen lips apart with difficulty.His tongue, stiff with cold, seemed to swell andstick to the back of his teeth."Yes," he managed to"Got all your money?""Yes."reply."Don't worry about your wife, she'll be allright with us. Be a good soldier,- your grandfatherwas a fine Cossack, And mind," List-358

nitsky's voice grew muffled as he hid his facefrom the wind in the collar of his coat, "andmind you conduct yourself in a manner worthyof ,your grandfather and father. Your fatherreceived the first prize for trick riding at theImperial Review, didn't he?""Yes.""Well then!" the old man ended with a sternnote in his voice, as though admonishing Grigory,and buried his face once more in his furcoat.At the yard Grigory handed over the horseto Sashka, and turned to go to the servants'quarters,"Your father's arrived," Sashka shouted afterhim.Grigory found Pantelei sitting at the table,eating meat jelly. "Tight!" Grigory decided,glancing at his father's flushed face."So you're back, soldier?""I'm frozen," Grigory answered, clappinghis hands together. Turning to Aksinya, he added:"Untie my hood, my fingers are too stiff.""You must have had the wind against you,"his father grunted, chewing steadily.This time his father was in a kindlier mood,and ordered Aksinya about as if he were in hisown home. "Don't be so stingy with the bread,cut some more," he told359her.

When he had finished he rose from the tableand went towards the door to have a smoke inthe yard. As he passed the cradle he rocked itonce or twice, pretending that the action wasaccidental, and asked: "A Cossack?""A girl," Aksinya replied for Grigory; andcatching the expression of dissatisfaction thatpassed over the old man's face, she hurriedlyadded: "She's the image of Grisha!"Pantelei attentively examined the dark littlehead sticking out of the clothes, and declared,not without a touch of pride: "She's of ourblood. . . ! Well, I never!""How did you come. Father?" Grigoryasked."With the mare and Pyotr's horse.""You need only have used one, and we couldhave harnessed mine for the journey to Mankovo.""Let him go light. He's not a bad horse, youknow."They were both troubled by the samethought, but they talked of various trivial matters.Aksinya took no part in the conversation,and sat on the bed. Her full breasts swelledtightly under her blouse. She had grown noticeablystouter since the birth of the child, andhad a new, confidently happy air.It was late when they went to bed. As she360

.nestled close at Grigory's side, Aksinya moistenedhis shirt with her tears and the overabundantmilk seeping from her breasts."I shall pine away. What shall I do withoutyou?""You'll be all right," Grigory murmured."The long nights . . . the child awake. . .Just think, Grisha! Four years!""In the old days service lasted twenty-fiveyears, they say.""What do I care about the old days?""Come now, enough of that!""Curse your army service, I say.""I shall come home on furlough.""On furlough!" Aksinya moaned, sobbingand wiping her nose on her shift. "A lot ofwater will go down the Don before then.""Not so much whimpering! You're like rainin autumn, always drizzling.""You should be in my shoes."Grigory fell asleep a little before dawn. Aksinyagot up and fed the child, then lay downagain. Leaning on her elbows she gazed unblinkinglyinto Grigory's face, and took a longfarewell of him. She recalled the night whenshe had tried to persuade him to go away withher to the Kuban; it had been the same asnow, except that there had been a moon floodingthe yard outside the window with its white^6f

light. The same, and Grigory was still thesame, yet not the same. Behind them both laya long track trodden out by the passing days.He turned over, muttered something aboutOlshansky village, and then was silent. Aksinyatried to sleep, but her thoughts drove allsleep away, like wind scattering a haycock.Until daybreak she lay thinking over his disconnectedphrase, seeking its meaning. Panteleiawoke as soon as daylight began to foam onthe frosty windows."Grigory, get up, it's getting light."Kneeling on the bed, Aksinya pulled on herskirt and with a sigh started looking for thematches.By the time they had breakfasted andpacked, dawn had fully come. The black stakesof the fence were clearly outlined and thestable roof loomed darkly against the mistylilac of the sky. Pantelei went to harness hishorses while Grigory tore himself away fromAksinya's desperately passionate kisses andwent to say good-bye to Sashka and the otherservants.Wrapping the child up warmly, Aksinyatook her out with her to take a last farewell.Grigory lightly touched his daughter's damplittle forehead with his lips, and went to hishorse.362

."Come in the sledge," his father called, ashe touched up his horses."No, I'll ride my horse."With deliberate slowness Grigory fastenedthe saddle-girths, mounted his horse, andgathered the reins in his hand. Aksinyatouched the stirrup with her hand and kept repeating:"Grisha, wait. . . . There's something Iwanted to say. . .." And puckering her brow,trembling and bewildered, she tried to rememberwhat itwas."Well, good-bye. . . . Look after the child. . .I must be off; see how far Father's got already.""Wait, dearest!" With her left hand Aksinyaseized the icy iron stirrup; her right armpressed the baby to her breast; and she had nofree hand with which to wipe away the tearsstreaming from her wide staring eyes.Venyamin came to the steps of the house."Grigory, the master wants you!"Grigory cursed, waved his whip, and dashedout of the yard. Aksinya ran after him, stumblingin the drifted snow.He overtook his father at the top of the hill.With an effort of will, he turned and lookedback. Aksinya was standing at the gate, thechild still pressed to her breast, the ends ofher crimson shawl fluttering in the wind.56.9

He rode his horse alongside his father'ssledge. After a few moments the old manturned his back to his horses and asked:"So you're not thinking of living with yourwife?""That old story again? We've had that outalready. . ..""So you're not.""No, I'm not!""You haven't heard that she laid hands onherself?""Yes, I've heard. I happened to meet a manfrom the village.""And in the sight of God?""Why, Father, after all ... it's no use cryingover spilt milk.""Don't use that devil's talk to me. What I'msaying toPanteleiyou, I'm saying for your own good,"flared up."I've a child back there. What's the use oftalking? You can't push the other on to menow. .."."Are you sure you're not rearing anotherman's child?"Grigory turned pale; his father had toucheda sore spot. Ever since the child was born hehad tormentedly nursed the suspicion in hismind, while concealing it from Aksinya andfrom himself. At night, when Aksinya was364

asleep, he had more than once gone tothe cradle and stared down at the child,seeking his own features in its swarthilyrosy face, and had turned back to bed asuncertain as before. Stepan was dark-chestnut,almost as dark as he, and how washe to know whose blood flowed in the child'sveins? At times he thought the child resembledhim, at other times she was painfully like Stepan.Grigory had no feeling for her, except perhapshostility as he recalled the moments hehad lived through when he had driven Aksinyaback from the steppes in the throes of childbirth.Once when Aksinya was busy in thekitchen, he had had to change the child's wetnapkin. As he did so he had felt a sharp, burningemotion. He had bent stealthily over thecradle and pressed the baby's pink stiff toe betweenhis teeth.His father probed mercilessly at the wound,and Grigory, his palm resting on the saddlebow,numbly replied:"Whoever it belongs to, I won't leave thechild."Pantelei waved his whip at the horses withoutturning round:"Natalya's spoilt her good looks. She carriesher head on one side like a paralytic. It seemsshe cut a tendon." He lapsed into silence.365

The runners creaked as they cut through thesnow; the hoofs of Grigory's horse clicked asthey knocked together."And how is she now?" Grigory asked,studiously picking a burr out of his horse'smane."She got over it somehow or other. She waslaid up seven months. On Trinity Sunday shewas all but gone. Father Pankraty came to sayprayers. And then she began to pick up. She'dtried to stab herself with a scythe but her handshook and she just missed her heart. It wouldhave been the end of her otherwise. .."."Quicker down the hill!" Grigory said,standing in his stirrups and using his whip;the horse leaped forward, sending a shower ofsnow from its hoofs over the sledge, and brokeintoa trot."We're taking Natalya in," Pantelei shouted,coming up with him. "The woman doesn'twant to live with her own folk. I saw her theother day and told her to come to us."Grigory made no reply. They drove as farthe first village without exchanging a word,and his father made no further reference tothe subject.That day they covered seventy versts.asTheyarrived at Mankovo the following evening as366

dusk was falling, and spent the night in thequarters allotted to the Vyeshenskaya recruits.Next morning the district ataman took theVyeshenskaya recruits before the medical commission.Grigory fell in with the other ladsfrom his own village. In the morning MitkaKorshunov, riding a tall bay horse equippedv;ith a new and gaily-ornamented saddle andharness, had passed Grigory standing at thedoor of his quarters, but had gone by withouta word of greeting.The men undressed in turn in the cold roomof the local civil administration. Militaryclerks bustled around, and the adjutant to theprovincial ataman hurried past in short patentleatherboots. From an inner room came thesound of the doctors' orders, and snatches oftalk."Sixty-nine.""Pavel Ivanovich, pass me an indelible pencil,"croaked a drink-sodden voice near thedoor,"Chest measurement. ...".""Yes, obviously hereditary. . ."Put down syphilis.""Take your hand away. You're not a girl.""Fine physique."3&7

". . . Infects the whole village. Special measuresmust be taken. I have already reportedthe matter to His Excellency.""Pavel Ivanovich, look at this fellow's physique.""Oho!"Grigory got undressed beside a tall redhairedlad from another village. A clerk cameout and, straightening his shoulders so thathis tunic creased at the back, curtly called Grigoryand the other lad into the examinationroom."Hurry up!" gasped the red-head, blushingand pulling off a sock.Grigory went in, his back all goose-fleshwith the cold. His swarthy body was the colourof oak. He felt embarrassed as he glanceddown at his hairy legs. In the corner a squarelimbedlad was standing naked on the scales.Someone, evidently the doctor's assistant,flicked the weights to and fro, called out afigure and told him to get down.The humiliating procedure of the medicalexamination irritated Grigory. A grey-haireddoctor in a white coat sounded him with theaid of a stethoscope. A younger doctor turnedup his eyelids and looked at his tongue. Behindhim a third in horn-rimmed spectacles bustledabout, rubbing his hands.368

"On the scales!" an officer ordered.Grigory stepped on to the cold platform,"Five poods ... six and a half pounds.""Wha-a-at! He's not particulcirly tall,either,"the grey-haired doctor exclaimed, turning Grigoryround by the arm."Astonishing!" the younger man coughed."How much?" an officer sitting at the tableasked in surprise."Five poods, six and a half pounds," thegrey-haired doctor replied."How about the Lifeguards for him?" thedistrict military commissary asked, bending ablack sleek head towards histable."He has the face of a brigand. . . . Verysavage-looking.. .."neighbour at the"Hey, turn round! What's that on yourback?" an officer wearing colonel's epaulettesshouted, impatiently tapping his finger on thetable. The grey-haired doctor mumbled somethingand Grigory, trying to restrain thetrembling of his body, turned his back to thetable and replied:"I caught cold in the spring. It's a boil."By the end of the examination the officers atthe table had decided that Grigory would haveto be drafted into an ordinary regiment.24—1933 369

"The Twelfth Regiment, Melekhov. D'yoiihear?" he was told. And as he went towardsthe door he heard a shocked whispering:"It's impossible. Just imagine it, if the emperorsaw a face like that? His eyes alone. /'. ."He's a cross-breed. From the East, nodoubt.""And his body isn't clean. Those boils. .". .Other men from his village who were waitingtheir turn crowded round Grigory:"How did it go, Grisha?""What regiment?""The Lifeguards, eh?""How much did you go on the scales?"Hopping on one foot while he pushed hislegs into his trousers, Grigory snapped: "Oh,go to hell! What regiment? The Twelfth.""Korshunov, Dmitry; Kargin, Ivan," shoutedthe clerk, poking his head round the door.Buttoning up his coat as he went, Grigoryran down the steps.The warm wind breathed of thaw; the roadwas bare of snow in places, and steaming.Clucking hens fluttered across the street, geesewere splashing in a puddle; their feet lookedorange-pink in the water, like frost-nippedautumn leaves.The examination of the horses took place thefollowing day. They were all drawn up on the370

square in a long line against the church wall.Officers bustled to and fro; a veterinary surgeonand his assistant passed down the longline of animals. The Vyeshenskaya atamanwent running from the scales to the table inthe middle of the square, where the results ofthe examination were being recorded. A militarypolice officer went by, deep in conversationwith a young captain.When his turn came, Grigory led his horseto the scales. The surgeon and his assistantmeasured every part of the animal's body, thenweighed it. Before it could be led from theplatform the surgeon had deftly taken it by theupper lip, looked at its teeth, felt its chestmuscles and, running his strong fingers overits body, like a spider, reached its legs. He feltthe knee joints, tapped the tendons, squeezedthe bone above the fetlocks. When he had finishedhis examination he passed on, his whiteapron flapping in the wind and scattering thescent of carbolic acid.Grigory's horse was rejected. Sashka's hopeshad proved unjustified, and the experiencedsurgeon had been shrewd enough to discoverthe secret blemish of which the old man hadspoken. Grigory at once held an agitated consultationwith his father, and before half anhour had elapsed he led Pyotr's horse on to24* 371

saddle-cloth on the ground. His father held hishorse, talking to another old man who was alsothe scales. The surgeon passed it almost withoutexamination,Grigory led the horse a little way off, founda comparatively dry spot, and spread out hisseeing off his son. Past them strode a tall, greyhairedgeneral in a light-grey cloak and a silverastrakhan cap, followed by a group of officers."That's the provincial ataman," Panteleiwhispered, nudging Grigory from behind."Looks like a general,""Major-General Makeyev. He's a strictdevil!"A crowd of officers from various regimentsand batteries followed in the wake of the ataman.An artillery major, broad in the hips andshoulders, was talking loudly to a tall handsomeGuards officer of the Ataman's Regiment:", , . What an amazing con-the devil ! Suchtrast, you know! An Estonian village, themajority of the people blonde, and this girlsuch a contrast! And she wasn't the only one!We had all sorts of guesses about it, and thenwe learned that twenty years ago. ,". , The officerswalked past the spot where Grigory wasarranging his equipment on his saddle-clothand the wind brought him the final words amid372

a burst of laughter from the officers: "...Apparentlya squadron of your Guards used to bestationed in the village."A clerk ran past buttoning his jacket withtrembling ink-stained fingers and the districtassistant chief of police bellowed after him:"I told you three copies. Confound you!"Grigory stared curiously at the unfamiliarfaces of the officers and officials. An adjutantfixed a bored gaze on him, and turned awayas he met Grigory's attentive eyes. An old captainwent by almost at a run, looking agitatedby something and biting his upper lip with hisyellow teeth. Grigory noticed a vein beatingover the captain's ginger eyebrow.On his new saddle-cloth Grigory had setout his saddle, with its green pommel and saddle-bagsat back and front; two army coats,two pairs of trousers, a tunic, two pairs of topboots,a pound and a half of biscuit, a tin ofcorned beef, groats, and other food in the regulationquantities. In the open saddle-bagswere four horseshoes, shoe-nails wrapped in agreasy rag, a soldier's hussif with a couple ofneedles and thread, and towels.He gave a last glance over his accoutrements,and squatted down to rub some mud offthe ends of the packstrings with his sleeve.From the end of the square the army com-373

mission slowly passed along the rows of Cossacksdrawn up behind their saddle-cloths. Theofficers and the ataman examined the equipmentclosely, holding up the edges of theirlight-coloured greatcoats as they stooped torummage in the saddle-bags, turned out thecontents of the hussifs, and weighed the bagsof biscuits in their hands,"Look at that tall one over there, lads," saida young Cossack standing next to Grigory,pointing towards the provincial chief of militarypolice, "scratching like a dog after a polecat.""Just look at the devil. Turning the bag insideout!""Something wrong there, or he wouldn't dothat.""Surely he isn'tcounting the shoe-nails.""Just like a dog!"The talk gradually died away as the commissionapproached. Only a few more men anditwould be Grigory's turn. The provincial atamanwas carrying a glove in his left hand andswinging his right, keeping the elbow straight.Grigory drew himself up. Behind him hisfather coughed. The wind carried thesmell ofhorse piss and melted snow over the square.The sun looked unhappy, as though after adrinking bout.374

The group of officers halted by the mannext to Grigory, then came on to him one byone."Your surname. Christian name?""Melekhov, Grigory."The police officer picked up the greatcoat byits belt, smelled the lining, and hurriedlycounted the fastenings; another officer, wearinga cornet's epaulettes, felt the good cloth ofthe trousers between his fingers. A third stoppedand rummaged in the saddle-bags, stoopingso low that the wind threw the skirts of hisgreatcoat on to his back. With his thumb andforefinger the police officer cautiously pokedat the rag containing shoe-nails as thoughafraid it might be hot, and counted the nails ina whisper."Why are there only twenty-three nails?What is this?" he angrily pulled at the cornerof the rag."Not at all. Your Honour. Twenty-four.""What, am I blind?"Grigory hastily turned back a folded corner,revealing the twenty-fourth nail. As he did sohis rough swarthy fingers lightly touched theofficer's sugar-white hand. The officer snatchedhis hand away as though struck, rubbed it onthe edge of his greatcoat, frowning fastidiously,and drew on his glove.375

Grigory noticed his action and straightenedup with a bitter smile. Their eyes met, and theofficer flushed and raised his voice,"What's all this, what's all this, Cossack?Why aren't your packstrings in order? Whyaren't your snaffles right? And what does thismean? Are you a Cossack or a muzhik?Where's your father?"Pantelei pulled on the horse's rein andstepped forward a pace, clicking his lame leg."Don't you know the Cossack regulations?"the officer, who was ill-tempered after losingat cards that morning, poured out his wrathupon him.The provincial ataman came up, and the officersubsided. The ataman thrust the toe of hisboot into the padding of the saddle, hiccuppedand passed on to the next man. The draft officerof the regiment to which Grigory hadbeen drafted politely turned out all his belongingsdown to the contents of the hussif, andpassed on last of all, walking backwards toshield a match from the wind as he lit a cigarette.A day later a train of red railway trucksloaded with horses, Cossacks and forage leftfor Voronezh. In one of them stood Grigory.Past the open door crawled an unfamiliar,flatlandscape; a blue and tender thread of forest376

whirled by in the distance. Behind him thehorses were munching hay and stepping fromhoof to hoof as they felt the unsteady floor beneaththem. The wagon smelled of wormwood,horses' sweat, and the spring thaw; a distantthread of forest lurked on the horizon, blue,pensive, and as inaccessible as the faintly-shiningevening-star.

PART THREEIt was on a warm andcheerful spring day inMarch, 1914 that Natalyareturned to her father-in-law's house. Panteleiwas mending the broken wattle fence withfluffy dove-coloured twigs. The silvery icicleshanging from the roofs were dripping, and thetracesof former runnels showed like black tarstains under the eaves. A ruddier, warmer suncaressed the melting hills, and the earth wasswelling; the early grass looked like greenmalachite on the bare chalky headlands thatbulged from the hill beyond the Don.Natalya, thinner and much changed, approachedher father-in-law from behind andbowed her scarred, slightly crooked neck:"Good health. Father!""Natalyushka! Welcome, my dear, wel-378

come!" Pantelei exclaimed fussing over her.The twigs dropped out of his hand. "Whyhaven't you been to see us? Come in. Motherwill be right glad to see you.""Father, I've come. .". . Natalya stretched outher hand uncertainly, and turned away. "If youdon't drive me away, I'd like to stay with youalways," she added."And why shouldn't you. my dear? Are youa ,stranger to us? Look, Grigory has writtenabout you in his letter. He's told us to askabout you."They went into the kitchen. Pantelei limpedabout in joyful agitation. Ilyinichna wept asshe embraced Natalya."You want a child," she whispered. "Thatwould win him. Sit down. I'll get you somepancakes, shall I?"Dunya, flushed and smiling, came runninginto the kitchen and embraced Natalya roundthe knees. "You shameless thing! You forgotall about us!" she reproached her."Now then, you madcap!" her father shoutedat her with feigned severity."How you've grown!" Natalya murmured,pulling Dunya's arms apart and looking intoher eyes.They all talked together, interrupting oneanother. Ilyinichna, supporting her cheek onS79

her palm, grieved as she looked at Natalya, sochanged from what she had been."You've come for good?" Dunya asked,claspingNatalya's hands."Who knows .?". ."Why, where else should my own daughterin-lawlive? You'll stay with us," Ilyinichnadecided, as she pushed a platter of pancakesacross the table.Natalya had come to her husband's parentsonly after long vacillation. At first her fatherwould not let her go. He shouted at her in indignationwhen she suggested it, and attemptedto persuade her against such a step.But it was difficult for her to look her ownpeople in the face; since her attempted suicideshe felt that with her own family she was almosta stranger. For his part, after he had seenGrigory off to the army Pantelei was continuallywheedling her to come, for he was determinedto have her back and to reconcile Grigoryto her.From that day in March Natalya lived withthe Melekhovs. Pyotr was friendly and brotherly;Darya gave little outward sign of her dissatisfaction,but her occasional sidelongglances were more than compensated by Dunya'sattachment and the parental attitude ofthe old people.330

The very day after Nataiya came to ttiemPantelei ordered Dunya to write a letter toGrigory:Greetings, our own son, Grigory Panteleyevich!We send you a deep bow, and horn allmy fatherly heart, with your mother Vasilisallyinichna, a parental blessing. Your brotherPyotr Panteleyevich and his wife Darya Matveyeunagreet you and wish you health andwell-being; also your sister Dunya and all athome greet you. We received your letter, sentin February, the fifth day, and heartily thankyou for it. And as you wrote that the horse isknocking his legs smear him with some lard,you know how, and don't shoe his hind hoofsso long as there is no slipperiness or bare iceabout. Your wife Nataiya Mironovna is livingwith us and is well and comfortable. Yourmother sends you some dried cherries and apair of woollen socks, and some bacon andother things. We are all alive and well, butDarya's baby has died. The other day Pyotrand I roofed the shed, and he orders you tolook after the horse and keep it well. The cowshave calved, the old mare seems to be in foal,we put a stallion from the district stables toher. We are glad to hear about your serviceand that your officers are pleased with you.381

§erue as you should. Service for the Tsar willnot be in vain. And Natalya will live with usnow, and you think that over. And one othertrouble, just before Lent a wolf killed threesheep. Now, keep well, and in Cod's keeping.Don't forget your wife, that is my order toyou. She is a good woman and your legal wife.Don't break the furrow, and listen to yourfather.Your father.Senior SergeantPantelei Melekhov.Grigory's regiment was stationed at a littleplace called Radzivillovo some four verstsfrom the Russo-Austrian frontier. He rarelywrote home. To the letter informing him thatNatalya was living with his father he wrotea cautiously worded reply, and asked hisfather to greet her in his name. All his letterswere non-com.mittal and obscure in their meaning.Pantelei made Dunya or Pyotr read themto him several times, pondering over thethought concealed between the lines. Just beforeEaster he wrote and asked Grigory definitelywhether on his return from the army hewould live with his wife or with Aksinya asbefore.Grigory delayed his reply. Only after TrinitySunday did they receive a brief letter from382

:him. Dunya read it quickly, swallowing theends of her words, and Pantelei had difficultyin grasping the essential thought among thenumerous greetings and inquiries. At the endof the letter Grigory dealt with the question ofNatalyaYou asked me to say whether I shall livewith Natalya or not, but I tell you. Father, oncea thing's been cut oft, you can't stick it onagain. And how shall I make it up with Natalya,when you know yourseli that I have achild. And 1 can't promise anything, it is painfulfor me to talk about it. The other day a fellowwas caught smuggling goods across thefrontier and we happened to see him. He saidthere would be war with the Austrians soon,that their tsar has come to the frontier to seewhere to begin the war from and which land tograb tor himself. If war begins maybe I shan'tbe left alive, and nothing pan be settled beiorehand.Natalya worked for her foster-parents andlived in continual hope of her husband's return.She never wrote to Grigory, but nobodyinthe family yearned with more pain and desireto receive a letter from him.Life in the village continued in its inviolableorder, Cossacks who had served their term in383

the army returned home, on workdays dulllabour imperceptibly consumed the time, onSunday mornings the village poured in familydroves into the church: the Cossacks in tunicsand holiday trousers, the women in long, colouredskirts that swept the dust, and embroideredblouses with puff sleeves.In the square stood empty wagons, theirshafts high in the air, horses whinnied and allkinds of people went to and fro; by the fireshedthe Bulgar settlers traded in vegetables set outin long rows; behind them the children ranabout in bands and stared at the unharnessedcamels superciliously surveying the marketsquare. Everywhere were crowds of men wearingred-banded caps, and women in brightkerchiefs.The camels, their eyes glazed with atorpid green, chewed the cud as they restedfrom their constant toil on the water-wheels.In the evening the streets groaned with thetramp of feet, with song, and dancing to theaccordions; and only late at night did thelast voices die away on the outskirts of thevillage.Natalya, who never went to the eveninggatherings, sat listening gladly to Dunya'sartless stories. Imperceptibly Dunya was growinginto a shapely and, in her way, good-lookinggirl. She matured early, like an early apple.384

That year her elder girl-friends forgot thatthey had reached adolescence before herand took her into their circle. Dunya was likeher father, dark and sturdy. She was fifteennow, her figure still girlish and angular. Shewas an artless, almost pitiful mixture of childhoodand blossoming youth; her small breastsgrew and pressed noticeably against Herblouse; and her black eyes in their long, ratherslanting sockets, still sparkled bashfully andmischievously. She would come back after anevening out and tellsecrets.only Natalya her innocent"Natalya, I want to tell you something. . ."Well, tell on!""Yesterday Misha Koshevoi sat the wholeevening with me on the stump by the villagegranaries.""Why are you blushing?""Oh, I'm not!""Look in the glass; you're all one greatflame.""Well, you made me.""All right, go on, I won't say a thing."burning cheeks with herDunya rubbed herbrown palms, pressed her fingers to her temples,and her laughter tinkled out youthfullyand without cause."He said I was like a little azure flower."25—1933 385."

"Well, go on!" Natalya encouraged her, rejoicingin another's joy, forgetting her ownpast and downtrodden happiness."And I said: 'Don't tell lies, Misha!' And heswore it was true."Shaking her head, Dunya sent her laughterpealing through the room. The black, heavyplaits of her hair slipped like lizards over hershoulders and back."What else did he say?""He asked me to give him my hanky for akeepsake.""And did you?""No. I said I wouldn't. 'Go and ask yourwoman,' I told him. He's been seen with Yerofeyev'sdaughter-in-law, and she's a bad woman,she plays about with the men.""You'd better keep away from him.""I'm going to!" Dunya continued her story,trying to hide the smile that came to her lips."And then, as the three of us, two other girlsand me, were coming home, drunken oldGrandpa Mikhei came after us. 'Kiss me, mydears, and I'll pay you two kopecks apiece,' heshouted. And Nyura hit him on the face witha twig and we ran away."The summer was dry. By the village the Dongrew shallow, and where the surging currenthad run swiftly a ford was made, and bullocks386

could cross to the other bank without wettingtheir backs. At night a sultry stuffiness floweddown into the village from the range of hills,and the wind filled the air with the spicy scentof scorched grass. The dry growth of thesteppe was afire, and a sickly-smelling hazehung over the Don-side slopes. At night theclouds deepened over the river and ominouspeals of thunder were heard; but no rain cameto refresh the pardhed earth, although thelightning rent the sky into jagged, livid fragments.Night after night an owl screeched from thebelfry. The cries surged terrifyingly over thevillage, and the owl flew from the belfry to thecemetery and moaned over the brownish grassymounds of the graves."There's trouble brewing," the old men prophesied,as they listened to the owl screechingfrom the cemetery."There's war coming. An owl called just likethat before the Turkish campaign.""Perhaps there will be cholera again.""Expect no good when it flies from thechurch to the dead."For two nights Martin Shamil, who livedclose tothe cemetery, lay in wait by the cemeteryfence for the accursed owl, but the invisible,mysterious bird flew noiselessly over25* 387

him, alighted on a cross at the other end ofthe cemetery, and sent its alarming cries overthe sleepy village. Martin swore indecently,shot at the black, hanging belly of a cloud,and went home. On his return his wife, atimorous, ailing woman as fertile asa doe rabbit,greated him with reproaches."You're a fool, a hopeless fool!" she declared."The bird doesn't interfere with you,does it? What if God should punish you? HereI am in my last month and suppose I don'tgive birth because of you.""Shut up, woman!" Martin ordered her."You'll be all right, never fear! What's thatbird doing here, giving us all the coldshivers? It's calling down woe on us, the devil!If war breaks out they'll take me off, andlook at the litter you've given me!" He wavedat the corner where the children were sleeping.Talking with the old men in the marketplace, Pantelei solemnly announced:"Our Grigory \mtes that the Austrian tsarhas come to the frontier, and has given ordersto collect all his troops in one place and tomarch on Moscow and Petersburg."The old men remembered past wars, andshared their apprehensions with one another."But there won't be any war," one objected."Look at the harvest."38S

"The harvest has nothing to do with it. It'sthe students giving trouble, I expect."it."In any case we shall be the last to hear ofBut who will the war be with?""With the Turks, about the sea. They can'tcome to an agreement on how to divide thesea.""Is it so difficult? Let them divide it intotwo strips, like we do the meadowland."The talk turned to jest, and the old menwent about their business.The early meadow hay was waiting to bemown. The fading grass beyond the Don,which was not a patch on the grass of thesteppe, was sickly and scentless. It was thesame earth, yet the grass drank in differentjuices. In the steppe there was black soil, soheavy and firm that the herd left no traceswhere they passed over it. The grass there wasstrong and fragrant. But along the Don banksthe soil was damp and rotten, growing a poorand scrubby grass which even the cattle wouldnot always look at.Haymaking was about to begin when anevent occurred which shook the village fromone end to the other. The district chief of policearrived with an inspector and a little blacktoothedofficer in a uniform never seen beforein the village. They sent for the ataman, col-389

lected witnesses, and then went straight tocross-eyed Lukeshka's house. They walkedalong the path on the sunlit side of the street,the village ataman running ahead like acockerel. The inspector, his dusty boots stampingon the blobs of sunlight, questioned him:"Is Stockman at home?""Yes, Your Honour.""What does he do for a living?""He's just a craftsman. Works with hisplane. .". ."You haven't noticed anything suspiciousabout him?""Not at all."As the police chief walked along, hat inhand, he squeezed a pimple on the bridge of hisnose and panted in his thick uniform. The littleofficer picked his black teeth with a straw andpuckered his red-rimmed eyes."Does he ever have visitors?" the inspectorasked, pulling the ataman back."Yes, they play cards sometimes.""Who?""Chiefly labourers from the mill.""Who exactly?""The engineman, the scalesman, the rollermanDavid, and sometimes some of our Cossacks."The inspector halted and waited for the of-390

ficer, who had lagged behind. He said somethingto him, twisting a button on his tunic,then beckoned to the ataman. The atamanran up on tiptoe, holding his breath. Knottedveins throbbed and quivered in his neck."Take two of those on duty and arrest themen you mentioned. Bring them to the administration,and we'll be along in a minute ortwo. Do you understand?"The ataman drew himself up so that theveins bulged over his high collar, uttered akind of grunt and turned away to execute hisinstructions.Stockman, his vest unbuttoned, was sittingwith his back to the door, cutting out a plywoodpattern with a fret-saw."Kindly stand up; you're under arrest.""What for?""You occupy two rooms?""Yes.""We shall search them."The officer caught his spur on the doormat,walked across to the table and with a frownpicked up the first book that came to hand."I want the key of that trunk.""To what do I owe this visit?""There'll be time to talk to you afterwards."Stockman's wife looked through the doorwayfrom the other room and drew back. The391

inspector and his clerk followed her into theother room."What's this?" the officer asked Stockmanquietly, holding up a book in a yellow cover."A book," Stockman replied with a shrug."You can keep your witticisms for a moresuitable occasion. Answer the question properly."Suppressing a wry smile Stockman leanedhis back against the stove. The districtchief ofpolice glanced over the officer's shoulder atthe book, and then turned to Stockman:"Are you studying this?""I'm interested in the subject," Stockmanreplied drily, parting his black beard into twoequal strands with a small comb."I see!"The officer glanced through the pages of thebook and threw it back on the table. He lookedthrough a second, put it aside, and having readthe cover of the third, turned to Stockmanagain."Where do you keep the rest of this type ofliterature?"Stockman screwed up one eye as thoughtaking aim, and replied:"You see all that I have.""You're lying," the officer retorted, wavingthe book at him.392

"I demand. ...""Search the rooms!"Gripping the hilt of his sabre, the chief ofpolice went across to the trunk, where a pockmarkedCossack guard, obviously terrified bythe circumstances in which he found himself,had begun to rummage among the clothingand linen."I demand polite treatment," Stockman managedto say at last, screwing up his eye andaiming at the bridge of the officer's nose."Be quiet, fellow."The men turned out everything that it waspossible to turn out. The search was conductedin the workshop also. The zealous inspectoreven knocked on the walls with hisknuckles.When the search was over. Stockman wastaken to the administration office. He walkedalong the middle of the road in front of theCossack guard, one hand tucked into the lapelof his old coat, the other swinging as thoughhe were shaking mud off his fingers. Theothers walked along the sunlit path by thewalls; and again the inspector trod on theblobs of sunlight with his boots that were nowgreen from thegrass. He was no longer carryinghis hat in his hand, but had clamped itdown firmly over his gristly ears.393

Stockman was the lastof the prisoners to beexamined. Ivan Alexeyevich, with hands stilloily, the smiling David, Knave with his jacketover his shoulders, and Misha Koshevoi, whohad already been questioned, were herded togetherin the ante-room, guarded by Cossacks.Rummaging in his portfolio the inspectorquestioned Stockman:"When I examined you in regard to themanslaughter at the mill why did you concealthe fact that you are a member of the Russianhead."That much is established. You will receiveSocial-Democratic Labour Party?"Stockman stared silently over the investigator'sa suitable reward for your work," the inspectorshouted, annoyed by the prisoner's silence."Please begin your examination," Stockmansaid in a bored tone, and glancing at a stool,he asked for permission to sit down. The inspectordid not reply, but glared as Stockmancalmly seated himself."When did you come here?""Last year.""On the instructions of your organization?""Without any instructions.""How long have you been a member of yourparty?""What are you talking about?"394

"I ask you, how long have you been a memberof the Russian Social-Democratic LabourParty?""I think that""I don't care what you think. Answer thequestion. Denial is useless, even dangerous."The inspector drew a document out of his portfolioand pinned it to the table with his forefinger."1 have here a report from Rostov, confirmingyour membership in the party I mentioned."Stockman turned his eyes quickly to the document,rested his gaze on it for a moment,and then, stroking his knee, replied firmly:"Since 1907.""I see! You deny that you have been senthere by your party?""In that case why did you come here?""There seemed to be a shortage of mechanics"Yes."here.""But why did you choose thisparticular district?""For the same reason.""Have you now, or have you at any timehad any contact with your organization duringthe period of your stay here?""No.""Do they know you have come here?"395

"I expect so."The inspector sharpened his pencil with apearl-handled penknife, and pursed his lips:"Are you in correspondence with any membersof your party?""No.""Then what about the letter which wasdiscovered during the search?""That is from a friend who has no connectionwhatever with any revolutionary organization.""Have you received any instructions fromRostov?""No.""What did the labourers at the mill gatherin your rooms for?"Stockman shrugged his shoulders as thoughastonished at the stupidity of the question."They used to come along in the winterevenings, to pass the time away. We playedcards. .". ."And read books prohibited by law?" theinspector suggested."No. Everyone of them was almost illiterate.""Nonetheless the engineman from the mill,and the others also do not deny this fact.""That is untrue.""It seems to me you haven't even an ele-396

mentary understanding of . ,." Stockmansmiled at this, and the inspector, forgettingwhat he had been going to say, concluded:"You simply have no sense. You persist indenials that are to your own disadvantage. Itis quite clear that you've been sent here byyour party in order to carry on demoralizingactivities among the Cossacks, in order to turnthem against the government. I fail to understandwhy you're playing this game of pretence.It can't diminish your offence. . ."Those are all quesses on your part. May Ismoke? Thank you. And they are guesses entirelywithout foundation.""Did you read this book to the workers whovisited your rooms?" the inspector put hishand on a small book and covered the title.Above his hand the name "Plekhanov" wasvisible."We read poetry," Stockman replied, andpuffed at his cigarette, gripping the bone holdertightly between his fingers.The next morning the postal tarantass droveout of the village with Stockman dozing on theback seat, his beard buried in his coat collar.On each side of him a Cossack armed with a."sabre was squeezed on the seat. One of them, acurly-headed pock-marked fellow, gripped Stockman'selbow firmly in hisknotty, dirty fingers,397

casting timorous sidelong glances at him, andkeeping his other hand on his battered scabbard.The tarantass rattled briskly down thestreet. By the Melekhovs' farmyard a littlewoman wrapped in a shawl stood waiting forit, her back against the wattle fence.The tarantass sped past, and the woman,pressing her hands to her breast, flung herselfafterit."Osip! Osip Davydovich! Oh, what shall Ido. .". .Stockman attempted to wave his hand toher, but the pock-marked Cossack jumped upand clutched his arm, and in a hoarse, savagevoiceshouted:"Sit down, or I'll cut you down!"For the first time in all his simple life hehad seen a man who dared to act against thetsarhimself.IIThe long road from Mankovo to the littletown of Radzivillovo lay somewhere behindhim in a grey, intangible mist. Grigory triedoccasionally to recall the road, but could onlydimly remember station buildings, the trainwheels clattering beneath the shaking floor,the scent of horses and hay, endless threadsof railway line flowing under them, the smoke398

that billowed from the engine, and the beardedface of a gendarme on the station platformeither at Voronezh or at Kiev, he was not surewhich.At the place where they detrained werecrowds of officers, and clean-shaven men ingrey overcoats, talking a language he couldnot understand. It took a long time for -thehorses to be unloaded, but when this had beenaccomplished the assistant echelon commanderled three hundred or more Cossacks to theveterinary hospital. A long procedure in connectionwith the examination of the horses.Then allotment to troops. N.C.O.'s bustlingabout. The First Troop was formed of lightbrownhorses, the Second of bay and dun, theThird of dark-brown. Grigory was allotted tothe Fourth, which consisted of plain brownand golden horses. The Fifth was composedentirelyof sorrel, and the Sixth of black horses.The troops were put under the command ofsergeants-major, who took them out to thevarious cavalry squadrons stationed at villagesand estates in the neighbourhood.The debonair pop-eyed sergeant-major wearinglong-service badges rode past Grigory andasked:"What stanitsa are you from?""Vyeshenskaya."399

"Are you bob-tailed*?"The Cossacks from other stanitsas chuckledand Grigory swallowed the insult in silence.The road taken by Grigory's troop led themalong the highway. The Don horses, which hadnever seen proper highways before, at firststepped along gingerly, as if on an ice-boundriver, setting their ears back and snorting;but after a while they got the feel of the roadand their fresh-shod hoofs clattered sharply asthey moved on. The unfamiliar Polish land wascriss-crossed with slices of straggling forest.The day was warm and overcast, and the sunhovering behind a dense curtain of cloud alsoseemed alien and unfamiliar.The estate of Radzivillovo was some fourversts from the station, and they reached itin half an hour."What village is this, uncle?" a young Cossackasked the sergeant-major, pointing to thenaked tree tops in a garden."What village? You forget about your Cossackvillages here, my lad, this isn't the DonProvince.""What is it then, uncle?"* Each stanitsa had a nickname. Vyeshenskaya wasknown as Dogs.400

"I, your uncle? A fine nephew you make!That, my lad, is the estate of Princess Urusova,Our Fourth Company is quartered here."Despondently stroking his horse's neck, Grigorystared at the neatly-built, two-storiedhouse, the wooden fence, and the unfamiliarstyle of the farm buildings. But as they rodepast the orchard the bare trees whispered thesame language as those in the distant Doncountry.Life now showed its most tedious, stupefyingside to the Cossacks. Deprived of work,the young men quickly grew homesick, andspent most of their free time talking. Grigory'stroop was quartered in a great tile-roofed wingof the house, sleeping on pallet beds under thewindows. At night the paper pasted over thechinks of the window sounded in the breezelike a distant shepherd's horn, and as he listenedto it amid the snoring Grigory was seizedwith a well-nigh irresistible desire to get up,go to the stables, saddle his horse and rideand ride until he reached home again.Reveille was sounded at five o'clock, and thefirst duty of the day was to clean and groomthe horses. During the brief half-hour whenthe horses were feeding there was opportunityfor desultory conversation."This is a hell of a life, boys!"26—1933 401

"1 can't stick it.""And the sergeant-major! What a swine!Making us wash the horses' hoofs!""They're making the pancakes at home now. , . today is Shrove-Tuesday.""I could just do with a spot of necking.""I had a dream last night, lads, I dreamedthat Father and me were mowing hay in themeadow and the village folk were all scatteredround like daisies on a threshing-floor," saidProkhor Zykov, a quiet lad with gentle calflikeeyes. "And we just went on mowing andmowing. . Made me feel right cheerful!". ."I bet my wife is saying: 'I wonder whatmy Nikolai is doing?' ""Ho-ho-ho! She'll be belly-rubbing with yourfather most likely!"""Well, that's"There isn't a woman in the world who won'ttry another man when her husband's away.""Why worry? A woman's not a jug of milk.There'll be enough left for us when we getback."Yegor Zharkov, the gayest, lewdest man inthe company, who had little respect for anyoneand still less shame, broke into the conversation,winking and smiling suggestively:"It's a sure thing: your father won't leaveyour wife alone. He's a fine he-dog. I'll tell you402

a story," he added, sweeping his listeners withhis glittering glance."One old grumble kept running after hisdaughter-in-law, gave her no rest, but his sonwas always in the way. So what did the oldman do? At night he went into the yard andopened the gate. And all the cattle got out.So he says to his son: "What have you done,you lazy so-and-so? Why didn't you shut thegate? Look, all the cattle have wandered out.Go and drive them back.' You see, he thoughtwhen his son had gone he'd have time to getat his daughter-in-law. But his son was lazyand whispered to his wife: 'You go and drivethem back.' So she went out, and he lay there,listening. The father slipped down from thestove and crawled over on his hands and kneestowards the bed. But his son was no fool. Hetook a rolling-pin from the shelf and waited.As soon as his father crawled up to the bedand put his hand on him, he gave him sucha whack with the pin right across his boldhead. 'Go away,' he shouted, 'don't you chewmy blanket, curse you.'"You see, they had a calf in the house whichhad a habit of chewing things, so the son pretendedhe had struck the calf. The old manmanaged to crawl back to his stove and laythere, tenderly fingering the bump which was as26* 403

ig as a goose egg. 'Ivan/ says he at last, 'whodid you strike just now?' 'Only the calf/ Ivananswers. 'What kind of a master will youmake/ says the old man almost in tears, 'if youknock the cattle about like that?' ""You're a mighty good liar!""What's this, the market-place? Break it up!"shouted the sergeant-major, coming up tothem. The Cossacks went to their horses, laughingand joking.During exercise the officers stood smokingat the side of the yard, occasionally intervening.As Grigory glanced at the polished, wellgroomedofficers in their handsome grey greatcoatsand closely-fitting uniforms, he felt thatthere was an impassable wall between themand himself. Their very different, comfortable,well-ordered existence, so unlike that of theCossacks, flowed on peacefully, untroubled bymud, lice, or fear of the sergeant-major's fists.An incident which occurred on the third dayafter their arrival at Radzivillovo made a painfulimpression on Grigory, and indeed on allthe young Cossacks. They were being instructedin cavalry drill, and the horse ridden by ProkhorZykov, the lad with gentle eyes, who oftendreamed of his faraway Cossack village,was a wild, spirited animal and happened tokick the sergeant-major's mount as it passed,404

The blow was not very hard and it onlygrazed the skin on the horse's left leg. Butthe sergeant-major struck Prokhor across theface with hiswhip, and riding straight at him,shouted:"Why the hell don't you look where you'regoing, you son of a bitch? I'll show you. . . .You'll spend the next threedays on duty!"The squadron commander happened towitnessthe scene, but he turned his back, fingeringthe sword-knot of his sabre and yawningwith boredom. His lips trembling, Prokhorrubbed a streak of blood from his swollencheek.Pulling his horse into line, Grigory lookedat the officers,but they continued their conversationas if nothing untoward had occurred.Five days later Grigory dropped a bucket intothe well. The sergeant-major swooped on himlike a hawk, and raised his fist,"Don't you touch me," Grigory said huskily,looking into the rippling water below."What? Climb down and get it, you bastard!I'll smash your face in for this!""I'll get it, but don't you touch me," Grigorysaid slowly, without raising his head.If there had been any Cossacks at the well,the sergeant-major would undoubtedly havebeaten Grigory, but they were attending to405

their horses at the fence and could not hearwhat was going on. The sergeant-major approachedGrigory, glancing back at the Cossacks,his bulging eyes insane with rage ashe hissed:"Who do you think you are? How dare youspeak to your superior in this way?""Don't look for trouble, Semyon Yegorov.""Are you threatening me? I'll..". ."Look here," Grigory said, raising his headfrom the well. "If you strike me-I'll kill you.Understand?"The sergeant-major's great carp-like mouthgaped in amazement but no answer came. Themoment for punishment had been missed. Grigory'sgreyish face boded nothing good. Thesergeant-major was nonplussed. He walkedaway from the well, slipping in the mud, andwhen some distance away, turned and shook hishuge fist."I'll report you to the squadron commander,"he shouted. "Yes, I'llreport you."However, for some unknown reason, he didnot report Grigory. But for about a fortnightafterwards he was always finding fault withhim and appointing him for sentry duty out ofturn.The dreary, monotonous order of existencecrushed the spirit out of the young Cossacks.m

Until sundown they were kept continually atfoot and horse exercises, and in the eveningthe horses had to be groomed and fed. At teno'clock, after rollcall and stationing of guards,they were drawn up for prayers, and the sergeant-major,his eyes wandering over the ranksbefore him, intoned the Lord's prayer.In the morning the same routine beganagain, and the days were as like one anotheraspeas.In the whole of the estate there were onlytwo women: the old wife of the steward, andthe steward's pretty young housemaid, a Polishgirl Franya. Franya often ran from thehouse to the kitchen where the old, browlessarmy cook was in charge. Winking and heavingexaggeratedly loud sighs, the troops drillingon the parade ground watched every movementof the girl's grey skirt as she ran acrossthe yard. Feeling the gaze of Cossacks and officersfixed upon her, she bathed in the streamsof lasciviousness that came from three hundredpairs of eyes, and swung her hips provocativelyas she ran backward and forward betweenthe kitchen and the house, smiling at eachtroop in turn, and at the officers in particular.Although all fought for her attentions, rumourhad it that only the squadron commander hadwon them,407

One day in early spring Grigory was onduty in the stables. He spent most of his timeat one end, where the officers' horses were excitedby the presence of a mare. He had justgiven the squadron commander's horse a tasteof the whip and was attending to his own.With a sidelong glance at its master the horsewent on champing the hay, its grazed hindfootlifted off the ground. As he adjusted thehalter, Grigory heard a sound of strugglingand a muffled cry coming from the dark cornerat the far end of the stable. Startled bythe unusual noise, he hurried past the stalls.His eyes were suddenly blinded as someoneslammed the stable door, and he heard a suppressedvoice calling:"Hurry up, boys!"Grigory hastened his steps, and called out:"Who's there?"The next moment he bumped into one of thesergeants, who was groping his way to thedoor. "That you, Melekhov?" the sergeant whispered,putting his hand on Grigory's shoulder."Stop! What's up?"The sergeant burst into a guilty snigger andseized Grigory's sleeve. "We. . . . Hey, where'reyou going?" Tearing his arm away, Grigoryran and threw open the door. In the desertedyard a draggle-tailed hen, unaware that the408

cook already had designs on her for the steward'ssoup the next day, was scratching somedung in search of a place to lay her egg.The light momentarily blinded Grigory; heshaded his eyes with his hand and turnedround, hearing the noise in the dark corner ofthe stable growing louder. He ran towards thesound, and was met by Zharkov, buttoning uphis trousers."What the . . . what are you doing here?""Hurry up!" Zharkov whispered, breathingbad breath in Grigory's face. "It's wonderful.. . . They've dragged the girl Franya inthere . . . laid her out!" His snigger suddenlybroke off as Grigory sent him flying againstthe log wall of the stable. Grigory's eyes grewaccustomed to the darkness and there was fearin them as he ran towards the noise. In thecorner, Grigory found a crowd of Cossacks ofthe First Troop. He silently pushed his waythrough them, and saw Franya lying motionlesson the floor, her head wrapped in horsecloths,her dress torn and pulled back aboveher breasts, her legs, white in the darkness,flung out shamelessly and horribly. A Cossackhad just risen from her; grinning sheepishly,he was stepping back to make way for thenext, Grigory tore his way back through thecrowd and ran to the door, shouting for the409

sergeant-major. But the other Cossacks ranafter him and caught him at the door. Theydragged him back, putting their hands overhis mouth. He tore one man's tunic from hemto collar and gave another a kick in the stomach,but the others pinned him down. Asthey had done to Franya, they wound a horseclothround his head and tied his hands behindhim, then, keeping quiet so that he should notrecognize their voices, threw him into an emptymanger. Choking in the stinking horse-cloth, hetried to shout, and kicked furiously at the partition.He heard whispering in the corner, andthe door creaking as the Cossacks went in andout. He was set free some twenty minutes later.The sergeant-major and two Cossacks from anothertroop were standing at the door."You just keep your mouth shut!" the sergeant-majorsaid to him, winking hard andglancing over his shoulder."Don't blab or we'll tear your ears off,"Dubok, a Cossack from another troop, said witha grin.The two Cossacks went in and lifted up themotionless bundle that was Franya (her legswere parted stiffly under her skirt), and climbingon to a manger, thrust it through a holeleft in the wall by a lose plank. The wall borderedon the orchard. Above each §tall was410

a tiny, grimy window. Some of the Cossacksclambered on to the stall partitions to watchwhat Franya would do, others hastened outof the stables. Grigory, too, was seized by abestial curiosity, and gripping a cross-beam,he drew himself up to one of the windows andlooked down. Dozens of eyes stared throughthe dirty windows at the girl lying under thewall. She lay on her back, her legs crossingand uncrossing like scissor blades, her fingersscrabbling in the snow by the wall. Grigorycould not see her face but he heard the suppressedbreathing of other Cossacks at the windows,and the soft and pleasant crunch of hayunder their feet.She lay there a long time, and at last struggledon to her hands and knees. Her arms trembled,hardly able to bear her.Grigory saw thatclearly. Swaying, she scrambled to her feet,and, dishevelled, unfamiliar, hostile,she passedher eyes in a long, slow stare over the windows.Then she staggered away, one hand clingingto the woodbine bushes, the other groping alongthe wall.Grigory jumped down from the partition andrubbed his throat, feeling that he was aboutto choke. At the door someone, afterwards he411

could not even remember who, said to him indistinct and unequivocal tones:"Breathe a word . and by Christ, we'll. .kill you!"On the parade ground the troop commandernoticed that a button had been torn from Grigory'sgreatcoat, and asked:"Who have you been wrestlingwith? Whatstyle d'you call this?"Grigory glanced down at the little roundhole left by the missing button; overwhelmedby the memory, for the first time in years hefelt like crying.IllA sultry, sunny July haze lay over the steppe.The ripe unharvested floods of wheat smokedwith yellow dust. The metal of the reaperswas too hot to touch. It was painful to lookup at the flaming, bluish-yellow sky. Wherethe wheat ended, a saffron sweep of clover began.The entire village had moved out into thesteppe to cut the rye. The horses choked inthe heat and the pungent dust, and were restiveas they dragged the reapers. Now and thena wave of air from the river raised a fringeof dust over the steppe, and the sun was envelopedin a tingling haze.412

Since early morning Pyotr, who was forkingthe wheat off the reaper platform, haddrunk half a bucketful of water. Within a minuteof his drinking the warm, unpleasant liquidhis throat was dry again. His shirt waswet through, the sweat streamed from his face,there was a continual trilling ring in his ears.Darya, her head and face wrapped inher kerchief,her shirt unbuttoned, was gathering thecorn into stooks. Big grey beads of sweat randown between her dusky breasts. Natalya wasleading the horses. Her cheeks were burnedthe colour of beetroot, and the glaring sunbrought tears to her eyes. Pantelei was walkingup and down the swaths of corn, his wet shirtscalding his body. His beard looked like astream of melting black cart-grease flowingover his chest."Make you sweat?" Christonya shoutedfrom a passing cart."Wet through!" Pantelei stumped on, wipinghis perspiring belly with the tail of hisshirt."Pyotr!" Darya called. "Let's stop.""Wait a bit; we'll finish this row.""Let's wait till it's cooler. I've had enough."Natalya halted the horses; her chest was heavingas though it were she who had been pullingthe reaper. Darya went across to them,413

picking her way carefully over the cut cornon her dark blistered feet."Pyotr, it's not far from the pond here.""Not far! Only three versts or so!""What wouldn't I give for a dip!""While you're getting there and back . .Natalya began with a sigh."Why the devil should we walk! We'll unharnessthe horses and ride."Pyotr glanced uneasily at his father tying upa sheaf, and shrugged."All right, unharness the horses."Darya unfastened the traces and jumpedagilely on to the mare's back. Natalya, smilingwith cracked lips, led her horse to the reaperand tried to mount from the driver's seat. Pyotrwent to her aid and gave her a leg up on tothe horse. They rode off. Darya, sitting herhorse Cossack fashion, trotted in front, herskirt tucked up above her bare knees, her kerchiefpushed on to the back of the head."Mind you don't get sore!" Pyotr could nothelp shouting after her."You needn't worry!" Darya shouted backcarelessly.As they crossed the field track Pyotr glancedto his left and noticed a tiny cloud of dust movingswiftly along the distant highroad from thevillage.414."

"Someone riding there!" he remarked to Natalya,screwing up his eyes."And fast, too! Look at the dust!" Natalyareplied in surprise."Who on earth can it be! Darya!" Pyotr calledto his wife. "Rein in for a minute, and let'swatch that rider!"The cloud of dust dropped down into a hollowand disappeared, then came up again onthe other side. Now the figure of the ridercould be seen through the dust. Pyotr sat gazingwith his dirty palm set against the edgeof his straw hat."No horse can stand that pace for long. He'llkill it!" He frowned and took his hand away;an agitated expression passed across hisface.Now the horseman could be seen quite plainly.He was riding his horse at a furious gallop,his left hand holding on his cap, a dusty redflag fluttering in his right. He rode along thetrack so close to them that Pyotr heard hishorse's panting breath. As he passed, the manshouted:"Alarm!"A flake of yellow soapy foam flew from hishorse and fell into a hoof-print. Pyotr followedthe rider with his eyes. The heavy snort of thehorse, and, as he stared after the retreating fig-415

ure, the sight of the horse's croup, wet andglittering like steel, remained impressed in hismemory.Still not realizing the nature of the misfortunethat had come upon them, Pyotr gazedstupidly at the foam flying in the dust, thenglanced around the rolling steppe. From allsides the Cossacks were running over the yellowstrips of stubble towards the village; acrossthe steppe, as far as the distant upland,little clouds of dust indicating horsemen wereto be seen, A long trail of dust moved alongthe road to the village. The Cossacks who wereon the active service list abandoned their work,took their horses out of the shafts and gallopedoff to the village. Pyotr saw Christonya unharnesshis Guards charger from a wagon and rideoff at a wild pace, glancing back over hisshoulder."What's it all about?" Natalya half groaned,with a frightened look at Pyotr. Her gaze, thegaze of a trapped hare, startled him to action.He galloped back to the reaper, jumped off hishorse before it had halted, hustled into thetrousers he had flung off while working, andwaving his hand to his father, tore off to addone more cloud of dust to those which hadalready blossomed over the sultry steppe.416

He found aIVdense grey crowd assembled onthe square. Many were already wearing theirarmy uniform and equipment. The blue militarycaps of the men belonging to the Ataman'sRegiment rose a head higher than the rest, likeDutch ganders among the small fry of the farmyard.The village tavern was closed. The militarypolice officer had a gloomy and care-worn look.The women, attired in their holiday clothes,lined the fences along the streets. One wordwas on everybody's lips: "Mobilization." Intoxicated,excited faces. The general anxiety hadbeen communicated to the horses, and theywere kicking and plunging and snorting angrily.The square was strewn with empty bottlesand wrappers from cheap sweets. A cloud ofdust hung low in the air.Pyotr led his saddled horse by the rem.Close to the church fence a big swarthy Cossackof the Ataman's Regiment stood buttoningup his blue sharovari, with his mouth gapingin a white-toothed smile, while a stockylittle woman, his wife or sweetheart, stormedat him."I'll give it you for going with that hussy!"woman promised.the little27—1933 417

She was drunk, her dishevelled hair was scatteredwith the husks of sunflower seed, herflowered kerchief hung loose. The guardsmantightened his belt and, grinning widely, droppedto his haunches, leaving enough room fora year-old calf to pass under the voluminousfolds of his sharouari."Keep off, Mashka.""You great shameless brute! Woman-chaser!""What about it?""I'll give it you!"Near him a red-bearded sergeant-major wasarguing with an artilleryman."Nothing will come of it, never fear!" hewas assuring him. "We'll be mobilized for afew days, and then back home again.""But suppose there's a war?""Pah, my friend! What country could standup to us?"In a neighbouring group a handsome, elderlyCossack was arguing heatedly."It's nothing to do with us. Let them dotheir own fighting, we haven't got our corn inyet.""It's a shame! Here we are standing here,and on a day like this we could harvest enoughfor a whole year.""The cattle will get among the stooks!""And we'd just begun to reap the barley!"418

"They say the Austrian tsar's been murdered.""No, his heir.""But the ataman says they've called us upjust in case.""We're in for it now, lads.""Another twelve months and I'd have beenout of the third line of reserves," an elderlyCossack said regretfully."What do they want you for. Grandad?""Don't you worry, as soon as they start killingthe men off,they'll be taking the old ones,too.""The tavern's closed!""What about going to Marfutka's? She'd sellus a barrel!"The inspection started.Three Cossacks led afourth, blood-stained and completely drunk,into the village administration. He threw himselfback, tore his shirt open, and rolling hiseyes,shouted:"I'll show the muzhiks! I'll have their blood!Don Cossack!"The circle around him laughed approvingly."That's right, give it to them!""What have they grabbed him for?""He went for some muzhik!"They'll know the"Well, they deserve it.""We'll give them some more!"27* 419

"I took a hand when they put them downin 1905. That was a sight worth seeing!""There's going to be war. They'll be sendingus again to put them down.""Enough of that. Let them hire people forthat, or let the police do it. It's a shame forus to."Mokhov's shop was surging with people. Inthe middle Ivan Tomilin was arguing drunkenlywith the owners. Mokhov was trying topacifyhim. Atyopin, his partner, had retired tothe doorway. "What's all this?" he expostulated."My word, this is an outrage! Boy, run forthe ataman!"Rubbing his sweaty hands on his trousers,Tomilin pressed against the frowning merchantand sneered:"You've squeezed us and squeezed us withyour interest, you swine, and now you've gotthe wind up. I'll smash your face in! Stealingour Cossack rights, you fat slug!"The village ataman was busily pouring outsoothing words for the benefit of the Cossackssun-ounding him: "War? No, there won't beany war. His Honour the chief of the militarypolice said the mobilization was only a drill.There's no need for alarm.""Good! Back to the fields as soon as we'rehome!"420

"What are the authorities thinking about? Ihave over a hundred dessiatines of harvestingto do.""Timoshka! Tell our folk we'll be home againtomorrow.""Looks as if they've put a notice up. Let'sgo and have a look."Until late at night the square was alive andnoisy with excited crowds.Some four days later the red trucks of thetroop trains were carrying the Cossack regimentsand batteries towards the Russo-Aus-.trian frontier."War. .."From the stalls came the snorting of horsesand the damp stench of dung.The same kind of talk in the wagons, thesongs mostly of this kind:The Don's awake and stirring.The quiet and Christian Don,In obedience to the call.The monarch's call, it marches on.At the stations the Cossacks were eyed withinquisitive, benevolent looks. People staredcuriously at the stripes on the Cossacks' trousers,at their faces, still dark from their recentlabour in the fields.42t

.""War. . .Newspapers screamed out the news. At thestationsthe women waved their handkerchiefs,smiled, threw cigarettes and sweets. Only once,just before the train reached Voronezh, did anold railway worker, half drunk, thrust his headinto the truck where Pyotr Melekhov was crowdedwith twenty-nine other Cossacks, and ask:"You going?""Yes. Get in and come with us. Grandad,"one of the Cossacks replied."My boy. , . . Bullocks for slaughter!" theold man responded and shook his head reproachfully.VDuring the fourth week of June, 1914, thedivisional staff transferred Grigory Melekhov'sregiment to the town of Rovno, to take partin manoeuvres. Two infantry divisions werelocated in the neighbourhood as well as cavalryunits. The Fourth Squadron was stationedin the village of Vladislavka. A fortnightlater, tired out with continual manoeuvring,Grigory and the other Cossacks of the FourthSquadron were lying in their tents, when thesquadron commander. Junior Captain Polkovnikov,galloped furiously back from the regimentstaff.422

"We'll be on the move again I suppose," ProkhorZykov suggested tentatively, and fell silentwaiting for the sound of the bugle.The troop sergeant thrust the needle withwhich he had been mending his trousers intothe lining of his cap, and remarked:"Looks like it; they won't let us rest for amoment.""Sergeant-major said the brigade commanderwill be visiting us."A minute or two later the bugler sounded thealarm. The Cossacks jumped to their feet."What have I done with my pouch?" Prokhorexclaimed, searching frantically."Boot and saddle!""Your pouch can go to hell," Grigory shoutedas he ran out.The sergeant-major ran into the yard and,holding the hilt of his sword, made for thehitching posts. They had their horses saddledwell within regulation time. As Grigory wastearing up the tent-pegs the sergeant managedto mutter to him:"It's war this time, my boy!""You're fooling!""God's truth! The sergeant-major told me."The squadron formed up in the street, thecommander at its head. "In troop columns!"his command flew over the ranks.423

Hoofs clattered as the horses trotted out ofthe village on to the highway. From a neighbouringvillage the First and Fifth squadronscould be seen riding towards the station.A day later the regiment was detrained ata station some thirty-five versts from the Austrianfrontier. Dawn was breaking behind thestation birch-trees. The morning promised tobe fine. The engine fussed and rumbled overthe tracks. The lines glittered under a varnishof dew. The Cossacks of the Fourth Squadronled their horses by the bridles out of the wagonsand over the level-crossing, mounted, andmoved off in column formation. Their voicessounded eerily in the crumbling, lilac darkness.Faces and the contours of horses emerged uncertainlyout of the gloom."What squadron is that?""And who are you? Where' ve you comefrom?""I'll show you who I am! How dare youspeak to an officer in that way?""Sorry, Your Honour, didn't recognize you.""Ride on! Ride on!""What are you dawdling about for? Get moving.""Where's your Third Troop, sergeant-major?""Squadron, bring up the rear!"

Muttered whispers in the column:"Bring up the rear, blast him, when wehaven't slept for two nights.""Give me a puff, Syomka, haven't had asmoke since yesterday.".""Hold your horse. . ."He's bitten through his saddle-strap, thedevil.""Mine's lost a hoof in front."A little farther on the Fourth Squadron washeld up for a while by the first, which haddetrained before it. Against the bluish grey ofthe sky the silhouettes of the horsemen aheadstood out clearly,as though drawn with Indianink. Their lances swung like bare sunflowerstalks. Occasionally a stirrup jingled or a saddlecreaked.Prokhor Zykov was riding at Grigory's side.Prokhor stared into his face and whispered:"Melekhov, you're not afraid, are you?""What is there to be afraid of?""We may be in action today.""Well, what of it?""But I'm afraid," Prokhor admitted, his fingersplaying nervously with the dewy reins. "Ididn't sleep a wink all night."Once more the squadron advanced; thehorses moved at a measured pace, the lancesswayed and flowed rhythmically. Dropping425

sthe reins, Grigory dozed. And it seemed tohim that it was not the horse that put its legsforward springily, rocking him in the saddle,but he himself who was walking along a warm,dark road, and walking with unusual ease,with irresistible joy. Prokhor chattered awayat his side, but his voice mingled with thecreak of the saddle and the clatter of hoofs,and did not disturb his thoughtless doze.The squadron turned into a by-road. Thesilence rang in their ears. Ripe oats hung overthe wayside, their tops smoking with dew. Thehorses tried to reach the low ears and draggedthe reins out of their riders' hands. The graciousdaylight crept under Grigory's puffy eyelids.He raised his head and heard Prokhor'monotonous voice, like the creak of a cartwheel.He was abruptly aroused by a heavy, rumblingroar that billowed across the oatfields."Gun-fire!" Prokhor almost shouted, andfright clouded his calf-like eyes. Grigory liftedhis head. In front of him the troop-sergeant'sgrey greatcoat rose and fell in time with thehorse's back; on each side stretched fields ofunreaped corn; a skylark danced in the sky atthe height of a telegraph pole. The entire squadronwas aroused, the sound of the firing ranthrough it like an electric current. Lashed into426

activity. Junior Captain Polkovnikov put thesquadron into a fast trot. Beyond a cross-road,where a deserted tavern stood, they began tomeet with carts of refugees. A squadron ofsmart-looking dragoons went by. Their captain,riding a sorrel thoroughbred, stared at the Cossacksironically and spurred on his horse. Theycame upon a howitzer battery stranded in amuddy and swampy hollow. The riders werelashing at their horses, while the gunnersstruggled with the carriage wheels. A great,pock-marked artilleryman passed carrying anarmful of boards probably torn from the fenceof the tavern.A little farther on they overtook an infantryregiment. The soldiers were marching fast, theirgreatcoats rolled on their backs. The sun glitteredon their polished mess-tins and streamedfrom their bayonets. A lively little corporal inthe last company threw a lump of mud at Grigory:"Here, catch! Chuck it at the Austrians!""Don't play about, grasshopper!" Grigoryreplied, and cut the lump of mud in its flightwith his whip."Say hullo to 'em from us,Cossacks!""You'll have a chance yourselves."At the head of the column someone struckup a bawdy song; a soldier with fat womanish427

uttocks marched beside the column slappinghis stumpy calves. The officers laughed. Thekeen sense of approaching danger had broughtthem closer to the men and made them moretolerant.From now on the column was continuallypassing foot regiments crawling like caterpillars,batteries, baggage-wagons. Red Cross wagons.The deathly breath of fighting close athand was in the air.A little later, as it was entering a village, theFourth Squadron was overtaken by the commanderof the regiment, Lieutenant-Colonel Kaledin,accompanied by his second in command.As they passed, Grigory heard the latter sayagitatedly toKaledin: "This village isn't markedon the map, Vasily Maximovich! We mayfind ourselves in an awkward position."Grigory did not catch the colonel's reply.The adjutant galloped past overtaking them.His horse was stepping heavily on its left hindfoot.Grigory mechanically noted its fine points.The regiment was continually changing itspace, and the horses began to sweat. The cottagesof a small village lying under a gentleslope appeared in the distance. On the otherside of the village was a wood, its green treetopspiercing the azure dome of the sky. Frombeyond the wood splashes of gunfire mingled428

with the frequent rattle of rifle-shots. The horsespricked up their ears. The smoke of burstingshrapnel hovered in the sky a long way off ;the rifle-fire moved slowly to the right of thecompany, now dying away, now growinglouder.Grigory listened tensely to every sound, hisnerves tautened into little bundles of sensation.Prokhor Zykov fidgeted in his saddle, talkingincessantly:"Grigory, those shots sound just like boysrattling sticks along railings, don't they?""Shut up, magpie!"The squadron entered the village. Soldierswere milling about in the yards. The inhabitantsof the cottages, alarm and confusion writtenon their faces, were packing their belongingsto flee. As Grigory passed he noticed that soldierswere firing the roof of a shed, but itsowner, a tall, grey-haired Byelorussian, crushedby his sudden misfortune, went past themwithout paying the slightest attention. Grigorysaw the man's family loading a cart with redcoveredpillows and ramshackle furniture, andthe man himself was carefully carrying a brokenwheel-rim, which was of no value to anybody,and had probably lain in the yard foryears. Grigory was amazed at the stupidityof the women, who were piling the carts with429

flower pots and icons and were leaving necessaryand valuable articles behind in their houses.Down the street the feathers from a feather-bedblew like a miniature snow-storm andthere was a pungent smell of burning soot andmusty cellars in the air.At the end of the village they met a Jew runningtowards them. The narrow slit of hismouth was torn apart in a cry!"Mister Cossack, Mister Cossack! Oh, myGod!"A short, round-headed Cossack rode aheadof him at a trot, waving his whip and ignoringhim completely,"Stop!" a junior captain from the SecondSquadron shouted to the Cossack.The Cossack bent over the pommel of hissaddle and galloped into a side street."Stop, you scoundrel. What regiment areyou 2"The Cossack's round head pressed closer tothe horse's neck. He galloped madly towardsa tall fence, reared his horse, and took thejump neatly."The Ninth Regiment is stationed here. YourHonour, That's where he's from," said the sergeant."Let him go to the devil," the junior captainfrowned, and turned to the Jew who was430

clutching at his stirrup. "What did he takefrom you?""Mister Officer . . . my watch. Mister Officer."The Jew blinked, turning his handsomeface towards the approaching officers.The junior captain, freeing the stirrup withhis foot, started forward."The Germans would have taken it anyhow,when they came," he said smiling into hismoustache.The Jew stood confusedly in the middle ofthe road. His face twitched."Make way, master Sheeny," shouted thesquadron commander sternly, raising his whip.The Fourth Squadron rode by, hoofs clattering,saddles creaking. The Cossacks jeered atthe disconcerted Jew, and spoke among themselves:"The likes of us can't help stealing.""Everything sticks to a Cossack's hand.""Let them be more careful about theirthings!""A nimble fellow, that!""The way he took that fence, like a borzoi."Sergeant-Major Kargin dropped behind thesquadron, and to the accompaniment of laughterfrom the Cossacks lowered his lance andshouted:.""Run, Sheeny, before I. , .431

The Jew gasped and ran. The sergeant-majorovertook him and struck him with his whip.Grigory saw the Jew stumble and, coveringhis face with his palms, turn to the sergeantmajor.Through his thin fingers the blood wastrickling."What for?" he sobbed.The sergeant-major, his sharp button-likeeyes smiling greasily as he rode away, shouted:"Don't go barefoot, you fool!"Beyond the village a group of engineers wascompleting a broad trestle bridge across a hollowovergrown with sedge and yellow waterlilies.Close by a motor car stood rattling andhumming with a chauffeur fussing round it.A stout grey-haired general with a Spanishbeard and baggy cheeks was half-sitting, halflyingon the back seat. Lieutenant-Colonel Kaledinand the commander of the engineers' battalionstood at attention by the car. The general,clutching the strap of his map case,bawled furiously at the engineer:"You were ordered to finish this work yesterday.Silence! You should have arranged thesupply of materials beforehand. Silence!" heroared again, although the officer had made noattempt to open his trembling lips. "How doyou expect me to cross over? Answer me. Captain,how am Ito cross?"432

A young black-moustached general also sittingin the car smoked a cigar and smiled. Theengineer captain bent forward and pointed toone side of the bridge.At the bridge the squadron rode down intothe hollow. The horses sank into the brownishblackmud up to their knees, and feathery whiteshavings scattered down on them from thebridge.The squadron crossed the Austrian frontierat noon. The horses leaped the broken blackand-whitepole of the frontier post. From theright came the rumble of gunfire. In the distancethe red-tiled roofs of a farm showed upin the perpendicular lays of the sun. A bittertastingcloud of dust settled thickly on everything.The regimental commander issued ordersfor advance patrols to be detached andsent ahead. The Third Troop under LieutenantSemyonov was sent out from the Fourth Squadron.The regiment, split up into squadrons,was left behind in a grey haze. A detachmentof some twenty Cossacks rode past the farmalong the rutted road.The lieutenant led the reconnaissance patrolabout three versts, then halted to study hismap. The Cossacks gathered in a group tosmoke. Grigory dismounted to ease his saddlegirth,but the sergeant-major shouted:28—1933 433

"What do you think you're doing? Get backon your horse!"The lieutenant lit a cigarette, and carefullywiped his binoculars. A valley lay before themin the midday heat. To the right rose the jaggedoutline of a wood pierced by a pointed spearof railway tracks. About a verst and a halfaway was a little village, beyond it the gougedclay banks of a stream and the cool glassysurface of the water. The officer stared intentlythrough his binoculars, studying the deathlystillness of the village streets, but they were asdeserted as a graveyard. Only the blue ribbonof water beckoned challengingly."That must be Korolyovka!" the officer indicatedthe village with his eyes.The sergeant-major took his horse nearer thelieutenant; he made no reply, but the expressionof his face said eloquently: "You knowbetter than I! I'm concerned only with minorquestions.""We'll go there,"the officer said irresolutely,putting away his binoculars and frowning asthough he had a toothache.them. Your Honour?""We may run into"We'll be careful."Prokhor Zykov kept close to Grigory. Theyrode cautiously down into the deserted street.Every window suggested an ambush, every434

open cellar door evoked a feeling of lonelinessand sent a sickening shudder down the back.All eyes were drawn as though by magnets tothe fences and ditches. They rode in like beastsof prey, like wolves approaching human habitationsin the blue winter night-but the streetswere empty. The silence was stupefying. Fromthe open window of one house came the innocentsound of a clock striking. The chimesrang out like pistol shots, and Grigory saw theofficer tremble and his hand flash to his revolver.There was not a soul in the village.The patrolforded the river. The water reached thehorses' bellies,they entered willingly and triedto drink, but their riders pulled at the reinsand urged them on. Grigory stared thirstilydown at the turbid water, close yet inaccessible;it drew him almost irresistibly. Hadit been possible he would have jumped outof his saddle and lain without undressingwith the stream murmuring over him until hissweating chest and back were shivering withcold.From the rise beyond the village they sawa distant town: square blocks of houses, brickbuildings, gardens, and church spires. The officerrode to the top of the hill and put hisbinoculars to his eyes.28* 435

"There they are," he shouted, the fingers ofhis left hand playing nervously.The sergeant-major rode to the sun-bakedcrest followed by the other Cossacks in singlefile, and stared. They saw tiny figures scurryingabout the town. Wagons dammed up theside streets; horsemen were galloping to andfro. With eyes screwed up, gazing from underhis palm, Grigory was able todistinguish eventhe grey, unfamiliar colour of the uniforms.Before the town stretched the brown lines offreshly-dug trenches, with men swarming aboutthem."What a lot of them!" Prokhor said with agasp.The others, all gripped by the same feeling,were silent. Grigory listened to the quickeningthrob of his heart and realized that the feelinghe was experiencing at the sight of these foreignerswas something quite different from whathe had felt in the face of "the enemy" on manoeuvres.The sergeant-major drove the Cossacks hurriedlyback down the rise. The lieutenant madesome pencil notes in his field notebook, andthen beckoned to Grigory:"Melekhov!""Sir!"436

Grigory dismounted and went to the officer,his legs feeling like stone after the long ride.The officer handed him a folded paper."You've got the best horse. Deliver this tothe regimental commander. At a gallop!"Grigory put the paper in his breast-pocketand went back to his horse, slipping his chinstrapunder his chin as he went. The officerwatched him until he had mounted, thenglanced at his wrist-watch.The regiment had nearly reached the villageof Korolyovka when Grigory rode up with thereport. After reading it the colonel gave anorder to his adjutant, who galloped off to theFirst Squadron.The Fourth Squadron streamed through Korolyovkaand, as quickly as though on the paradeground, spread out in formation over thefields beyond. Lieutenant Semyonov rode upwith his men. The horses tossed their headsto shake off the horse-flies, and there was acontinual jingle of bridles. The noise of theFirst Squadron passing through the villagesounded heavily in the midday silence.Junior Captain Polkovnikov rode on his prancinghorse to the front of the ranks. Gatheringthe reins tightly in one hand, he dropped theother to his sword-knot. Grigory held hisbreath and awaited the word of command.437

There was a rumble of hoofs on the left flankas the First Squadron got into position.The officer wrenched his sabre from itssheath; the blade gleamed like blue light."Squadron!" He swung his sabre to the right,then to the left, and finally lowered it in frontof him, holding it poised above the horse'sears. Grigory tried to think what the next orderwould be. "Lances at the ready! Sabres out!Into the attack . . . gallop!" The officersnapped, and gave his horse the rein.The earth groaned dully under the crushingimpact of a thousand hoofs. Grigory, who wasin the front ranks, had hardly brought his lanceto the ready when his horse, carried away bya lashing flood of other horses, broke into agallop and went off at full speed. Ahead ofhim the figure of the commanding officer bobbedup and down against the grey backgroundof the field. A black wedge of ploughed landsped irresistibly towards him. The First Squadronraised a surging quivering shout, theFourth Squadron took it up. The ground streakedpast close under the horses' straining bellies.Through the roaring whistle in his earsGrigory caught the sound of distant firing. Thefirst bullet whined high above them, furrowingthe glassy vault of the sky. Grigory pressedthe hot shaft of his lance against his433side until

it hurt him and his palm sweated. The whistleof flying bullets made him duck his head downto the wet neck of his horse, and the pungentscent of the animal's sweat penetrated his nostrils.As though through the misty glass ofbinoculars he saw the brown ridges of trenches,and men in grey running back to the town. Amachine-gun hurled a fan of whistling bulletstirelessly at the Cossacks; in front of them andunder the horses' feet the bullets tore upwoolly spurts of dust.The part of Grigory that before the attackhad sent the blood coursing faster through hisveins now turned tostone within him; he feltnothing except the ringing in his ears and apain in the toes of his left foot. His thoughts,emasculated by fear, congealed in a heavy massin his head.Cornet Lyakhovsky was the first to drop fromhis horse. Prokhor rode over him. Grigoryglanced back, and a fragment of what he sawwas impressed on his memory as though cut witha diamond on glass. As Prokhor's horse leapedover the fallen cornet, it bared its teeth andstumbled. Prokhor was catapulted out of thesaddle and, falling headlong, was crushed underthe hoofs of the horse behind him. Grigoryheard no cry, but from Prokhor's face,with its distorted mouth and its calf-like eyes439

ulging out of their sockets, he realized thathe must be screaming inhumanly. Others fell,both horses and Cossacks. Through the film oftears caused by the wind in his eyes Grigorystared ahead at the grey, seething mass ofAustrians fleeing from the trenches.The squadron, which had torn away from thevillage in an orderly stream, now scattered andbroke into fragments. Those in front, Grigoryamong them, had nearly reached the trenches,others were lagging behind.A tall, white-eyebrowed Austrian, his capdrawn over his eyes, fired almost point-blankat Grigory. The heat of the bullet scorched hischeek. He struck with his lance, at the sametime pulling on the reins with all his strength.The blow was so powerful that it plunged forhalf a shaft length into the Austrian's body.Grigory was not quick enough to withdraw thelance. He felt a quivering convulsion in hishand, and saw the Austrian, bent right backso that only the point of his unshaven chin wasvisible, clutching the shaft and clawing at itwith his nails. Grigory dropped the lance andfelt with numbed fingers for his sabre-hilt.The Austrians fled into the streets of thetown. Cossack horses reared up over the greyclots of their uniforms.In the firstmoment after dropping his lance440

Grigory, without knowing why, turned hishorse and saw the sergeant-major gallop pasthim, his lips parted in a snarl. Grigory struckat his horse with the flat of his sabre; archingits neck, it carried him away down the street.An Austrian was running along by the railingsof a garden, swaying, without a rifle, hiscap clutched in his hand. Grigory saw the backof his head and the damp collar of his tunic.He overtook him and, lashed on by the frenzyof the moment, whirled his sabre above hishead. The Austrian was running close to therailings on the left-hand side, and it was awkwardfor Grigory to hew him down. But, leaningover his saddle, holding his sabre aslant,he struck at the man's temple. Without a crythe Austrian pressed his hand to the woundand spun around with his back to the railings.Grigory rode past reining in his horse, turnedround, and rode back at a trot. The square fearcontortedface of the Austrian was black ascast iron. His arms hung at his sides, his ashenlips were quivering. The sabre had struck hima glancing blow on the temple, and the fleshwas hanging over his cheek like a crimson rag.The blood streamed on to his uniform. Grigory'seyes met the terror-stricken eyes of theAustrian. The man was sagging at the knees;a gurgling groan came from his throat. Screw-441

ing up his eyes, Grigory swept his sabre down.The blow split the cranium in two. The manflung out his arms and fell; his shattered skullknocked heavily against the stone of the road.At the sound Grigory's horse reared and, snorting,carried him into the middle of the street.Ragged firing sounded in the streets. A foaminghorse carried a dead Cossack past Grigory.One foot was caught in the stirrup, andthe horse was dragging the bruised and batteredbody over the stones. Grigory saw onlythe red stripe on the trousers and the torngreen tunic drawn in a bundle over the head.Grigory felt a leaden heaviness in his head.He slipped from his horse and shook his headvigorously. Cossacks of the Third Squadron gallopedby. A wounded man was carried past ona greatcoat. A crowd of Austrian prisoners weredriven past at a trot. The men ran in a huddledgrey herd, their iron-shod boots clatteringjoylessly on the stones. Grigory saw them asa jellied blob, the colour of clay. He droppedhis horse's reins and went across to the Austriansoldier he had cut down. The man laywhere he had fallen, by the fanciful wroughtironwork of the railings, his dirty brown palmstretched out as though begging. Grigoryglanced at his face. It seemed small, almostchildlike, despite the hanging moustache and the442

tortured expression (was it from physical sufferingor a joyless past?) of the harsh, distortedmouth."Hey, you!" a strange Cossack officer shoutedas he rode down the middle of the street.Grigory looked up and stumbled across tohis horse. His steps were heavy and tottering,as though he were carrying an unbearableweight on his back. Loathing and bewildermentcrushed his spirit. He took the stirrup inhis hand, but for a long time could not lift hisheavy foot into it.VIThe first reserve Cossacks from Tatarsky andthe neighbouring villages spent the secondnight after their departure from home in a littlevillage. The men from the lower end of Tatarskydrew into a separate group from thoseof the upper end, so Pyotr Melekhov, Anikushka,Christonya, Stepan Astakhov, Ivan Tomilinand others were all billeted in one house. TheCossacks had lain down to sleep, spreadingout their blankets in the kitchen and the frontroom, and were having a last smoke for thenight. The master of the house, a tall,decrepitold man who had served in the Turkish war,sat talking with them.443

"So you're off to war, soldiers?""Yes, Grandad, off to war.""It won't be anything like the Turkish warwas, I don't suppose. They've got differentweapons now!""It'll be just the same. Just as devilish. Justas they killed people then, so it'll be now,"Tomilin grunted, angry with no one knewwhom."That's stupid talk, young fellow. It'll be akind of war."different" 'Course it will," Christonya affirmed, yawninglazily, and stubbing out a cigarette withhisfinger-nail."We'll do a bit of fighting," Pyotr Melekhovyawned and, making the sign of the cross overhis mouth, covered his head with his greatcoat."My sons, I ask you one thing. I ask youseriously, and you mark what I say," the oldman said. "Remember this! If you want to comeback from the mortal struggle alive and witha whole skin, you must keep the law of humanity.""Which one?" Stepan Astakhov asked,smilingdistrustfully. He had begun to smile againfrom the day he heard of the war. The warcalled him, and the general anxiety and painassuaged his own."This law: don't take other men's goods.444

That's one. As you fear God, don't dowrong to any woman. That's the second. Andthen you must know certain prayers."The Cossacks sat up, and all spoke at once:"More likely to lose our own stuff than getother people's!""And why mustn't we touch a woman? Youcan't make her, but suppose she's willing?""It's hard to be without a woman.""You bet!""What about the prayer?"The old man fixed his eyes sternly on themand answered:"You must not touch a woman. Never! Ifyou can't restrain yourselves you'll lose yourheads, or you'll be wounded. You'll be sorryafter, but then it will be too late. I'll tell youthe prayers. I went right through the Turkishwar, death at my heels like a saddle-bag, butI came through alive because of these prayers."He went into the other room, rummagedunder the icon and brought back a crumbling,faded scrap of paper."Get up now and write them down !" he commanded."You'll be off again before cock-crowtomorrow, won't you?"He spread the paper out on the table and leftit. Anikushka was the first to get up; the shadowscast by the flickering light played on his445

smooth, womanish face. All except Stepan satdown and wrote out the prayers. Anikushkarolled up the paper he had used and fastenedit to the string of the crucifix at his breast. Stepanjeered at him:"That's a nice nest you've made for the lice,wasn't the cross cosy enough?""Young man, if you don't believe, hold yourtongue!" the old man interrupted him sternly."Don't be a stumbling block to others and don'tlaugh at faith. It's a sin."Stepan grinned, but he lapsed into silence.The prayers which the Cossacks wrote downwere three, one could take one's choice.THE PRAYER AGAINST ARMSGod bless us. On the mountain there lies a white stonelike a horse. As water enters not the stone, so may notbullet and arrow enter into me, the slave of God, normy comrades, nor my horse. As the hammer flies backfrom the anvil, so may the bullet fly back from me. Asmillstones turn, so may the arrow turn and not touch me.As the sun and moon are bright, so may I, the slave ofGod, be strong. Behind this mountain there is a fortress,I shall lock this fortress, and throw the key into the sea.I shall put it under the white stone called Altor whichcan be seen by neither sorcerers nor witches, by neithermonks nor nuns. Even as the waters flow not from theocean and the yellow grains of sand cannot be counted, somay I, the slave of God, suffer no harm. In the name ofthe Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.446

THE PRAYER IN BATTLEThere is a great ocean, and in this great ocean thereis a white stone, Altor. On that stone there is a stoneman of mighty stature. Cover me, the slave of God, andmy comrades, with stone from east to west, from earthto sky. Protect me from sharp sabre and sword; fromsteel blade and bear-spear; from dagger tempered anduntempered; from knife and axe, and from cannon-fire;from lead bullets and mortal weapons; from all arrowsfeathered with the feathers of eagles, swans, geese,cranes,or ravens; from all battles with Turks, Crimeans, Austrians,Tatars, Lithuanians, Germans and Kalmyks. HolyFathers and Heavenly Powers, protect me, the slave ofGod. Amen.THE PRAYER IN TIME OF ATTACKSupreme Ruler, Holy Mother of God and our LordJesus Christ. Bless, Lord, thy servant entering battle, andmy comrades who are with me. Wrap them in cloud, withthy heavenly, stony hail protect them. Holy Dmitry of Salonica,defend me, the slave of God, and my comrades onall four sides; suffer not evil men to shoot, nor with spearto pierce, nor with pole-axe to strike, nor with butt-endof axe to sm.ite, nor with axe to hew down, nor withsword to cut down or pierce, nor with knife to stab orcut; neither old nor young, neither brown nor black;neither heretic nor sorcerer, nor any magic-worker. Allis before me now, the slave of God, orphaned and judged.In the sea, in the ocean, on the island of Buyan stands aniron post; on the post is an iron man resting on an ironstaff, and he biddeth iron, steel, lead, zinc and all mannerof bolt: "Go, iron, into your mother-earth away from theslave of God and past my comrades and my horse. The447

arrow-shafts into the forest, and the feather to its motherbird,and the glue to the fish." Defend me, the slave ofGod, with a golden buckler from steel and from bullet,from cannon-fire and ball, from spear and knife. May mybody be stronger than armour. Amen.The Cossacks concealed the prayers undertheir shirts, tying them to the little icons withwhich their mothers had blessed them, and tothe little bundles of their native earth. Butdeath came upon all alike, upon those who didnot carry prayers and upon those who did.Their bodies rotted on the fields of Galicia andEast Prussia, in the Carpathians and Rumania,wherever the ruddy flames of war flickered andthe hoof-marks of Cossack horses were imprintedon the earth.VIIIt was usual for the Cossacks of the upperstanitsas of the Don, including Vyeshenskaya,to be drafted into the Eleventh and TwelfthCossack regiments and the Ataman's Lifeguards.But for some reason part of the enrolmentof 1914 was assigned to the Third DonCossack Regiment, which was composed mainlyof Cossacks from the Ust-Medveditskayastanitsa. Among those so drafted was MitkaKorshunov.448

The Third Don Cossack Regiment was stationedat Vilno, together with certain units ofthe Third Cavalry Division. One day in Junethe various squadrons rode out from the citytotake up country quarters.The day was dull but warm. The flowingclouds herded together in the sky and concealedthe sun. The regiment was marching in columnof route. The regimental band blared atthe head of the column, and the officers in theirlight summer caps and drill uniforms rode ina bunch at the back, a cloud of cigarette smokerising above them.On each side of the road the peasants andtheir gaily-dressed womenfolk were cutting thehay, stopping to gaze at the columns of Cossacksas they passed. The horses sweated inthe heat, a yellowish foam appeared betweentheir legs, and the light breeze blowing fromthe south-east did not cool, but rather intensifiedthe steaming swelter.They had gone about half way and were notfar from a small village when a young yearlingcolt trotted out from behind a fence and,seeing the great mass of horses, whinnied andcame prancing up in front of the Fifth Squadron.Its bushy young tail waved to one sideand the dust from its shapely hoofs scatteredon the trampled grass. It pranced up to the First29—1933 449

Troop and poked its muzzle stupidly into thegroin of the sergeant-major's stallion.The stallionjibbed but took pity on the youngster anddid not kick."Out of the way, daft-head!" the sergeantmajorshouted, waving his whip. But the coltlooked so friendly and homely that the otherCossacks laughed. Then something unexpectedhappened. The colt cheekily pushed its way inbetween the ranks and the platoon broke upand lost its neat formation. The horses jibbedand refused to obey their riders. Squeezing betweenthem, the colt tried to bite the horse nextto it.Up galloped the squadron commander:"What's going on here?"The horses were snorting and casting sidelongglances at the scatter-brained young coltwhile the grinning Cossacks tried to drive itoff with their whips. The troop was in completedisorder with others pressing up from behind,and the furious troop officer could be seengalloping up from the rear of the column."What's all this?" boomed the squadron commander,steering his horse into the thick of themob."It's a colt..". ."He's got between us.""You can't get rid of him, the devil!"450

"Give him the whip, don't pamper him!"Grinning sheepishly, the Cossacks tried tohold in their excited mounts."Sergeant-major! Squadron commander, whatthe devil is happening? Get your troops inorder! I've never heard of such a thing!"The squadron commander retired from theconfusion and hishorse's hindlegs slipped intothe roadside ditch. He spurred it on and thehorse scrambled out on to a bank overgrownwith goosefoot and yellow daisies. In the distancethe party of officers had stopped. The lieutenant-colonelhad his head thrown back andwas drinking from a flask, his hand restingwith fatherly affection on his saddle pommel.The sergeant-major broke up the troop and,swearing furiously, drove the colt off the road.The troop formed up again and a hundred andfifty pairs of eyes watched the sergeant-majorstanding in his stirrups as he chased after thecolt. But the colt kept stopping and edgingup to the sergeant-major's giant stallion, thenprancing away so that the sergeant-major couldnot land a single blow, except on its brush-liketail, which fell under the lash only to rise againthe next moment and wave bravely in the wind.The whole squadron laughed, including theofficers. Even the captain's gloomy facetwisted into a crooked semblance of a smile.29* 451

Mitka Korshunov was riding in the thirdrank of the leading troop with Mikhail Ivankovand Kozma Kruchkov, both from stanitsason the Don. Ivankov, broad in the shouldersand face, kept silent, and Kruchkov, a slightlypock-marked, round-shouldered Cossack, knownas "the camel," constantly found fault withMitka. Kruchkov was an "old" Cossack,that is, a Cossack in his last year of service,and according to the unwritten rules of theregiment, shared with allother "old" Cossacksthe right of chasing up the youngsters, orderingthem about and giving them "stripes"forevery petty offence. The established punishmentfor a Cossack of the 1913 draft was thirteen"stripes" and for a Cossack drafted in1914, fourteen "stripes." The sergeants andofficers encouraged this system on the groundthat it imbued a Cossack with respect not onlyfor rank but for age as well.Kruchkov, who had recently been made acorporal, sat hunched in his saddle like a bird.He screwed up his eyes at a paunchy grey cloudand, imitating the accent of the squadron commanderCaptain Popov, asked Mitka:"Ah . . . te-e-11 me, Korshunov, what do weca-a-all our squadron comma-a-ander?"Mitka, who had frequently had a taste of the452

strap for his obstinacy and dislike of obedience,put on a respectful expression."Captain Popov, corporal!""What?""Captain Popov, corporal!""That's not what I want to know. You tellme what we, Cossacks, call him 'mongst ourselves."Ivankov gave Mitka a cautioning wink andgrinned widely. Mitka glanced round and sav.the captain riding up behind."Now then, answer up!""He is called Captain Popov, corporal.""Fourteen stripes for you. Answer me, youyoung bastard!""I don't know, corporal.""When we get to camp," Kruchkov said,speaking in his normal voice. "I'll belt the hideoff you. Answer my question!""I don't know.""Don't you know the nickname we've got forhim, rat-face?"Mitka heard the furtive tread of the captain'shorse behind them and remained silent."Well?" Kruchkov scowled furiously.A restrained titter broke out in the rearranks. Not realizing what the laughter wasabout, and thinking that the Cossacks werelaughing at him, Kruchkov snarled:4S3

"Be careful, Korshunov! I'll give you fiftyof the best when we get to camp!"Mitka shrugged resignedly."Black goose.""That's it.""Kruchkov!" came a voice from behind.Corporal Kruchkov, the "old" Cossack, startedin his saddle and sat at attention."What's your game, scoundrel?" burstout the captain, drawing level with Kruchkov."What are you teaching this youngCossack?"Kruchkov blinked. A purple flush floodedhis cheeks. Laughter came from the rearranks."Who did Idid I break this nail on?" The captain heldthe long pointed nail of his little finger underKruchkov's nose. "Never let rne hear that again!Understand, my man?""Yes, Your Honour."The captain backed out of line and let thesquadron go past.Kruchkov straightened his shoulder-strap andteach a lesson to last year? Whoglanced round at the receding figure of the captain.Adjusting his lance, he shook his headcrossly:"Where did he spring from, the old goose?"Perspiring with laughter, Ivankov told him:454

"He was riding behind us. He heard everything.Must have guessed what you'd be talkingabout.""You should have given me a wink, blockhead.""Should I?""Think you shouldn't, eh? Fourteen of thebest!"On arriving at its destination, the regimentwas broken up by squadrons among the estatesin the district. During the day the Cossackscut the clover and meadow grass for the landowners;at night they grazed their hobbledhorses in the fields assigned to them, and playedcards or told stories by the smoke of the campfires.The Sixth Squadron was billeted on thelarge estate of a Polish landowner. The officerslived in the house, played cards, got drunk,and paid attention to the steward's daughter;the Cossacks pitched their tents a couple ofversts away from the house. Each morning thesteward drove out in a drozhki to their camp.The corpulent, estimable gentleman would getout of the drozhki and invariably welcome theCossacks with a wave of his white, glossypeakedcap."Come and cut hay with us, sir; it'll shakeyour fat down a bit," the Cossacks called to him.The steward smiled phlegmatically, wiped his455-

ald head with his handkerchief, and went withthe sergeant-major to point out the next sectionof hay to be cut.At midday the field-kitchen arrived. The Cossackswashed and went to get their food.They ate in silence, but in the rest periodafter dinner made up for their lack of conversation."Rotten stuff, the grass here. Don't comparewith the steppe.""Not much quitch though.""They've finished mowing by now backhome.""Will be finished soon. New moon yesterday,there'll be rain.""That Pole's a mean old beggar. Might havestood us a bottle for our pains.""Ho-ho! He'd rob the altar to get a bottlehimself.""See, lads, what do you make of that? Themore a man's got, the more he wants, eh?""Ask the tsar about that.""Who's seen the master's daughter?""What about her?""There's a wench with plenty of meat onher!""Aye. ...""Don't know how true it is, but they sayhad proposals from the royal family,"she's456

"A juicy bit like her wouldn't go to a commonman, would it?""I've heard a rumour, lads, that there's goingto be a big review for us soon.""What did I say, if a cat's got nothing to do,he'll..". ."Put a sock in it, Taras!""Give us a puff of your fag, boy?""You scrounging devil, you've got an armas long as a beggar's at the church door.""Look, lads, old Fedot can pull all right.""He's smoked it to ash already.""Look again, man, it's as fiery as a woman."They lay on their bellies, smoking. Their barebacks were scorched red in the sun. In a cornerof the field about five "old" Cossacks werequestioning a new recruit:come from?""Where d'ye"Yelanskaya.""From the salt mines, eh?""Yes, corporal.""How do they cart salt down your way?"Not far off, Kruchkov lay on a horse-cloth,idly twisting his scanty moustache round hisfinger."With horses.""And what else?""Bullocks, corporal.""And how do they bring fish from the Crimea?457

You know, kind of bullock, with humps ontheir backs, eat thistles. What are they called?""Camels.""Haw-haw-haw \"Kruchkov got up lazily and walked towardsthe guilty recruit, hunching his camel-likeshoulders and stretching out his saffron-swarthyneck with its big Adam's apple."Bend over!" he commanded, taking off hisbelt.In the hot dusk of the June evening the Cossackssang around thecamp-fires:A Cossack went to a distant land.Riding his horse o'er the plain;His native village he left for aye;A silvery tenor voice sobbed mournfully,while the basses expressed deep, velvety sorrow:He'll n'er come hack again.Now the tenor rose to a higher pitch of grief:In vain did his youthful Cossack brideGaze northwards every morn and eve;Waiting in hope that her Cossack dearWould return from the land he ne'er willleave.Many voices tended the song, and it grewrich and heady like home-brewed beer;458

But beyond the hills where the snow liesdeep.The ice-fields crack and the tempests blow.Where grimly how the pines and firsThe Cossack's hones lie beneath the snow.The voices told their simple tale of Cossacklife and the tenor supported them with itsquiveringnotes, like a skylark soaring above thethawed earth of April:As the Cossack lay dying he pleaded andbeggedThat above him a mound be piled on hisgrave.Where a giielder-tree from his native landIts blossoms bright should for ever wave.At another camp-fire, the group was smallerand the song was in a different strain:From the stormy Azov Sea,The ships are sailing up the Don,For back to his own countryA young ataman has come.At yet another, the squadron's story-teller,coughing from the smoke, was spinning tales.The Cossacks listened with unflagging attention.Only occasionally, when the hero of thestory cleverly escaped from a plot laid against459

him by the evil spirit, did someone's handgleam white in the fire-light as it was slappedagainst the leg of his boot, or a thick smokyvoice gasp delighted approval. Then the flowing,unbroken tones of the story-teller wouldcontinue.A week or so after the regiment's arrival atits country quarters the squadron commandersent for the smith and the sergeant-major."What condition are the horses in?""Not so bad. Your Honour, in pretty goodshape."The captain twisted the black moustache thathad earned him his nickname and said in hisrasping voice:"The regimental commander has issued instructionsfor all stirrups and bits to be tinned.There is to be an imperial review of the regiment.Let everything be polished until it gleams,the saddles and the rest of the equipment.The Cossacks must be a sight to gladden theeye. When can you be ready?"The sergeant-major looked at the smith; thesmith looked at the sergeant-major. Then bothof them looked at the captain. The sergeantmajorsuggested:"How about Sunday, Your Honour?" andrespectfully touched the tip of his tobaccomoulderedmoustache with his finger,460

"Mind it is Sunday!" the captain addedthreateningly and dismissed them both.The preparations for the review were putin hand the same day. Ivankov, son of the squadronblacksmith and a good smith himself,helped to tin the stirrups and bits. The Cossacksgroomed their horses, cleaned the bridles,and rubbed the snaffles and other metalparts of the horses' equipment with bath-brick.By the end of the week the regiment was shininglikea new twenty-kopeck piece. Everythingglittered with polishing, from the horses' hoofsto the Cossacks' faces. On the Saturday theregimental commander inspected the regimentand thanked the officers and Cossacks for theirzealous preparations and splendid appearance.The azure thread of July days reeled past.The Cossack horses were in perfect condition;only the Cossacks themselves were uneasy andtroubled with the maggot of uncertainty. Nota whisper was to be heard of the imperial review.The week passed in unending talk, continualpreparation. Then like a bolt from theblue came an order for the regiment to returnto Vilno.They were back in the city by evening. Asecond order was at once issued to the squadrons.The Cossacks' boxes were to be collected461

and stored in the warehouse, and preparationsmade for a possible further removal."Your Honour, what's it all about?" the Cossacksimplored their troop officers for the truth.The officers shrugged their shoulders. Theythemselves would have given a lot to know it."I don't know.""Will there be manoeuvres in the presenceof His Majesty?""No one has any idea yet."But on the first of August the regimentalcommander's orderly managed to whisper to afriend:"It'swar, my boy!""You're lying!""God's truth! But not a word to anyone!"Next morning the regiment was drawn upin squadrons outside the barracks, awaiting thecommander.At the head of the Sixth Squadron rode CaptainPopov on a fine mount. His left hand, immaculatelygloved, held the bridle. The horse,arching its neck, rubbed its muzzle on the cordedmuscles of its chest.The colonel came round a corner of the barrackbuildings and, riding his horse to the frontof the regiment, turned the animal sideways.The adjutant, elegantly extending his little finger,drew out his handkerchief to wipe his462

nose, but had no time to accomplish the operation.The colonel threw his voice into the tensesilence:"Cossacks!""Now it's coming!" everyone thought. Thetension held them like a steel spring. MitkaKorshunov's horse was stepping from hoof tohoof, and he irritatedly brought his heel againstits flank. Beside him Ivankov sat his horsemotionlessly, listening with his hare-lippedmouth open, exposing a dark line of uneventeeth. Kruchkov was behind him, hunching hisshoulders and frowning, further on Lapintwitched his gristly ears like a horse, while behindhim could be seen the jagged outline ofShchegolkov's clean-shaven Adam's apple."Germany has declared war on."us. . .Along the ranks ran a whisper as though apuff of wind had rippled across a field of ripe,heavy-eared oats. A horse's neigh slashedthrough it. Round eyes and gaping mouthsturned in the direction of the First Squadronwhere the animal had dared to neigh.The colonel said much more. He chose hiswords carefully, seeking to arouse a feeling ofnational pride. But the picture that rose beforethe thousand Cossacks was not of silken foreignbanners falling rustling at their feet, but of theirown everyday life thrown into confusion, of463

their wives, children, sweethearts, of ungatheredgrain, and orphaned villages in distress."In two hours we entrain . .." was the onlythought that penetrated all minds.The officers' wives, who were standing ina bunch not far away, wept into their handkerchiefs.Lieutenant Khoprov had almost to carryaway in his arms his blonde pregnant Polishwife.The regiment rode singing tothe station. TheCossacks' voices drowned the band, and itlapsed into confused silence. The officers' wivesrode in drozhkis, a colourful crowd foamedalong the pavements, the horses' hoofs raiseda cloud of dust. Laughing at his own andothers' sorrow, twitching his left shoulder sothat his blue shoulder-strap tossed hectically,the leading singer struck up a bawdy Cossacksong. Deliberately running the words into oneanother, to the accompaniment of newly shodhoofs the squadron carried its song along tothe red trucks at the station. The adjutant, hisfacepurple with laughter and embarrassment,galloped up to the singers. One of the Cossackswinked cynically at the crowd of women seeingthem off, and it was not sweat but abitter brew of wormwood that streameddown his bronzed cheeks to the black tips ofhis mouth.464

On the track the engine gave a warning bellowas it got up steam.Trains. . . . Trains. . . . Trains innumerable.Along the country's arteries, over the railwaylines to the western frontier, a seething,distracted Russia was pumping its grey-coatedblood.VIIIAt a little town on the line the regiment wasbroken up into its respective squadrons. On theinstructions of the divisional staff the SixthSquadron was put at the disposal of the ThirdArmy Infantry Corps, and proceeded to Pelikaliye.The border was still guarded by frontiertroops. New infantry and cavalry units werebeing moved up. On July 27th the squadroncommander sent for the sergeant-major and aCossack named Astakhov, from the First Troop.Astakhov returned to the troop late in the afternoon,just as Mitka Korshunov was bringinghis horse back after watering."Is that you, Astakhov?" he called."Yes, it's me. Where's Kruchkov and thelads?""Over there, in the hut."Astakhov, a massive, swarthy Cossack, cameinto the hut screwing up his eyes as if he could30—1933 465

not see. At the table Shchegolkov was mendinga broken rein by the light of a wick-lamp.Kruchkov was standing by the stove with hishands behind him, winking at Ivankov andpointing to the owner of the hut, a Pole, wholay on his bed, swollen with dropsy.A joke had just passed between them, andIvankov's cheek was still twitching with laughter."Tomorrow, lads, we go out at daybreak toan outpost at Lyubov.""Who's going?" Mitka inquired, entering atthat moment and setting the pitcher down atthe door."Shchegolkov, Kruchkov, Rvachev, Popovand Ivankov.""And what about me?""You stay here, Mitka.""Well, then the devil take the lot of you!"Kruchkov wrenched himself away from thestove and, stretching himself till his bonescracked, asked the host: "How far is it to thisplace?""Four versts.""It's quite near," said Astakhov and, sittingdown on a bench, took off his boot. "Wherecould I hang up a foot-cloth to di-y?"They set out at dawn. At the end of the vil-466

lage a bare-footed girl was drawing water froma well. Kruchkov reined in his horse."Give us a drink, lass!"Holding up her homespun skirt, the girlsplashed through a puddle with her bare feet.Her grey eyes smiling from under their thicklashes, she held out the bucket. Kruchkovdrank, gripping the heavy bucket by the rim,his hand trembling with the weight of it; thewater dripped and splashed on to the redstripes of his trousers."Christ save you, grey eyes!""The Lord be praised."She took the bucket and stepped away, glancinground and smiling."What are you grinning at? Come for a ride!"Kruchkov shifted in his saddle as if to makeroom for her."Get moving!" Astakhov shouted, ridingaway.Rvachev grinned at Kruchkov:"Can't take your eyes off her, eh?""Her legs are pink as a pigeon's," Kruchkovsaid with a laugh, and they all looked round,as if by word of command.The girl bent over the well, showing the cleftof her bottom under her tight skirt, and thepink calves of her parted legs."Ifonly we could marry," Popov sighed.30* 467

"Suppose I marry you with my whip," Astakhovsuggested..""That won't help. . ."Want it as bad as that, do you?""We'll have to get hold of him and do himup like a bull."The Cossacks cantered on, laughing amongthemselves. After riding steadily for some time,they topped a rise and saw the large villageof Lyubov lying stretched along a river valley.The sun was rising behind them. Close by, alark sang lustily, perched on a telegraph pole.Astakhov, who had been put in charge of thegroup because he had just finished a sectioncommander's course, chose the last farm in thevillage for their observation post, as it wasnearest to the frontier. The master of the farm,a clean-shaven, bandy-legged Pole in a whitefelt hat, showed the Cossacks a shed in whichthey could stable their horses. Behind the shedwas a green field of clover. Slopes rolled awayto a neighbouring wood, and a white stretchof grain was intersected by a road, grasslandlying beyond. They took turns to watch withbinoculars from the ditch behind the shed. Theothers lay in the cool shed, which smelled oflong-stored grain, dusty chaff, mice, and thesweetish, mouldering scent of damp earth.Ivankov made himself comfortable in a dark468

comer beside a plough and slept till evening.At sunset Kruchkov came to him and takinga pinch of skin on Ivankov's neck between hisfingers said gently:"Sleeping well on army grub, you hog! Getup and go and keep watch on the Germans!""Stop fooling, Kozma!""Up you get!""Stop it, will you! I'm just getting up."He scrambled to his feet, his face red andpuffy, worked his head from side to side onthe stumpy neck that held it firmly to his broadshoulders, sniffed (he had caught cold fromlying on the damp earth), adjusted his cartridgebelt and went out of the shed, dragging hisrifle by its sling. He relieved Shchegolkov, whohad been on duty all the afternoon, and adjustingthe binoculars, stared in the direction ofthe north-west, towards the wood.He could see the snowy stretch of grain wavinginthe wind, and a ruddy flood of sunlightbathing the green headland of fir wood. Childrenwere splashing and shouting in the streamthat lay in a fine blue curve beyond the village.A woman's contralto voice called: "Stassya,Stassya! Come here!"Shchegolkov lit a cigarette, and remarked ashe went back to the shed: "Look at the glowof that sunset! We'll be having some wind."469

"Reckon so," Ivankov agreed.That night the horses stood unsaddled. Inthe village all lights were extinguished and allsound died away.The next morning Kruchkov called Ivankovfrom the shed."Let's go to town.""What for?""We can get something to eat and have adrink there.""Can we?" Ivankov looked doubtful."Sure we can. I asked our host. It's over therein that house. See the tiled roof?" Kruchkovpointed with his black-nailed finger. "TheSheeny over there has beer. Let's go."They started out. Astakhov called after them:"Where are you going?"Kruchkov, who was senior in rank to Astakhov,waved him aside."We'll be back soon,""Come back, lads!""Stop barking!"An old Jew with a wrinkled eyelid and longside-curls bowed them in."Got any beer?""None left. Mister Cossack.""We'll pay for it.""Jesus-Maria, as if I . . , Mister Cossack, believean honest Jew, I have no more beer!"470

"You're lying. Sheeny!""Mister Cossack, I'm telling you..". ."Look here," Kruchkov vexedly interrupted,pulling a shabby purse from his trouser pocket."Get us some beer or I'll get angry."The Jew pressed the coin between his palmand little finger, lowered his twisted lid andwent into the passage.A minute later he brought a bottle of vodka,damp and plastered with barley-chaff."And you told us you didn't have any! Youold...!""I said I had no beer.""Get us something to eat."Kruchkov slapped the bottom of the bottle toknock out the cork, and poured himself a cupof vodka.They went out half drunk. Kruchkov prancedalong, shaking his fist at the black emptysockets of the windows.In the shed, Astakhov was yawning. Behindthe wall horses were munching damp hay.The day passed in idleness. In the afternoonPopov was sent back to the squadron witha report.Evening. Night. The yellow rim of the youngmoon rose over the village. From time to timea ripe apple dropped with a soft squelchingthud from the tree in the garden.471

About midnight, while Ivankov was on guard,he heard the sound of horses along the villagestreet. He crawled out of the ditch to look,but the moon was swathed in cloud, and hecould see nothing through the impenetrabledarkness. He went and awoke Kruchkov, whowas sleeping at the door."Kozma! Horsemen coming! Get up!""Where from?""They're riding into the village."They went out. The clatter of hoofs cameclearly from the street, some hundred yardsaway."Let's go into the garden. We can hear betterthere."They ran past the hut into the tiny front garden,and dropped down by the fence. The jingleof stirrups and creak of saddles came nearer.Now they could see the dim outline of thehorsemen riding four abreast."Who goes there?""And what do you want?" a voice answeredin Russian from the leading rank."Who goes there? I shall fire!" Kruchkovrattled the bolt of his rifle.One of the riders reined in his horse andturned it towards the fence."We're the frontier guard," he said. "Areyou an outpost?"472

"Yes.""What regiment?".""The Third Cossack. . ."Who are you talking to there, Trishin?"a voice called out of the darkness. The man bythe fence replied:"There's a Cossack outpost stationed here.Your Honour."A second horseman rode up to the fence."Hullo there, Cossacks!""Hullo," Ivankov answered guardedly."Have you been here long?""Since yesterday."The second rider struck a match and lighteda cigarette. By the momentary gleam Kruchkovsaw an officer of the frontier guard."Our regiment is being withdrawn," the officersaid. "You must bear well in mind that you'renow the farthest outpost. The enemy may advancetomorrow." He turned and gave the orderfor his men to ride on."Where are you making for. Your Honour?"Kruchkov asked, keeping his finger on thetrigger."We are to link up with our squadron twoversts from here. Come on, lads, let's move.Good luck, Cossacks!""Good luck."At that moment the wind pitilessly tore the473

apron of cloud from the moon, and over thevillage, the gardens, the steep roof of the hutand the detachment of frontier guards ridingup the hill, fell a flood of deathly yellow light.Next morning Rvachev rode back to thesquadron with a report. During the night thehorses had stood saddled. The Cossacks werealarmed by the thought that they were nowleft to confront the enemy. They had experiencedno feeling of isolation and loneliness solong as they knew the frontier guard was aheadof them, but the news that the frontier wasopen had had a marked effect upon them.Astakhov had a talk with the Polish farmer,and for a small sum the man agreed to let themcut clover for their horses. The Pole's meadowlay not far from the shed. Astakhov sent Ivankovand Shchegolkov to mow. Shchegolkovmowed while Ivankov raked the dank, heavygrass together and tied it into bundles.As they were thus occupied, Astakhov, whowas gazing through the binoculars along theroad leading to the frontier, noticed a boy runningacross the fields from the south-west. Thelad ran down the hill like a brown hare; whenstill some distance off he shouted and wavedthe long sleeve of his coat. He ran up to Astakhov,gasping for breath and rolling his eyes,and panted:474

"Cossack! Cossack! The Germans! The Germansare coming!"He pointed with his hand. Holding the binocularsto his eyes, Astakhov saw a distantbunch of horsemen. Without removing thebinoculars he shouted:"Kruchkov!"Kruchkov appeared from the shed, lookinground."Run and call the lads. A German patrolis coming!"He heard Kruchkov dash away and now hecould clearly see the group of horsemen flowingalong beyond the greyish streak of grassland.He could even make out the bay colourof their horses and the dark-blue tint of theiruniforms. There were over twenty of them, andthey were riding in a compact mass, comingfrom the south-west, whereas he had been expectingthem from the north-west. They crossedthe road and struck along the ridge above thevalley in which the village lay.Breathing hard, the tip of his tongue showingbetween his tight-pressed lips, Ivankov wasstuffing an armful of grass into a forage sack.The bandy-legged Pole stood near by, suckinga pipe. With his hands tucked into his belt hestared from under the brim of his hat at Shchegolkov,who was mowing.475

"Call this a scythe?" Shchegolkov grumbled,wielding the toy-like blade fiercely. "Do youmow with it?""I mow," the Pole replied and took one fingerout of his belt."This scythe of yours is just about big enoughto mow a woman in the right place!""Uh-huh," the Pole agreed.Ivankov giggled. He was about to say somethingbut, looking round, saw Kruchkov runningacross the rough ploughland with his handon his sabre."Drop it!" he shouted as he came up."Now what's the matter?" Shchegolkov asked,thrusting the point of the scythe into the ground,"The Germans!"Ivankov threw down the bundle of grass.The Pole, bending double as if bullets were alreadywhistling over his head, ran off to thehouse.They had just reached the shed and jumpedon their horses when they saw a company ofRussian soldiers entering the village from thedirection of Pelikaliye. The Cossacks gallopedto meet them. Astakhov reported to the companycommander that a German detachmentwas making its way round the village by wayof the hill. The captain inspected the dustsprinkledtoes of his boots severely and asked:476

"How many are there?""More than twenty.""Cut them off and we'll fire on them fromhere." He turned to his company, ordered themto form up and led them away at a rapidmarch.When the Cossacks reached the crest of thehill the Germans were already between themand the town of Pelikaliye. They were riding ata trot,led by an officer on a dock-tailed roan."After them! We'll drive them along to oursecond outpost," Astakhov ordered.The mounted frontier guard who had joinedup with them in the village lagged behind."What's up? Leaving us, brother?" Astakhovshouted, turning in his saddle.The frontier guard waved carelessly androde down into the village at a walking pace.The Cossacks put their horses into a swifttrot. The blue uniforms of the German dragoonswere clearly visible. They had caught sight ofthe Cossacks following them, and were canteringin the direction of the second Russian outpost,which was stationed at a farm some threeversts back from the village of Lyubov. Thedistance between the two parties perceptiblydiminished."We'll fire at them!" Astakhov shouted,jumping from his saddle.477

Standing with the reins looped over theirarms, the Cossacks fired. Ivankov's horsereared at the shot and sent him headlong. Ashe fell he saw one of the Germans first lean toone side, then, throwing out his arms, suddenlytumble from his saddle. The others did notstop or even unsling their carbines from theirshoulders, but rode on at a gallop in open formation.The pennants on their lances flutteredin the wind. Astakhov was the first to remounthis horse. The Cossacks plied theirwhips. The Germans swung to the left, and theCossacks following them passed close to thefallen dragoon. Beyond, an undulating stretchof country was intersected with shallow ravines.As the Germans rode up the farther side ofeach ravine the Cossacks dismounted and sentshots after them. A little farther on anotherGerman went down."Our Cossacks should be coming from thatfarm in a minute. That's the second outpost,"Astakhov muttered, thrusting a cartridge clipinto the magazine of his rifle with his tobaccostainedfinger. The Germans broke into a steadytrot. As the Cossacks rode past the farm theyglanced towards it, but it was deserted. Thesun licked greedily at the tiled roof. Afterwardsthey learned that the outpost had withdrawnthe previous night, having discovered that the478

telegraph wires about half a verst away hadbeen cut.Astakhov sent another shot after the Germans,firing from the saddle, and one of themwho had been lagging slightly behind shookhis head and spurred on his horse."We'll drive them along to the first outpost,"Astakhov shouted, turning round to the othersbehind him. As he did so, Ivankov noticed thatAstakhov's nose was peeling and a piece ofskin was hanging from his nostril."Why don't they turn and defend themselves?"he asked anxiously, adjusting hisrifle on his back."Wait and see," grunted Shchegolkov, pantinglike a broken-winded horse.The Germans dropped into a ravine anddisappeared. On the farther side was ploughedland. On this side, scrub and an occasionalbush. Astakhov reined in his horse, pushedback his cap, and wiped the beads of sweataway with the back of his hand. He looked atthe others, spat and said:"Ivankov, you ride down and see wherethey've got to."Ivankov, red in the face, his back damp withsweat, licked his crusted lips thirstily and rodeoff.479

"Oh for a smoke!" Kruchkov muttered,driving the gadflies off with his whip.Ivankov rode steadily down into the ravine,rising in his stirrups and gazing across thebottom. Suddenly he saw the glittering pointsof lances; then the Germans appeared; theyhad turned their horses and were gallopingback up the slope to the attack. The officerwas in front, his sword raised picturesquely.In the seconds that elapsed while Ivankovwheeled his horse, the moody clean-shaven faceof the officer and the fine way he sat in thesaddle engraved themselves on Ivankov'smemory. The thunder of German horses' hoofsflailed his heart. His back felt the pinchingchill of death almost painfully. Without a cryhe wheeled his horse round and rode backtowards the others.Astakhov did not have time to put histobacco pouch in his pocket. Seeing the Germansbehind Ivankov, Kruchkov was the firstto ride down to meet them. The dragoons onthe right flank were sweeping round to cutIvankov off, and were overtaking him at amazingspeed. Ivankov was lashing at his horse,wry shudders passing over his face and hiseyes starting out of his head. Bent to thesaddle-bow, Astakhov took the lead. Browndust boiled in the horses' wake.480

"Any moment now they'll catch me!" Thenumbing thought gripped Ivankov's mind andit did not occur to him to show resistance. Hegathered his great body into a ball, his headtouching his horse's mane.A big, ruddy-faced German overtook himand thrust his lance at his back. The pointpierced Ivankov's leather belt and passedsideways for about an inch into his body."Brothers, turn back!" he shouted insanely,drawing his sabre. He parried a second thrustaimed at his side, and cut down a Germanriding at him from the left. The next momenthe was surrounded. A burly German horsestruck the side of his mount, almost knockingit off itsfeet, and Ivankov got a terrible blurredclose-up of an enemy face.Astakhov was the first to reach the group.He was driven off. He swung his sabre andtwisted like an eel in his saddle, his teeth bared,his face changed and deathly. Ivankov waslashed across the neck with the point of asword. A dragoon towered above him on theleft, and the terrifying gleam of steel glitteredin his eyes. He countered with his sabre; steelclashed against steel. From behind, a lancecaught in his shoulder-strap and thrust insistently,tearing the strap away. Beyond his horse'shead appeared the perspiring, fevered face31—1933 481

of a freckled elderly German, who tried to getat Ivankov's chest with his sword. But thesword would not reach, and dropping it, theGerman tore his carbine from its yellow saddleholster,his blinking eyes fixed on Ivankov'sface. He did not succeed in freeing hiscarbine,for Kruchkov reached at him across his horsewith a lance. The German, tearing the lanceaway from his breast, threw himself back,groaning in fear and astonishment.Eight dragoons surrounded Kruchkov, tryingto capture him alive. But causing his horse torear, he fought until they succeeded in knockingthe sabre out of his hand. He snatched alance from a German and wielded it as thoughon the parade ground. Beaten back, the Germanshacked at the lance with their swords.They bunched together over a small patch ofdismal, clayey ploughed land, seething and rockingin the struggle as though shaken by thewind.Maddened with terror, the Cossacks and Germansthrust and hacked at whatever came theirway: backs, arms, horses and weapons. Thehorses jostled and kicked against one anotherin a frenzy of mortal fear. Regaining somemeasure of self-command, Ivankov tried severaltimes to strike at the head of a long-faced,flaxen-haired German who had fastened on him,482

ut his sabre fell on the man's helmet andslipped off.Astakhov broke through the ring and gallopedfree,streaming with blood. The German officerchased after him. Tearing his rifle from hisshoulder, Astakhov fired and killed him almostat point-blank range. This proved to be the turning-pointin the struggle. Having lost theircommander, the Germans, all of them woundedwith clumsy blows, dispersed and retreated.The Cossacks did not pursue them. They didnot fireafter them. They rode straight back totheir squadron at Pelikaliye, while the Germanspicked up a wounded comrade and fled towardsthefrontier.After riding perhaps half a verst Ivankovswayed in his saddle."I'm. ... I shall drop . .." he halted hishorse. But Astakhov pulled at his reins, crying:"Come on!"Kruchkov smeared the blood over his faceand felt his chest. Crimson spots were showingdamply on his shirt. Beyond the farm where thesecond outpost had been stationed the party disagreedas to the way."To the right!" Astakhov said, pointing towardsthe green, swampy ground of an alderwood."No, to the left!"31* 483Kruchkov insisted.

They separated. Astakhov and Ivankov arrivedat the regimental headquarters after Kruchkovand Shchegolkov. They found the Cossacksof their squadron awaiting them. Ivankovdropped the reins, jumped from the saddle,swayed and fell. They had difficulty in freeingthe sabre-hilt from his clutching fingers.Within an hour almost the entire squadronrode out to where the German officer lay. TheCossacks removed his boots, clothing and weaponsand crowded around to look at the young,frowning, yellow face of the dead man. One ofthem managed to capture the officer's watchwith a silver face-guard, and sold it on the spotto his troop sergeant. In a wallet they found afew bank-notes, a letter, a lock of flaxen hairand a photograph of a girl with a proud, smilingmouth.IXAfterwards this incident was transformed intoa heroic exploit. Kruchkov, a favourite of thesquadron commander, received the Cross of St.George. His comrades remained in shadow. Thehero was sent to the divisional staff headquarters,where he lived in clover until the end of thewar, receiving three more crosses because influentialladies and officers came from Petersburgand Moscow to look at him. The ladies "ah-ed"484

and "oh-ed," and regaled the Don Cossack withexpensive cigarettes and chocolates. At first hecursed them by all the devils, but afterwards,under the benevolent influence of the stafftoadies in officers' uniform, he made a remunerativebusiness of it. He told the story of his "exploit,"laying the colours on thick and lyingwithout a twinge of conscience, while the ladieswent into raptures, and stared admiringly at thepock-marked, brigand face of the Cossack hero.Everyone was pleased and happy.The tsar visited headquarters, and Kruchkovwas taken to be shown to him. The sleepy emperorlooked Kruchkov over as ifhe were a horse,blinked his heavy eyelids, and patted theCossack on the shoulder."A fine Cossack lad!" he remarked and,turning to his suite, asked for some Seltzerwater.Kruchkov's forelock figured constantly in thenewspapers and magazines. There were Kruchkovbrands of cigarettes. The merchants ofNizhny-Novgorod presented him with a goldmountedsabre.The uniform taken from the German officerAstakhov had killed was mailed to a plywoodboard and General von Rennenkampf put it inhis car with Ivankov and his adjutant to hold itand drove before parading troops about to go485

to the front, making the customary fieryspeeches in the official jargon.And what had reallyhappened? Men, whohad not yet acquired the knack of killing theirown kind, had clashed on the field of death, andin the mortal terror that embraced them, hadcharged, and struck, and battered blindly at eachother, mutilating one another and their horses;then they had turned and fled, frightened by ashot which had killed one of their number. Theyhad ridden away morally crippled.And it was called a heroic exploit.XThe front was not yet the huge unyielding viperthat it was to become. Cavalry skirmishesand battles flared up along the frontier. In thedays immediately following the declaration ofwar the German command put out feelers in theshape of strong cavalry detachments thatcaused alarm among the Russian troopsby slipping past the frontier posts and spyingout the disposition and numbers of theirforces. The Russian Eighth Army was screenedby the 12th Cavalry Division under the commandof General Kaledin. On its left flank the11th Cavalry Division had advanced across theAustrian frontier, but having captured Leshnuv486

and Brodi, was brought to a halt when the Austrianswere reinforced by Hungarian cavalry.The Hungarian cavalry hurled itself at theRussian units and forced them back towardsBrodi.Since his first battle Grigory Melekhov hadbeen tormented by a dreary inward pain. Hegrew noticeably thinner and frequently, whetheron the march or resting, sleeping or waking,he saw the features and form of the Austrianwhom he had killed by the railings. In his sleephe lived again and again through that firstbattle, and even felt the shuddering convulsionof his right hand clutching the lance. He wouldawaken and drive the dream off violently,shading his painfully screwed-up eyes withhis hand.The cavalry trampled down the ripened cornand scarred the fields with hoofprints, and itwas as though a pounding hailstorm had sweptGalicia. The heavy soldiers' boots tramped theroads, scratched the macadam, churned up theAugust mud. The gloomy face of the earth waspock-marked with shells; fragments of iron andsteel rusted there, yearning for human blood.At night ruddy flickerings lit up the horizon:trees, villages, towns blazed like summer lightning.In August-when fruits ripen and com is487

eady for harvest-the sky was unsmilingly grey,the rare fine days were oppressive and sultry,August was drawing to a close. The leavesturned yellow in the orchards, and a mournfulpurple spread from their stalks. From a distanceit looked as though the trees were gashedwith wounds and bleeding to death.Grigory studied with interest the changesthat occurred in his comrades. Prokhor Zykovreturned from hospital with the marks of a horseshoeon his cheek, and pain and bewildermentlurking in the corners of his lips. His calfisheyes blinked more than ever. Yegor Zharkov lostno opportunity to curse and swear, was evenbawdier than before, and riled against everythingunder the sun. Yemelyan Groshev, a seriousand efficient Cossack from Grigory's ownvillage, seemed to char; his face turned dark,and he laughed awkwardly and morosely.Changes were to be observed in every face;each was inwardly nursing and rearing theseeds of grief implanted by the war.The regiment was withdrawn from the linefor a three-day rest, and its complement wasmade up by reinforcements from the Don. TheCossacks of Grigory's squadron were about togo for a dip in a neighbouring lake, when a considerableforce of cavalry rode into the villagefrom the station some three versts away. By the488

time the men had reached the dam of the lakethe force was riding down the hill. Prokhor Zykovwas pulling off his shirt when, looking up,he stared and exclaimed:"They're Cossacks, Don Cossacks!"Grigory gazed after the colimin crawling intothe estate where the Fourth Squadron was quartered."Reserves, most likely.""Look boys; surely that's Stepan Astakhov?There in the third rank from the front," Groshevexclaimed, and gave a short grating laugh."And there's Anikushka.""Grisha! Melekhov! There's your brother.D'you see him?"Narrowing his eyes, Grigory stared, trying torecognize the horse Pyotr was riding. "Musthave bought a new one!" he thought, turning hisgaze to his brother's face. Deeply tanned, withmoustache clipped and brows bleeched by thesummer sun, it was strangely altered since theirlast meeting.Grigory went to meet him, taking off his capand waving mechanically. After him poured thehalf-dressed Cossacks, trampling underfoot thebrittle undergrowth of angelica and burdock.Led by an elderly, stocky captain with awooden hardness in the lines of his authoritativeclean-shaven mouth, the detachment swung489

ound the orchard into the estate. "A sticker!"Grigory thought, as he smiled at his brother andat the same time ran his eye over the captain'ssturdy figure and his hook-nosed mount,evidently of an Eastern strain."Hullo, Brother!" he shouted."Glory be! We're going to be together.How're things?""All right.""So you're still alive?""So far.""Regards from the family.""How are they all?""All right."Pyotr rested his palm on the croup of his sturdyreddish horse and, turning his whole body inthe saddle, surveyed Grigory smilingly. Thenhe rode on, and was hidden by the oncomingranks of other Cossacks, familiar and unfamiliar."Hullo, Melekhov! Regards from the village.""So you're joining us?" Grigory grinned, recognizingMikhail Koshevoi by the golden slabof his forelock."That's right. Like chickens after corn.""Mind you don't get pecked yourself.""We'll see about that!"Yegor Zharkov came from the lake dressedonly in his shirt and hopping on one leg490

trying to thrust the other into his sharovari ashe ran."Hey, here's Zharkov!" rose a shout fromthe ranks."Hullo, stallion! Have they had to hobble youthen?""How's my mother?""Still alive. She sent her love, but we wouldn'ttake any presents. We had enough to carry asitwas."Yegor listened with an unusually serious expressionto the reply, and then sat down barebottomedin the grass, hiding his disappointedface and struggling ineffectually to get histrembling leg into his trousers.Half-dressed Cossacks stood behind the bluepaintedfence; on the other side the reservesquadron from the Don flowed along the chestnut-linedroad into the yard."That you, Alexander?""Yes, it's me.""Andreyan! Why, you lop-eared devil, don'tyou know me?""Love from the wife. So this is life in the army,eh!""Christ save you.""Where's Boris Belov?""What squadron was he in?""The Fourth, I think."491

"Where was he from?""Vyeshenskaya stanitsa, Zaton.""What do you want him for?" a third voicebroke into the fragmentary conversation."I've got a letter for him, that's what.""He was killed a few days back, at Raibrodi.""Is that so?""Believe me. I saw it with my own eyes. Bulletin the chest, just under his left tit.""Anyone here from Chornaya Rechka?""No. On you go."The squadron was drawn up in the yard. Theother Cossacks returned to their bathe and werejoined soon after by the new arrivals. Grigorydropped down at his brother's side. The damp,crumbling clay of the dam had an unpleasantraw smell about it; the water was bright-greenat the edges. Grigory sat killing the licein the folds and seams of his shirt, and told hisbrother:"Pyotr, I'm played out. I'm like a man whoonly needs one more blow to kill him. It's asthough I'd been between millstones; they'vecrushed me and spat me out." His voice wascracked and" complaining, and a dark furrow(only now, with a feeling of anxiety, did Pyotrnotice it) slanting diagonally across his forehead,made a startling impression of change andalienation.492

"Why, what's the matter?" Pyotr asked as hepulled off his shirt, revealing his bare whitebody with the clean-cut line of sunburn aroundthe neck."It's like this," Grigory said hurriedly, andhis voice grew strong in its bitterness. "They'veset us fighting one another, worse than a packof wolves. Hatred everywhere. Sometimes Ithink to myself if I bit a man he'd get the rabies.""Have you had to . . . kill anyone?""Yes," Grigory almost shouted, screwing uphis shirt and throwing it down at his feet. Thenhe sat pressing his throat with his fingers, asthough pushing down a word that was chokinghim, and turned his eyes away,"Tell me," Pyotr ordered, avoiding his brother'seyes."My conscience is killing me. I sent my lancethrough one man ... in hot blood ... I couldn'thave done it otherwise. . . . But why did I cutdown the other?""Well?""It isn't 'well'! I cut down a man, and I'msick at heart because of him, the swine! Thebastard comes haunting me in my dreams. WasI to blame?""You're not used to ityet; you'll get over it,"493

"Are you stopping with our squadron?" Grigoryasked abruptly."No, we're drafted to the 27th Regiment.""I thought you had come to help us out.""Our squadron's going to be tacked on tosome infantry division or other. We're catchingit up. But we've brought you some replacements,a batch of young fellows.""Well, let's have a swim."Grigory hastily pulled off his trousers andwent to the edge of the dam, sunburnt and wellbuiltin spite of his stooped shoulders; he wasolder than when they last saw each other, Pyotrthought. Raising his hands, he dived into thewater; a heavy green wave closed over him andbillowed away. He struck out towards the groupof Cossacks larking about in the middle, hishands slapping the water affectionately, hisshoulders moving lazily.Pyotr was slow in removing from his neck thecross with the prayer sewn to it. He thrust thestring under his pile of clothes, entered the waterwith timorous caution, wetted his chest andshoulders, then pressed forward with a groanand swam to overtake Grigory. They made forthe opposite bank, which was sandy and coveredwith bushes. The movement through the watercooled and soothed, and Grigory spoke restrainedlyand without his previous passion.494

"I've been so fed up I've let the lice eat me!"he remarked. "If I were only at home now! I'dfly there if I had wings. Just to take one littlepeep! How are they all?""Natalya is living with us.""How are Father and Mother?""All right. But Natalya's still waiting for you.She stillbelieves you'll go back to her."Grigory snorted and spat out water withoutanswering. Pyotr turned his head and tried tolook into his brother's eyes."You might send her a word in your letters.The woman lives only for you.""What, does she still want to tie up thebroken ends?""Well, she lives on hope. . . . She's a fine littlewo^man. Strict too. She won't let anybody playabout with her!""She ought to get a husband.""Strange words from you!""Nothing strange about them. That's how itought to be.""Well, it's your business. I shan't interfere.""And how's Dunya?""She's a woman. Brother! She's grown somuch this year that you wouldn't know her.""Is that so!" Grigory said, surprised and alittle cheered.495

"God's truth! She'll be getting married next,and we shan't even get our whiskers into thevodka. Or we may even get killed off, damnthem!""Nothing simpler!"They lay side by side on the sand, basking inthe mild warmth of the sun.Misha Koshevoi swam past. "Come on, Grisha,into the water.""No, I'm resting."Burying a beetle in the sand, Grigory asked:"Heard anything of Aksinya?""I saw her in the village just before warbroke out.""What was she doing there?""She'd come to get some things of hers fromher husband."Grigory coughed and buried the beetle witha sweep of his hand."Did you speak to her?""Only passed the time of day. She was lookingwell, and cheerful. She seems to have aneasy time at the estate.""And what about Stepan?""He gave her her odds and ends all right.Behaved decently enough. But you keep youreyes open! I've been told that when he wasdrunk he swore he'd put a bullet through youin the first battle. He can't forgive you."496

"1 know.""I got myself a new horse," Pyotr changedthe conversation."Sold the bullocks?""For a hundred and eighty. And the horsecost a hundred and fifty. Not a bad one, either.""What's the grain like?""Good. They took us off before we could getitin."The talk turned todomestic matters, and theintensity of feeling passed. Grigory drank inPyotr's news of home. For a brief moment hewas living there again, just an ordinary selfwilledlad."Well, let's have another dip and get dressed,"Pyotr suggested, brushing the sand off hisdamp belly. His back and arms were coveredwith gooseflesh.They returned with a crowd of Cossacks tothe yard. At the orchard fence Stepan Astakhovovertook them. He was combing his hair backunder the peak of his cap as he walked. Drawinglevel with Grigory, he said:"Hullo, friend!""Hullo!" Grigory halted and turned to himwith a touch of embarrassment and guilt in hisface."You haven't forgotten me, have you?""Almost."32—1933 497

"But I remember you!" Stepan smiled derisivelyand passed on, slipping his arm round theshoulder of a corporal walking ahead of them.After sundown a telephone message camefrom the divisional staff for Grigory's regimentto return to the front. The squadrons were assembledwithin fifteen minutes, and rode offsinging to close a breach made in the line bythe enemy cavalry.As they said good-bye to each other Pyotrthrust a folded paper into his brother's hand."What's this?" Grigory asked."I've copied down a prayer for you. Take"it"Is it any good?""Don't laugh, Grigory!""I'm not laughing.""Well, good-bye. Brother. Don't dash awayin front of the rest. Death has a fancy for thehot-blooded ones. Look after yourself," Pyotrshouted,"What's the prayer for then?"Pyotr waved his hand.For some time the squadrons rode without observingany precautions. Then the sergeantsgave orders for the utmost possible quiet, andfor all cigarettes to be put out. Flares, adornedwith tails of lilac smoke, soared high over a distantwood.

XIA small brown Morocco notebook. The cornerswere frayed and broken; it must have spenta long time in its owner's pocket. The pageswere covered with rather elaborate slopinghandwriting.,, . . For some time now I have felt this needfor putting pen to paper. I want to keep a sortof "college diary," First of all, about her. InFebruary (I don't remember the date) I got toknow her through a neighbour of hers, a studentcalled Boyaryshkin. I ran into them outsidea cinema. When Boyaryshkin introduced her, hesaid: "Liza comes from the Vyeshenskaya stanitsa.Be nice to her, Timofei. She's an excellentgirl." I remember uttering some incoherent remarkand taking her soft sweaty hand in mine.That was how I met Yelizaveta Mokhova. Irealized at once that she had been spoiled. Womenlike her have something in their eyes thattells you too much. The impression she createdon me, I admit, was not very favourable. It musthave been that clammy hand of hers. I havenever met anyone whose hands perspired somuch; then those eyes, very beautiful eyes actually,with a glorious hazel tint in them, and yetunpleasant.32* 499

Vasya, old friend, I find myself consciouslytouching up my style, even resorting to imagery,for when this "diary" reaches you in Semipalatinsk(I'm thinking of sending it to youafter this affair I have started with YelizavetaMokhova is over; it may amuse you) I want youto have a clear idea of what happened. I shalldescribe things inchronological order. Well, asI have said, I was introduced to her and thethree of us went in to see some sentimental cinemarubbish. Boyaryshkin kept quiet (he hadtoothache, "molar-ache," as he called it) and Ifound it difficult to make conversation. Weturned out to be from the same neighbourhood,that is, from neighbouring stanitsas, but after wehad shared a few reminiscences about the beautyof steppe scenery and so on, our talk peteredout. I preserved an unconstrained silence, so tospeak, and she suffered the lack of conversationwithout the slightest discomfort. I learned fromher that she was a second-year medical student,that she came of a merchant family, and thatshe was fond of strong tea and Asmolov's snuff.Extremely scanty information, as you can imagine,for getting to know a girl with hazel eyes.When we said good-bye (we saw her off to thetramstop), she asked me to call on her. I madea note of her address. I think I shall drop in onApril 28th.500

April 29thCalled on her today, she gave me tea andhalvah. As a matter of fact, there is somethingin her. Sharp tongue, moderately clever, butshe's got hold of that Artsibashev do-as-youpleasetheory, you can smell it a verst off. Camehome late. Made myself cigarettes and thoughtof things completely unconnected with her,mainly money. My suit is in an appalling state,but I have no "capital." On the whole, thingsare rotten.Today was marked by an event ofMay 1stsome importance.While passing the time quite harmlesslyin Sokolniki Park, we got involved in an incident.The police and a detachment of Cossacks,about twenty of them, were dispersing a workers'May Day meeting. A drunk hit one of theCossack's horses with a stick and the Cossackbrought his whip into play. (I don't know why,but some people persist in calling a whip aswitch. It has its own glorious title-why not useit?) I went up and decided to intervene impelledby the most noble feelings, I assure you. I toldthe Cossack he was a lout, and one or two otherthings besides. He was going to take a swing atme with his whip, but I told him pretty firmlythat I was a Cossack of Kamenskaya stanitsa501

myself and could knock hell out of him any dayof the week. The Cossack happened to be agood-natured fellow, young; hadn't been in thearmy long enough to get sour. He replied thathe was from the stanitsa of Ust-Khoperskayaand a useful man with his fists. We parted peacefully.If he had started anything against me,there would have been a fight; and somethingrather worse would have happened to my ownperson. My intervention is to be explained bythe fact that Liza was with us and when I amin her presence I am carried away by a purelychildish desire to do something heroic. I canactually see myself turning into a young cockereland feel an invisible red comb sproutingunder my cap. . . . What am I coming to!May 3rdThe only thing to do in my present mood isget drunk. On top of everything I have no money.My trousers are hopelessly split just where itmatters most (in the crutch, to put it bluntly),like an overripe water-melon down on the Don,and the chances of my darn holding out are remoteindeed. Might as well try to sew up a water-melon.Volodka Strezhnev has been round,Tomorrow I shall attend lectures.m

May 7thMoney from Father. Rather a grumpy letter,but I don't feel a scrap of shame. What if Dadknew his son's moral supports are rotting likethis. . . . Have bought a suit. My new tie attractsthe attention even of the cabmen. After a shaveat the best hairdresser's in town, came out asfresh as a draper's shop assistant. At the cornerof the boulevard a policeman smiled at me. Theold scoundrel! But what is past is past. ... I sawLiza quite by chance through the window of atram. She waved her glove and smiled. How doyou like that!May 8th"To love all ages are submissive. ..." I canstill see the mouth of Tatyana's husband gapingup at me like a gun barrel. From my seat in thegallery I had an irresistible desire to spit intoit. Whenever I think of that phrase, particularlythe "sub-miss-ive" at the end, my jaw achesto yawn. Probably a nervous tick.But the point is that I, at my age, am inThough itlove.makes my hair stand on end to writeit. . . . Called on Liza. Began with a very longand high-flown introduction. She pretended notto understand and tried to change the subject.Is it toQ early yet? Devil take it, this new suit503

has mixed everything up. When I look at myselfin the mirror I feel I am irresistible. Now isthe time, I think! Actually, with me it isstraightforward accounting that wins the day. IfI don't propose now, in two months' time it willbe too late; my trousers will be worn out andI won't be able to propose anyhow. As I writethis I overflow with self-admiration. What abrilliant combination I am of all the best qualitiesof the best people of our time. Here youhave gentle yet fiery passion as well as the"voice of reason firm." A Russian salad of allthe virtues,not to mention a host of other admirablequalities.Well, I got no further with her than my preliminaryintroduction. We were interrupted byher landlady, who called her out into the corridorand asked her for a loan. She refused althoughshe had the money. I knew that for afact and I pictured her face as she refused inthat truthful voice of hers and with such sincerityin those hazel eyes. I didn't want to talkabout love after that.May 13thI am well and truly in love. There can be nodoubt about it. Everything tells me so. TomorrowI shall propose. So far I have not yetworked Qut my part.504

The thing came about inMay 14tha most unexpectedfashion. It was raining, a nice warm shower.We were walking along the Mokhovaya, thewind was sweeping rain across the pavement.I talked and she was quiet, with her head downas if she were thinking. A trickle of rain ranoff the brim of her hat on to her cheek, and shewas beautiful. I quote our conversation:"Yelizaveta Sergeyevna, I have told youwhat I feel, now it is up to you.""I doubt the sincerity of your feelings."I shrugged my shoulders in an idiotic fashionand said icily that I was ready to take anoath, or something of the kind.She said: "Look here, you are talking like acharacter out of Turgenev. Can't you make itsimpler?""Nothing could be simpler. I love you.""And now what?""Now it's up to you.""You want me to say I love you too?""I want you to say something.""You see, Timofei Ivanovich. . . . How shallI put it? I like you just a little bit. . . . You'revery tall,""I'll get taller," I promised."But we know each other iso little, we. . .605,"

"In ten years' time we'll know each other alot better."She rubbed her wet cheeks with a pink handand said: "Well, all right then, let's live together.Time will show. But you must let mebreak off my former attachment first.""Who is he?" I inquired."You don't know him. He's a doctor, a venerologist.""When will you be free?""By Friday, I hope.""Shall we be living together? In the sameflat, I mean?""Yes, I think it would be more convenientthat way. You will move into my flat.""Why?""I have a very comfortable room. It is quiteclean and the landlady isa nice person."I raised no objection. At the corner of theTverskaya we parted. To the great astonishmentof a lady who happened to be passing wekissed.What does the future hold in store?May 22ndLiving a life of honey. Today my "honey"mood was clouded by Liza's telling me I mustchange my underwear. Of course, my under-506

wear is in a disgusting state. But the money,the money. . We are spending mine and there. .isn't much left. Shall have to find work.May 24thToday I decided to buy some new underwearbut Liza put me to unexpected expense. Shesuddenly had an irresistible desire to dine at agood restaurant and buy herself a pair of silkstockings. We have dined and bought, but I amin despair. No underwear for me!May 27thShe's sucking me dry. I am physically noNot a wom-more than a bare sunflower stalk.an but a smouldering fire!June 2ndWe woke up today at nine. My accursedhabit of wriggling my toes led to the followingresults. She pulled back the bed-clothes andsubjected my foot to a prolonged examination.Then she summed up her observationsthus:"You have a foot like a horse's hoof. Worse!And that hair on your toes-ugh!" She jerkedher shoulders in a kind of feverish disgust,buried her head under the bed-clothes andturned away tothe wall.607

I was confused. I tucked my feet out of sightand touched her on the shoulder."Liza!""Leave me alone!""Liza, this won't do at all. I can't change theshape of my feet, they weren't made to order,you know. And as for the vegetation, you neverknow where hair will grow next. It growseverywhere. You're a medical student, youought to know the laws of nature."She turned over. There was a nasty glint inher hazeleyes."For goodness sake buy some deodorantpowder. Your feet stink like a corpse."I remarked judiciously that her hands werealways clammy. She remained silent and, to putit in lofty terms, a murky cloud descended onmy soul. . . ,June 4thToday we went for a boat trip down the riverMoskva. Recalled the Don countryside. Liza'sconduct is unworthy of her. She keeps makingcutting remarks at my expense, and sometimesthey are very rude. To pay her back in her owncoin would mean the breaking-off of our relations,and I don't want that. In spite of everything,I am getting more and more attached toher. She is simply spoiled. But I fear my influ-508

6nce will not be strong enough to produce anyradical change in her character. A lovable,spoiled little girl. A little girl, moreover, whohas seen things that I know of only by hearsay.On the way home she dragged me into achemist's and, with a smile on her face, boughttalcum powder and some other rubbish. "This'llkeep the smell down."I made a gallant bow and thanked her.Absurd, but there it is.June 7thShe has really very little intellect, but sheknows all the other things.Every night before going to bed I wash myfeet in hot water, pour eau-de-Cologne overthem and powder them with some other disgustingstuff.Every day she becomes 2TioreJune16thand more intolerable.Yesterday she had an attack of hysterics.It is very hard to live with such a woman.June 18thWe have absolutely nothing in common! Weare not even talking the same language.This morning she went to my pocket formoney before going to the baker's, and cameacross this little book. She looked at it.509

"What's this you are carrying about?"I felt hot all over. Suppose she glancedthrough it? I was surprised to hear myself answerin such a natural voice: "Just a notebookfor calculations."She pushed it back into my pocket quite indifferentlyand went out. I must be more careful.Direct impressions of this kind are onlyworth while when the other person knows nothingabout them.They shall be a source of entertainment tomy friend Vasya.June 21stI am astounded at Liza. She is twenty-one.When did she have time to get so immoral?What kind of family has she got, who had ahand in her development? These are questionsthat interest me intensely. She is devilishlybeautiful. She takes pride in the perfection ofher figure. It is just a cult of self-adorationnothingelse exists for her. I have tried severaltimes to talk to her seriously. ... It would beeasier to convince an Old Believer that Goddoes not exist than to re-educate Liza.Life together has become impossible and absurd.Yet I hesitate to break things off. I mustconfess that in spite of everything I like her.She has grown upon me.5t0

June 24thIt all came out at once. We had a heart-tohearttalk today and she told me I could notsatisfy her physically. The break is not yet official,in a few days probably.June 26thWhat she needs is a stallion! A real one!It isJune 28thvery difficult for me to give her up. Shedrags me down like mud. Today we took a rideout to the Vorobyovy Hills. She sat by the hotelwindow and the sun filtered under the carvedroof on to her curls. Her hair is the colour ofpure gold. And there's a piece of poetry foryou!July4thI have left my work. Liza has left me. TodayI drank beer with Strezhnev. Yesterday wedrank vodka. Liza and I parted as educatedpeople should, in a practical manner. No nonsense.Today I saw her in Dmitrov Streetwith a young man in jockey boots. She acknowledgedmy greeting with restraint. It is abouttime I stopped writing these notes-the sourcehas run dry..5/7

July 30thI am quite unexpectedly impelled to take upthe pen again. War. An explosion of bestial enthusiasm.Every top-hat stinks like a dead dogof patriotism. The other fellows are indignant,but I am gratified. I am eaten up withlonging for my .. . "paradise lost." Last nightI had a quiet little dream about Liza. She hasleft a deep mark of yearning. I should be gladof some diversion.August 1stI'm fed up with all this noise and fuss. Theold feeling of longing has returned. I suck atit as a child sucks a dummy.August 3rdA way out! I shall go to the war. Foolish?Very. Shameful?But what else can I do? Oh for a taste ofsomething different! Yet there was no such feelingof satiety two years ago. Surely I'm notgetting old?August 7thI am writing in the train. We have just leftVoronezh. Tomorrow I shall be home. I havemade up my mind, I shall fight for "the Faith,the Tsar, and the Fatherland."512

August 12thWhat a send-off they gave me. The atamanhad a drink or two and made an impassionedspeech. Afterwards I told him in a whisper thathe was a fool. He was flabbergasted and so offendedhis cheeks turned green. Then he hissedspitefully: "And you call yourself educated! Youwouldn't be one of those we gave the lash in1905, would you?" I replied that, to my regret,I was not "one of those." My father wept andtried to kiss me with a dewdrop dangling fromthe tip of his nose. Poor dear father! He oughtto be in my shoes. I suggested jokingly thathe should come with me, and he exclaimed inalarm: "But what about the farm?" TomorrowI leave for the station.August 13thHere and there unharvested corn-fields. Sleakmarmots on the hillocks. They bear a strikingresemblance to the picture-postcard Germanswe see impaled on Kozma Kruchkov's lance.Once upon a time when I was a student ofmathematics and other exact sciences, little didI think I should live to become such a "jingoist."When I get into a regiment I shall havea talk with the Cossacks.33—1933 513

August 22ndthe firstAt one of the stations along the line I sawgroup of prisoners. A fine-looking Austrianofficer with a sportsman's bearing was beingtaken under guard to the station building.Two young ladies strolling along the platformsmiled at him. He managed a very neat bowwithout stopping and blew them a kiss.Even as a prisoner he was clean-shaven, gallant,his brown boots glistened. I watched himas he walked away. A young handsome fellow,a pleasant friendly face. If you met him in battle,your arm would not lift to strike.Refugees, refugees, refugees. , . , EveryAugust 24thlineis crowded with trains of refugees and troops.The first hospital train has just passed. Whenit stopped a young soldier jumped out. Hisface was bandaged. We got talking. He hadbeen wounded with grape-shot. Awfully gladhe probably won't have to do any more service;his eye was damaged. He was actuallylaughing.August 27thI am in my regiment. The regimental commanderis a very fine old man. A Cossack fromthe lower Don. One can feel the smell of blood514

Iround here. There are rumours that we shall bein the front line the day after tomorrow. Mineis the Third Troop of the Third Squadron-Cossacks from Konstantinovskaya stanitsa. Adull lot. Only one wag and songster.August 28thWe are going up. Today there is a lot ofnoise out there. Sounds like thunder rumblingin the distance. I even sniffed the air for rain.But the sky is like blue satin.Yesterday my horse went lame, grazed itsleg on the wheel of a field-kitchen. Everythingis new and strange. I don't know what to starton,what to write about.August 30thYesterday there was no time to write. NowI am writing in the saddle. The jolting makesmy pencil perform some monstrous antics.There are three of us riding with a forage trainforgrass.Now the lads are tying down the load and Iam lying on my stomach making a belated recordof what happened yesterday. YesterdaySergeant Tolokonnikov (he addresses me contemptuouslyas "student." "Hi there, student,can't you see your horse has got a shoe comingoff?") sent six of us out on reconnaissance. We33*'515

drove through some burnt-out village or other.It was very hot. The horses were sweating andso were we. Cossacks should not have to wearserge trousers in summer. In a ditch outsidethe village I saw my first corpse. A German,Lying on his back with his legs in the ditch.One arm twisted under him, a rifle magazineclasped in the other. No rifle anywhere near.A ghastly sight. A cold shiver runs down myspine as I think of it. . . . Helooked as if hehad been sitting with his legs in the ditch, andhad then lain back to rest. Grey uniform andhelmet. You could see the leather lining. I wasso dazed by this first experience that I don'tremember his face. Only the big yellow antscrawling over the yellow forehead and glassyhalf-closed eyes. The Cossacks crossed themselvesas they rode past. I looked at the smallspot of blood on the right side of his uniform.The bullet had hit him in the right side andgone straight through. As I rode past I noticedthat where the bullet had come out, the stain onthe uniform and the clot of blood on theground were much bigger and the uniform wastorn raggedly.I rode past shuddering. So that is how ithappens.The senior sergeant, whose nickname is"Teaser," tried to restore our spirits by telling516

us a dirty story, but his own lips were trembling.About half a verst on from the village wecame to a gutted factory, just brick walls blackenedwith smoke at the top. We were afraid togo straight along the road because it lay pastthis heap of ashes, so we decided to go roundit. As soon as we struck off the road somebodystarted firing at us from the factory. Thesound of that first shot, ashamed though I amto admit it, nearly toppled me out of mysaddle. I grabbed the pommel and instinctivelyducked down and tugged the reins. We gallopedback to the village past the ditch where thedead German lay, and did not recover our witsuntil the village was behind us. Then we turnedround and dism.ounted. We left two men withthe horses and the other four of us made ourway back to that ditch. We crouched down togo along it. From a distance I saw the legs ofthe dead German in short yellow boots danglingover the edge. When I passed him I heldmy breath, as if he were asleep and I were afraidof waking him. The grass under him wasmoist and green.We lay down in the ditch and a few minuteslater nine German uhlans rode out from behindthe ruins of the gutted factory. I could tell theywere uhlans by their uniforms. One of them,517

evidently an officer, shouted something in agutteral voice and the whole detachment rodein our direction. The lads are calling for me tocome and help them load the grass. I must go.August 30thI want to finish describing how I shot at aman for the first time. The German uhlans rodedown on us and I can still see those lizardgreenuniforms, the glistening bell-shapes oftheir helmets, their lances with the flags flutteringat the tips.They were mounted on dark bay horses. Forsome reason I let my glance wander to thebank of the ditch and noticed a small emeraldgreenbeetle. It grew larger and larger beforemy eyes until it seemed enormous. Brushingaside the blades of grass like a giant, it lumberedtowards my elbow that I had propped onthe dry crumbling clay of the bank; it climbedthe sleeve of my tunic and crawled quickly onto the rifle, then from the rifle, on to the sling.I was still watching it on its journey when Iheard the Teaser's voice bawling: "Fire, what'sthe matter with you?!"I settled my elbow more firmly, screwed upmy left eye and felt my heart swelling till itwas as huge as that emerald beetle. My sightstrembled against a background of grey-green5/6

uniform. I pressed the trigger and heard themoaning flight of my bullet. Next to methe Teaser fired. I must have had mysights too low because the bullet ricochettedoff a tussock and kicked up a spurt of dust.It was the first shot I had ever fired at a man.I emptied the magazine without aiming. And itwas only when I pulled the trigger and got noresponse that I had a look at the Germans.They were galloping back in the same good orderas before, with the officer bringing up therear. There were nine of them and I could seethe dark bay croupe of the officer's horse andthe metal plate on the top of his uhlan's helmet.September 2ndIn War and Peace Tolstoi has a passage inwhich he speaks of the line between opposingarmies, the line of the unknown that seems todivide the living from the dead. The squadronin which Nikolai Rostov is serving goes intothe attack and Rostov sees that line in hismind's eye. I remember that passage particularlyvividly today, because today at dawn weattacked a unit of Germ.an hussars. Ever sinceearly morning their troops, with excellent artillerysupport, had been harrassing our infantry.I saw some of our men-the 241st and 273rd5i9

infantry regiments, I think-fleeing in panic.They had been literally demoralized after beingthrown into an attack with no artillery support.Enemy fire had accounted for nearly athird of their number and they were being pursuedby German hussars. Then our regiment,which had been standing in reserve in a forestclearing, was thrown into action. This is howI remember the affair.We left the village of Tishvichi between twoand three in the morning. Dawn was comingand it was very dark. The air was heavy withthe smell of oats and pine needles. Theregiment proceeded in squadrons. We turnedoff the road and struck across the fields. Thehorses snorted as they sprinkled the heavy dewoff the oats with their hoofs.It was chilly even in a greatcoat. They keptthe regiment tracking across the fields for along time and an hour passed before an officerrode up and handed an order to the regimentalcommander. Our old man passed on the orderin a dissatisfied tone and the regiment turnedat right angles into the woods. Our columnswere bunched closely on the narrow path.Fighting was going on somewhere to the left.Judging by the noise a large number of Germanbatteries were in action. The sound of the gunfirevibrated in the air and it felt as if all that520

scented pinewood was on fire above us. Untilsunrise we could only listen. A cheer went up,a limp, ragged sort of cheer, and then-stillnessthreaded with the clean hammering of machineguns.At that moment my head was ina whirl;the only thing I could think of, and that picture*was utterly and painfully clear, were thefaces of our infantry as they advanced.In my mind's eye I could see the baggy greyfigures in their flat army caps and clumsy soldier'stop-boots pounding over the autumnearth, and I could hear the sharp hoarsechuckle of the German machine-guns as theyset to work transforming those living sweatinghuman bodies into corpses. The two regimentswere mown down and fled, abandoning theirarms. Then a regiment of German hussarscharged down on them. We came out on theirflank at a distance of about seven hundredyards or less. An order was given. We formedup instantly. I heard a single cold command."Forward!" It seemed to hold us back for amoment like a bit, then we were flying ahead.My horse's ears were pressed so flat againstits head you couldn't have prised them up withyour fingers. I glanced round-behind me werethe regimental commander and two officers.Yes, this was it, this was the line dividing the521

living from the dead. Here it was, the greatmoment of insanity!The hussars wavered and turned back. Beforemy eyes our squadron commander Chemetsovcut down a German hussar. I saw a Cossackof the Sixth Squadron overtake a Germanand hack madly at his horse's croup. Ribbonsof skin streamed from the sabre as it rose andfell. It was inconceivable! There was no namefor it! On the way back I saw Chernetsov'sface, intent and controlledly cheerful-he mighthave been sitting at the card table, instead ofin the saddle, having just murdered a man,Squadron-Commander Chernetsov will go far.A capable fellow!September 4thWe are resting. The Fourth Division of theSecond Army Corps is being brought up to thefront. We are stationed at the small town ofKobylino. This morning units of the 11th CavalryDivision and the Urals Cossacks wentthrough the town at a fast pace. Fighting continuesin the west. A constant rumble. Afterdinner I went to the field hospital. A train ofwounded had just arrived. Stretcher-bearerswere unloading a big wagon and laughing. Iwent up to them. A tall ginger-haired soldierhad just climbed down with the help of an or-522

derly, "What do you think of that, Cossack,"he said, addressing me. "They've given me aload of peas in the behind. It's full of grapeshot."The orderly asked him if the shell hadburst behind him. "Behind me be damned, Iwas advancing behind-first myself." A nursecame out of one of the cottages. I glanced ather and suddenly felt so weak I had to leanagainst a cart.Her resemblance to Liza was extraordinary.The same eyes, the same oval face,nose, hair. Even her voice was similar. Or wasI imagining things? Now, I suppose, I shall seea resemblance to her in every woman I meet.September 5thThe horses have had a day's feeding in thestalls and we are off to the front again. PhysicallyI am a wreck. The bugler is playing theorder to mount. There's a man I should loveto put a bullet through!The squadron commander had sent GrigoryMelekhov with a message to regimental headquarters.As he rode through the district wherethe recent fighting had taken place Grigory noticeda dead Cossack lying at the side of thehighway. He lay with his fair curly head closeto the hoof-pitted road. Grigory dismountedand, holding his nose (the dead man already

eeked of decay), searched the body. In thetrousers pocket he found this notebook, a stubof mdelible pencil and a purse. He removedthe cartridge belt and glanced at the pale, moistface that was already beginning to decompose.The temples and the bridge of the nose wereturning black, on the forehead aslantwise furrowfixed in mortal concentration was grimedwith dust.Grigory covered the face with a cambrichandkerchief that he found in the dead man'spocket and rode on to headquarters, pausingnow and then to glance round. He handed inthe notebook to the headquarters clerks, whogathered round to read it and laugh over thisother man's brief life and its earthly desires.XIIDuring August the 11th Cavalry Divisiontook town after town by storm, and by the endof the month they were deployed around thetown of Kamenka-Strumilovo. Behind themcame the army; infantry units massed on importantstrategic sectors, staff units and baggagetrains gathered at the railway junctions.The front stretched from the Baltic like adeath-dealing whiplash. At staff headquartersa big offensive was being planned; generals524

pored over their maps, dispatch riders dashedto and fro with battle orders, hundreds ofthousands of soldiers marched to their death.The reconnaissance patrols reported that considerableforces of enemy cavalry were approachingthe town. In the wooids along theroads skirmishes were fought between Cossackdetachments and the enemy advance guards.Ever since seeing his brother, Grigory Melekhovhad sought to put an end to his painfulthoughts, and to recover his former tranquillityof spirit. But it was no use. Among the lastreinforcements from the second line of reservistsa Cossack, Alexei Uryupin, had been draftedinto Grigoiy's troop. Uryupin was tall, ratherround-shouldered with an aggressive lowerjaw and drooping Kalmyk whiskers. His merry,fearless eyes were always smiling, and hewas bald, with only scanty ruddy hair aroundthe edges of his angular scull. On the very firstday of his arrival he was nicknamed "Tufty."After fighting around Brodi the regimenthad a day's respite. Grigory and Uryupin werequartered in the same hut. They soon fell intoconversation."You know, Melekhov, you must be moultingor something.""What do you mean-moulting?" Grigoryasked with a frown.525

"You're all limp, as though you were ill,"Uryupiii explained.They had been feeding their horses and theystood smoking with their backs against a ricketymoss-grown fence. Hussars were riding fourabreast down the road; dead bodies were lyingabout by the fences, for there had beenfighting in the streets when the Austrians withdrew;a charred smell rose from the ruins of agutted synagogue. In the rich colours of earlyevening the town was one immense picture ofdestruction and repelling emptiness."I'm all right," Grigory spat out, not lookingat the other."You're lying! I've got eyes to see!""Well, and what can you see?""You're scared! Is it death you're scared of?""You're a fool!" Grigory said contemptuously,staring narrowly at his finger-nails."Tell me, have you killed anyone?" Uryupinwent on with his probing."Yes. What of it?""Does it weigh on your mind?""Weigh on my mind?" Grigory smiled bitterly.Uryupin drew his sabre from its scabbard."Would you like me to slash your head off?""And then?""I'll kill you without a sigh of regret. I have526

no pity." Uryupin's eyes were smiling, but byhis voice and the rapacious quiver of his nostrilsGrigory realized that he meant what he said."You're queer-you're a savage," said Grigory,studying Uryupin's face intently."Bah, your heart's made of water. Do youknow this stroke? Watch!" Uryupin selected anold birch-tree in the hedge and went straighttowards it, measuring the distance with hiseyes. His long, sinewy arms with their unusuallybroad wrists hung motionless."Watch!"He slowly raised his sabre, and suddenlyswung it slantwise with terrible force. Completelysevered four feet from the ground, thebirch toppled over, its branches scraping at thewindow and clawing the walls of the hut."Did you see that? Learn it. There was anataman called Baklanov, ever heard of him?The blade of his sabre was filled with quicksilver. It was heavy to lift, but he could cuta horse in two with it.Like that!"It took Grigory a long time to master thedifficult technique of the new stroke. "You'restrong, but you'rea fool with your sabre. Thisis the way!" Uryupin instructed him, wieldinghis sabre slantwise with terrific force. "Cut aman down boldly! Man is as soft as dough." Asmile came into his eyes. "Don't think about527

the why and wherefore. You're a Cossack, andit's your business to cut down without askingquestions. To kill your enemy in battle is a holywork. For every man you kill G'od will wipeout one of your sins,just as he does for killinga serpent. You mustn't kill an animal unlessit'snecessary, but destroy man! He's a heathen,unclean; he poisons the earth, he lives like atoadstool !"When Grigory raised objections he onlyfrowned and lapsed into an obstinate silence.Grigory noticed with surprise that all horseswere afraid of Uryupin. When he went nearthem they would prick up their ears and bunchtogether as though an animal were approaching,and not a man. On one occasion the squadronhad to attack on foot over a wooded andswampy district. The horses were led aside intoa dell. Uryupin was among those assigned totake charge of the horses, but he flatly refused."Uryupin, why the devil don't you lead awayyour horses?" the troop sergeant barked at him."They're afraid of me. God's truth, they are!"he replied with the usual twinkle in his eyes.He never took his turn at minding the horses.He was kind to his own mount, but Grigoryobserved that whenever he went up to it ashiver ran down the animal's back, and itfidgeteduneasily.528

"Tell me, why are the horses afraid of you?"Grigory once asked him."I don't know," he replied with a shrug of hisshoulders. "I'm kind enough to them.""They know a drunken man and areof him, but you're always sober."afraid"I've a hard heart, and they seem to feel it.""You have a wolf's heart. Or maybe it's justa stone you've got and not a heart at all.""Maybe!" Uryupin willingly agreed.The troop was dispatched on reconnaissancework. The previous evening a Czech deserterfrom the Austrian army had informed the Russiancommand of a change in the dispositionof the enemy forces and a proposed counterattack,and there was need for continual observationover the road along which the hostileregiments must pass.The troop officer leftfour Cossacks with thesergeant at the edge of a wood, and rode withthe others towards a town lying beyond thenext rise. Grigory, Uryupin, Misha Koshevoiand another Cossack were left with the sergeant.The sergeant ordered them to dismount andtold Koshevoi to take the horses behind a thickbunch of pine-trees and mind them.The Cossacks lay smoking by a fallen pine,while the sergeant watched the country throughhis binoculars. Half an hour they lay there, ex-34—1933 529

changing lazy remarks. From somewhere to theright came the incessant roar of gunfire. A fewpaces away a field of ungathered rye, its earsemptied of grain, was waving in the wind. Grigorycrawled into the rye, selected some stillfull ears, husked them, and chewed the grain.A group of horsemen rode out of a distantplantation and halted, surveying the opencountry, then set off again in the direction ofthe Cossacks."They must be Austrians," the sergeant exclaimedunder his "breath. "We'll let them getcloser and send them a volley. Have your riflesready, boys," he added feverishly.The riders steadily drew closer. They weresix Hungarian hussars, in handsome tunics ornamentedwith white braid and piping. Theleader, on a big black horse, held his carbinein his hands and was quietly laughing."Fire!" the sergeant ordered. The volley wentechoing through the trees."What's up?" Koshevoi's startled shout camefrom behind the pines. "Whoa, you devil! Keepthere!" His voice sounded prosaically loud.stillThe hussars galloped in single file into thegrain. One of them, the leader, fired into the air.The last hussar dropped behind, clinging to hishorse's neck and holding his cap on with hislefthand.S30

Uryupin was the first to leap to his feet. Hesped off, stumbling through the rye, holdinghis rifle at the trail. Some hundred yards awayhe found a fallen horse kicking and struggling,and a Hungarian hussar standing close by, rubbinghis knee, which he had hurt in the fall.He shouted something to Uryupin and raisedhis hands in token of surrender, staring afterhis retreating comrades.All this happened so quickly that Grigoryhardly had time to take in what was occurringbefore Uryupin had brought back hisprisoner."Off with it!" Uryupin shouted at theHungarian, roughly tearing at the hussar'ssword.The prisoner smiled apprehensively andfumbled with his belt, only too willing to handover his sword. But his hands trembled, and hecould not manage to unfasten the clasp.Grigorycautiously assisted him, and the hussar, ayoung, fat-cheeked boy with a tiny mole in thecorner of his shaven upper lip, thanked himwith a smile and a nod of the head. He seemedglad to be deprived of the weapon and, fumblingin his pocket, pulled out a leather pouchand muttered something, offering the Cossackstobacco."He's treating us!" the sergeant smiled, andfelt for his cigarette papers.34* 531

"Have a smoke on foreign baccy," Silantyevchuckled.The Cossacks rolled cigarettesfrom the hussar'stobacco and smoked. The strong, black tobaccoquickly went to their heads."Where's his rifle?" the sergeant asked,drawing greedily at his cigarette."Here it is," Uryupin showed the stitchedyellow sling from behind his back."He'd better be taken to the squadron. They'llwant to hear what he's got to say.""Who'll take him, boys?" the sergeant asked,passing his eyes over his men."I will," Uryupin replied quickly."All right, off with you!"The prisoner evidently realized what was tohappen to him, for he smiled wryly, turned outhis pockets, and offered the Cossacks some softbroken chocolate..""Rusin ich . . . Rusin . . . nein Austrische . .he stammered, gesticulating absurdly and holdingout the chocolate."Any weapons?" the sergeant asked. "Don'trattle away like that, we can't understand you.Got a revolver? A bang-bang?" The sergeantpulled an imaginary trigger. The prisoner shookhis head furiously.He willingly allowed himself to be searched,his fat cheeks quivering. Blood was streaming5S2

from his torn knee. Talking incessantly, hedabbed it with his handkerchief. He had left hiscap by his horse, and he asked permission togo and fetch it and his blanket and notebook,in which were photographs of his family. Thesergeant tried hard to understand what hewanted but at last waved his hand in despair:"Off with him!"Uryupin took his horse and mounted it. Adjustinghis rifleacross his back, he motioned tothe prisoner. Encouraged by his smile, theHungarian also smiled and set off at the horse'sside. With an attempt at familiarity he pattedUryupin's knee, but the Cossack harshly flungoff his hand and pulled on the reins."Get along. None of your tricks!"The prisoner guiltily drew away from thehorse and strode along with aserious face, frequentlylooking back at the other Cossacks.His fair hair stuck up gaily on the crown of hishead. So he remained inGrigory's memory: histunic flung over his shoulders, his flaxen tuftof hair, and his confident, debonair walk."Melekhov, go and unsaddle his horse!" thesergeant ordered, regretfully spitting out theend of his cigarette, which he had smoked tillit burned his fingers. Grigory went to the fallenanimal, removed the saddle, and then forsome undefined reason picked up the cap ly-533

ing close by. He smelled the lining and caughtthe scent of cheap soap and sweat. He carriedthe horse's equipment back to the trees, holdingthe hussar's cap carefully in his left hand.Squatting on their haunches, the Cossacks rummagedin the saddle-bags and examined the unfamiliardesign of the saddle."That tobacco he had was good; we shouldhave asked him for some more," the sergeantsighed at the memory and swallowed down hisspittle.Not many minutes had passed when a horse'shead appeared through the pines, and Uryupinrode up."Why, where's the Austrian? You haven't lethim go?" the sergeant exclaimed, jumping upin alarm. Uryupin rode up waving his whip, dismountedand stretched his shoulders."What have you done with the Austrian?"the sergeant asked again, going up to him."He tried to run away," Uryupin snarled."And so you let him?"I"We came to an open glade, and he. ... Socut him down.""You're a liar!" Grigory shouted. "Youkilled him for nothing.""What are you shouting about? What's it todo with you?" Uryupin fixed icy eyes on Grigory'sface.534

"What?" Grigory was slowly rising, his handgroping along the ground."Don't poke your nose in where it isn'twanted! Understand?" the other replied sternly.Grigory snatched up his rifle and threw itto his shoulder. His finger quivered as it feltfor the trigger, and his ashen face worked angrily."Now then!" the sergeant exclaimed threateningly,running to him. He struck the rifle beforeitfired and the bullet cut a branch from atree and went whistling away."What's going on?" Koshevoi gasped.Silantyev's jaw dropped and he sat still withhis mouth open.The sergeant pushed Grigory in the chest andtore the rifle out of his hands. Uryupin stoodwithout changing his position, his feet plantedapart, his left hand on his belt."Fire again!""I'll kill you!" Grigory rushed towards him."Here, what's all this about? Do you wantto be court-martialled and shot? Put your armsdown!" the sergeant shouted.Thrusting Grigory back, he placed himselfwith arms outstretched between the two men."You lie, you won't kill me!" Uryupin smiled.As they were riding back in the dusk Grigorywas the first to notice the body of the

hussar lying in the path. He rode up in frontof the others, and reining in his frightenedhorse, stared down. The man lay with armsflung out over the velvety moss, his face downward,his palms, yellow like autumn leaves,turned upward and open. A terrible blow frombehind had cloven him in two from the shoulderto thebelt."Cut him in two .". . the sergeant mutteredas he rode past glancing in alarm at the deadman's flaxen tuft of hair sticking up lop-sidedlyfrom the twisted head.The Cossacks rode past the body and on tothe squadron headquarters in silence. The eveningshadows deepened. A breeze was drivingup a black, feathery cloud from the west. Froma swamp near by came the stagnant scent ofmarshgrass, of rusty dampness and rot. A bitternboomed. The drowsy silence was brokenby the jingle of the horses' equipment, and theoccasional clank of sabre on stirrup, or thescrunch of pine cones under the horses' hoofs.Through the glade the dark ruddy gleam ofthe departed sun streamed over the pine trunks.Uryupin smoked incessantly, and the fleetingspark of his cigarette lit up his thick fingerswith their blackened nails firmly gripping thecigarette.5^6

The cloud floated over the forest, emphasizingand deepening the fading, inexpressiblymournful hues of the evening shadows on theground.XIIIThe following morning an assault was begunon the town. Flanked by cavalry and with cavalryunits in reserve, the infantry was to haveadvanced from the forest at dawn. But somewhere,someone blundered; the two infantry regimentsdid not arrive in time; the 211th RifleRegiment was ordered to cross over to the leftflank, and during the encircling movement initiatedby another regiment it was raked withfire from its own batteries. The hopeless confusionupset the plans, and the attack threatenedto end in failure, if not disaster. While theinfantry was thus being shuffled about and theartillery hauled its guns out of a bog intowhich it had been sent on someone's instructions,the order came for the Eleventh CavalryDivision to advance. The wooded and marshyland in which they had been held in readinessdid not permit of an extended frontal attack,and in some cases the Cossacks had to advancein troops. The Fourth and Fifth squadrons of theTwelfth Regiment were held in reserve in theforest, and within a few minutes of the general597

advance the roaring, rending sound of the battlereached their ears.There was a long quivering cheer.then a Cossack spoke:"That'sours."Now and"They've started.""What a row that machine-gun's making.""Giving our chaps what for,""They're not cheering now, are they?""Not there yet,""We'll be at it in a minute."The two squadrons were drawn up in aglade. The stout pine trunks hemmed them inand prevented them from following the courseofthe battle.A company of infantry went by almost at atrot. A brisk, smart-looking N.C.O. droppedback to the rear ranks and shouted hoarsely:"Order in the ranks!"The company tramped past with their equipmentjangling and disappeared into an alderthicket.Far away now, faintly through the trees camethat quivering cheer, suddenly breaking off. Adeep silencefell."They've got there now.""Aye, now they're at it . . . killing eachother."§38

sThe Cossacks strained their ears, but couldhear nothing more; on the right flank the Austrianartillery thundered away at the attackingforces; the roar was interspersed with the rattleof machine-guns.Grigory glanced around his troop. The Cossackswere fidgeting nervously, and the horseswere restive as though troubled by gadflies.Uryupin had hung his cap on the saddle-bowand was wiping his bald head; at Grigory'side Misha Koshevoi puffed fiercely at his homegrowntobacco. All the objects around weredistinct and exaggeratedly real, as they appearafter a night of wakefulness.The squadrons were held in reserve for threehours.The firing now died, now rose to a still higherpitch. An aeroplane roared overhead. Aftercircling a few times at a great height, it fleweastward, gaining altitude. Milky puffs of burstingshells dotted the blue as anti-aircraft gunsopened fire.All stocks of tobacco had been exhaustedand the men were pining in expectation, whenjust before noon an orderly galloped up withinstructions. The commander of the FourthSquadron immediately led his men off to oneside. To Grigory it seemed that they were retreatingrather than advancing. His own squad-539

on rode for some twenty minutes through theforest, the sound of the battle drawing nearerand nearer. Not far behind them a battery wasfiring rapidly; the shells tore through the resistingair with a shrieking roar. The narrow forestpaths broke up the squadron's formation,and they emerged into the open in disorder.About half a verst away Hungarian hussars weresabring the crew of a Russian battery."Squadron, form!" the commander shouted.The Cossacks had not completely carried outthe order when the"Squadron, draw sabres;further command came:into the attack, forward!"A blue lightening flash of blades. From aswift trot the Cossacks broke into a gallop.Six Hungarian hussars were busily occupiedwith the horses of the field-gun on the extremeright of the battery. One was dragging at thebits of the excited artillery horses, another wasbeating them with the flat of his sword, whilethe others were tugging and pulling at thespokes of the carriage wheels. An officer on adock-tailed chocolate mare was giving orders.At the sight of the Cossacks the hussars leapttotheir horses."Closer, closer," Grigory counted to therhythm of his galloping horse. As he galloped,one foot momentarily lost its stirrup, and feeling5^

himself insecure in his saddle, with inwardalarm he bent over and fished with his toe forthe dangling iron. When he had recovered hisfoothold he looked up and saw the six horsesof the field-gun in front of him. The outrideron the foremost in a blood- and brain-spatteredshirt, was lying over the animal's neck, embracingit. Grigory's horse brought its hoof downwith a sickening scrunch on the body of thedead gunner. Two more were lying by an overturnedcase of shells. A fourth was stretchedface downward over the gun-carriage. Silantyevwas just in front of Grigory. The Hungarian officerfired at almost point-blank range and theCossack fell, his hands clutching and embracingthe air. Grigory pulled on his reins andtried to approach the officer from the left, thebetter to use his sabre; but the officer sawthrough his manoeuvre and fired under his armat him. Having discharged the contents of hisrevolver, he drew his sword. He parried threesmashing blows with the skill of a trained fencer.Grigory gritted his teeth and lunged at himyet a fourth time, standing in his stirrups. Theirhorses were now galloping almost side by side,and he noticed the ashy clean-shaven cheek ofthe Hungarian and the regimental number sewnon his collar. With a feint he diverted the officer'sattention, and changing the direction of541

his stroke, thrust the point of his sabre betweenthe Hungarian's shoulder-blades. He aimed asecond blow at the neck, just at the top of thespine. The officer dropped his sword and reinsfrom his hands, and arched his back as if hehad been bitten, then toppled over his saddlebow.Feeling a terrible relief, Grigory lashedat his head, and saw the sabre smash into thebone above the ear.A terrible blow on the head from behind toreconsciousness away from Grigory. He felt aburning, salty taste of blood in his mouth, andrealized that he was falling; from one side thestubbled earth came whirling and flying up athim. The heavy crash of his body against theground brought him momentarily back to reality.He opened his eyes; blood poured intothem. A trample past his ears, and the heavybreathing of horses. For the last time he openedhis eyes and saw the pink dilated nostrils of ahorse, and someone's foot in a stirrup. "Theend!" the comforting thought crawled throughhis mind like a snake. A roar, and then blackemptiness.XIVIn the middle of August Yevgeny Listnitskydecided to apply for a transfer from the Ataman'sLifeauard Regiment to one of the Cos-542

sack regular army regiments. He made his formalapplication, and within three weeks receivedthe appointment he desired. Before leavingSt. Petersburg he wrote to his father:Father, I have applied tor a transfer fromthe Ataman's Regiment to the regular army. Ireceived my appointment today, and am leavingfor the front to report to the commanderof the Second Corps. You will probably be surprisedat my decision, hut I want to explainmy reasons. I am sick of my surroundings. Parades,escorts, sentry duty-all this palace servicesets my teeth on edge. I am fed up withit. I want live work and-if you wish-heroicdeeds. I suppose it's my Listnitsky blood that isbeginning to tell, the honourable blood of thosewho ever since the War of 1812 have addedlaurels to the glory of Russian arms. I am leavingfor the front.Please give me your blessing.Last week I saw the Emperor before he leftfor headquarters. I worship the man. I wasstanding guard inside the palace, he smiled ashe passed me and said in English to Rodzyanko,who was with him: 'My glorious Guard. I'llbeat Wilhelm's hand with it' I worship himlike a schoolgirl. I am not ashamed to confessit, although I am over twenty-eight now. I amterribly upset by the palace gossip, besmirch-543

ing the Emperor's glorious name. I don't believeit, I can't believe it. The other day I nearlyshot Captain Gromov for uttering disrespectfulwords about Her Imperial Majesty in my presence.It was vile, and I told him that onlypeople who had the blood of serfs flowing intheir veins could stoop to such filthy slander.The incident took place before several otherofficers. I was beside myself, I drew my revolverand was about to waste a bullet on the cad,but my comrades disarmed me. My life becomesmore miserable with each day spent inthis cesspool. In the guards' regiments-amongthe officers, in particular-there is no genuinepatriotism, and-one is terrified to utter itthereis even no love for the dynasty. This isn'tthe nobility, it's the rabble. This is really theexplanation of my break with the regiment. Icannot associate with people I don't respect.Well, that's about all. Please forgive my incoherence,I am in a hurry, I must pack mythings and leave. Keep well, Papa. I shall writeyou a long letter from the front.Your Yevgeny.The train for Warsaw left Petrograd* at 8p.m. Listnitsky took a drozhki and drove to the* St. Petersburg was renamed Petrograd in 1914.544

station. Behind him lay Petrograd in a doveblue twinkle of lights.The station was noisy and crowded withtroops. The porter brought in Listnitsky's suitcaseand, on receiving a few coins, wished theyoung gentleman a good journey. Listnitskyremoved his swordbelt and coat, and spread aflowery silk Caucasian eiderdown on the seat.By the window sat a priest with the lean faceof an ascetic, his provisions from home laid outon a small table. Brushing the crumbs from hishemp-like beard, he offered some curd-cake toa slim dark girl in school uniform sitting in theseat opposite him."Try something, my dear.""No, thank you.""Now don't be shy, a girl with your complexionneeds plenty to eat.""No, thank you.""Try some of this curd-cake then. Perhapsyou will take something, sir?"Listnitsky glanced down."Are you addressing me?""Yes, indeed." The priest's sombre eyes staredpiercingly and only the thin lips smiled underhis thin drooping moustache."No, thank you. I don't feel like food now.""You are making a mistake. It is no sin toeat. Are you in the army?"35—1933 545

"Yes.""May the Lord help you."As Yevgeny dozed off he heard the priest'sfruity voice as though coming from a distance,and it seemed to him that it was the disloyalCaptain Gromov speaking:"It's a miserable income my family gets, youknow. So I'm off as a chaplain to the forces.The Russian people can't fight without faith.And you know, from year to year the faith increases.Of course there are some who fallaway, but they are among the intelligentsia,the peasant holds fast to God."The priest's bass voice failed to penetratefurther into Yevgeny's consciousness. After twowakeful nights a refreshing sleep came to him.He awoke when the train was a good fortyversts outside Petrograd. The wheels clatteredrhythmically, the carriage swayed and rocked,in a neighbouring compartment someone wassinging. The lamp cast slanting lilac shadows.The regiment to which Listnitsky was assignedhad suffered considerable losses, and hadbeen withdrawn from the front to be remountedand have its complement made up. The regimentalstaff headquarters was at a large marketvillage called Bereznyagi. Listnitsky left thetrain at some nameless halt. At the same stationa field hospital was detrained. He inquired546

the destination of the hospital from the doctorin charge, and learned that it had been transferredfrom the south-western front to the sectorin which his own regiment was engaged.The doctor spoke very unfavourably of his immediatesuperiors, cursed the divisional staffofficers and, tugging his beard, his eyes glowingbehind his pince-nez, poured his jaundicedanger into the ears of his chance acquaintance."Can you take me to Bereznyagi?" Listnitskyinterrupted him."Yes, get into the trap. Lieutenant," heagreed, and familiarly twisting the button onListnitsky's coat, rumbled on with his complaints."Just imagine it. Lieutenant. We've travelledtwo hundred versts in cattle trucks only to loafabout here, with nothing to do at a time whena bloody battle has been going on for two daysin the section from which my hospital wastransferred. There were hundreds of woundedthere who needed our help badly!"The doctor repeated the words "bloody battle"with spiteful relish."How do you explain such an absurdity?"the lieutenant asked out of politeness."How?" The doctor raised his eyebrows ironicallyover his pince-nez and roared: "Disorder,chaos, stupidity of the commanding staff-that's the reason why. Scoundrels occupy high35* 547

posts and mix things up. Inefficient, lackingeven common sense. Do you remember Veresayev'smemoirs of the Russo-Japanese war?Well, it's the same thing all over again, onlytwice as bad."the carts.Listnitsky saluted him and went toThe angry doctor, his puffy red cheeks trembling,was croaking behind him:"We'll lose the war. Lieutenant. We lost oneto the Japanese but didn't grow any the wiser.We can only brag, that's all." And he wentalong the rails, stepping over little puddlesfilmed with rainbow spangles of oil, and shakinghis head despairingly.Dusk was falling as the field hospital approachedBereznyagi. The wind ruffled the yellowstubble. Clouds were massing in the west.At their height they were a deep violet black,but below they shaded into a tender, smokylilac. In the middle the formless mass, piledlike ice-floes against a river dam, was drawnaside. Through the breach poured an orangeflood of sunset rays, spreading in a spurtlingfan of light and weaving a Bacchanalian spectrumof colours below.A dead horse lay by the roadside ditch. Onone of its hoofs, flung weirdly upward, the horseshoegleamed. As the trap jogged past, Listnitskystared at the carcass. The orderly with548

whom he was riding spat at the horse's bellyand explained:"Been guzzling grain . . . been eating toomuch grain .". . he corrected himself; he wasabout to spit again but for politeness' sakeswallowed his spittle and wiped his mouth withhis sleeve. "There it lies, and no one troublesto bury it. That's just like the Russians. TheGermans are different.""What do you know about it?" Yevgeny askedwith unreasoning anger. At that moment hewas filled with hatred for the orderly's phlegmaticface with its suggestion of superiority andcontempt. The man was grey and dreary likea stubble field in September; he was in no waydifferent from the thousands of peasant soldierswhom Yevgeny had seen on his way to the front.They all seemed faded and drooping, dullnessstared in their eyes, grey, blue, green or anyother colour, and they strongly reminded himof ancient, well-worn copper coins."I lived in Germany for three years beforethe war," the orderly replied unhurriedly. Inhis voice was the same shade of superiorityand contempt that showed in his face. "I workedat a cigar factory in Konigsberg," the orderlycontinued lazily,flicking the horse with theknotted rein."Hold your tongue!" Listnitsky commanded549

sternly, and turned to glance at the horse'shead with its forelock tousled over its eyes andits bare sun-yellowed row of teeth.One leg was raised and bent in an arch; thehoof was slightly cracked but the hollow had asmooth grey-blue gleam about it and the lieutenantcould tell by the leg and by the finelychiselled pastern that the horse was young andof a good breed.They drove on over the bumpy road. Thecolours faded in the west, a wind sprang up andscattered the clouds. Behind them the leg of thedead horse stuck up like a broken wayside cross.As Yevgeny stared back at it, a sheaf of rays fellsuddenly on the horse, and in their orange lightthe leg with itssorrel hair blossomed unexpectedlylike some marvellous leafless branch oflegend.As the field hospital drove into Bereznyagiit passed a transport of wounded soldiers. Anelderly Byelorussian, the owner of the first wagon,strode along at his horse's head, the hempenreins gathered in his hands. On the wagonlay a Cossack with bandaged head. He wasresting on his elbow, but his eyes were closedwearily as he chewed bread and spat out theblack mess. At his side a soldier was stretchedout; over his buttocks his torn trousers werehorribly shrivelled and taut with congealed550

lood. He was cursing savagely, without liftinghis head. Listnitsky was horrified as he listenedto the intonation of the man's voice, forit sounded exactly like a believer fervently mutteringprayers. On the second Vv^agon five or sixsoldiers were lying side by side. One of them,possessed of a feverish gaiety, his eyes unnaturallybright and inflamed, was telling a story:".. . It seems an ambassador from that em.perorof theirs came here and made an offer abouthaving peace. The thing is it was an honestman who told me. I'm hoping he wasn't justspinning a yarn.""I expect he was," one of the others rejoineddoubtfully, shaking his round head that borethe scars of a recent attack of scrofula."But perhaps he did really come here," respondeda third man who was sitting with hisback to the horses, in a soft Volga countrybrogue.On the fifth wagon three Cossacks were comfortablyseated. As Listnitsky passed theystared silently at him, their harsh dusty facesshowing no sign of respect for an officer."Good-day, Cossacks!" the lieutenant greetedthem."Good-day, Your Honour," the handsome silver-moustachedCossack sitting nearest the driverreplied indifferently.551

"What regiment are you?" Listnitsky continued,trying to make out the number on theCossack's blue shoulder-strap."The Twelfth.""Where is your regiment now?""We couldn't say.""Well, where were you wounded?""By the village . . . not far from here."The Cossacks whispered among themselvesand one of them, holding his roughly bandagedhand with his sound hand, jumped down fromthe wagon."Just a minute. Your Honour." He paddedacross the road on bare feet, carefully nursinghis bullet-torn hand, which was already showingsigns of inflammation."You wouldn't be from Vyeshenskaya, wouldyou? You're not Listnitsky?""Yes, I am.""That's what we thought. You haven't gotanything to smoke, have you. Your Honour?Give us something, for Christ's sake, we're dyingfor a smoke."He walked along by the trap, gripping itspainted side, Listnitsky took out his cigarettecase."Could you spare us a dozen? There arethree of us, you know," the Cossack smiledappealingly,552

Listnitsky emptied the contents of his caseon to the man's broad brown palm and asked:"Many wounded in your regiment?""A couple of dozen.""Heavy losses?""A lot of us have been killed. Light a matchfor me. Your Honour. Thank you kindly." TheCossack took the light and as he dropped behindhe shouted: "Three Cossacks from Tatarsky,near your estate, have been killed. They'vedone in a lot of us Cossacks."He waved his sound hand and went to catchup with the wagon. The wind flapped throughhis unbelted tunic.The commander of Listnitsky's new regimenthad his headquarters in the house of a priest.On the square Listnitsky took leave of the doctor,who had kindly offered him a seat in thehospital trap, and went off to find regimentalheadquarters, brushing the dust off his uniformas he walked. A vividly red-bearded sergeantmajor,busy changing the guard, marched pasthim with a sentry. He saluted smartly and, inreply to Listnitsky's question, pointed out thehouse. The place was very quiet and slack, likeall staff headquarters situated away from thefront line. Clerks were bent over a table; anelderly captain was laughing into the mouthpieceof a field-telephone. The flies droned553

around the windows, and distant telephone bellsbuzzed like mosquitoes. An orderly conductedYevgeny to the regimental commander's privateroom. They were met on the threshold by a tallcolonel with a scar on his chin, who greetedhim coldly, and with a gesture invited him intothe room. As he closed the door the colonelpassed his hand over his hair with a gesture ofineffable weariness, and said in a soft, monotonousvoice:"The brigade staff informed me yesterdaythat you were on your way. Sit down."He questioned Yevgeny about his previousservice, asked for the latest news from the capital,inquired about his journey, but not onceduring alltheir brief conversation did he raisehis weary eyes to Listnitsky's face."He must have had a hard time at the front;he looks mortally tired," Yevgeny thought sympathetically.As though deliberately to disillusionhim, the colonel scratched the bridge ofhis nose with his sword-hilt and remarked:"Well, Lieutenant, you m.ust make the acquaintanceof your brother officers. You must excuseme, I haven't been to bed for three nightsrunning. In this dead hole there's nothing to doexcept play cards and get drunk."Listnitsky saluted and turned to the door,hiding his contempt with a smile. He went out554

eflecting unfavourably on this first meetingwith his commanding officer, and ironicallyamused at the respect which the colonel's tiredappearance and the scar on his chin had instilledin him.XVThe division was allotted the task of forcingthe river Styr and taking the enemy in the rear.In a few days Listnitsky got used to the officersof the regiment and was quickly drawninto the atmosphere of battle, which drove outthe feeling of ease and complacency that hadcrept into his soul.The operations to force the river were carriedthrough brilliantly. The division shattered aconsiderable concentration of enemy forces ontheir left flank, and came out in the rear of themain forces. The Austrians attempted to initiatea counter-offensive with the aid of Magyarcavalry, but the Cossack batteries swept themaway with shrapnel, and the Magyar squadronsretreated in disorder, cut to pieces by flankingmachine-gun fire and pursued by the Cossacks.Listnitsky went into the counter-attack withhis regiment. The troop he commanded lost oneCossack, and four were wounded. One of them,a young, hook-nosed man was crushed underhis dead horse. Outwardly calm, the lieutenant555

ode past trying not to hear the Cossack's lowhoarse groaning. He was wounded in the shoulderand kept beseeching the Cossacks ridingpast:"Brothers, don't leave me. Get me free of thehorse, brothers..". .His low, tortured voice could be heard callingfaintly, but there was no spark of pity inthe surging hearts of the other Cossacks, or ifthere was, it was crushed by the will that drovethem on relentlessly, forbidding them to dismount.The troop rode on for five minutes at atrot, letting the horses recover their wind. Halfa verst away the scattered Magyar squadronswere in full retreat; here and there among themappeared the grey-blue uniforms of the enemyinfantry. An Austrian baggage train crawledalong the crest of a hill with the farewell smokeof shell bursts hovering above it.From the lefta battery was bombarding the train, and its dullthunder rolled over the fields and echoedthrough the forest.The sergeant-major leading the battalion gavethe command "canter" and the three squadronsbroke into a flagging trot. The horses swayedunder their riders and foam scattered from theirflanks in yellowish pink blossoms.The regiment halted for the night in a smallvillage. The twelve officers were all crowded556

into one hut. Broken with fatigue and hunger,they lay down to sleep. The field-kitchen arrivedonly about midnight. Cornet Chubov brought ina pot of soup. The rich smell awakened the officersand within a few minutes, their faces stillpuffy with sleep,they were eating in greedy silence,making up for the two days lost in battle.After the late meal their previous sleepinesspassed, and they lay on their cloaks on thestraw talking and smoking.Junior captain Kalmykov, a tubby little officerwhose face as well as his name bore thetraces of his Mongolian origin, gesticulatedfiercely as he declared:"This war is not for me. I was born fourcenturies too late. You know, I shan't live tosee the end of the war.""Oh, drop your fortune-telling!""It's not fortune-telling. It's my predestinedend. I'm atavistic, and I'm superfluous here.When we were under fire today I trembled withfrenzy; I can't stand not seeing the enemy. Thehorrible feeling I get is equivalent to fear.They fire at you from several versts away,and you ride like a bustard hunted over thesteppe.""I had a look at an Austrian howitzer in Kupalka.Have any of you seen one, gentlemen?"asked Captain Atamanchukov, licking the re-557

mains of tinned meat off his ginger moustache,which was clipped in the English style."A wonderful piece of work! Those sights, thewhole mechanism-sheer perfection," the enthusiasticreply came from Cornet Chubov, whohad by this time emptied a second mess-tin ofsoup."I have seen it, but I have nothing to say. Iam a complete ignoramus where artillery is concerned.To me it was just a gun like any other,with a big barrel, that's all.""I envy those who fought in the old-tim.e,primitive fashion/' Kalmykov continued, turningto Listnitsky. "To thrust at your opponent inhonourable battle, and to split him in two withyour sword-that's the sort of warfare I understand.But this is the devil knows what.""In future wars cavalry will play no part.will be abolished.""Itsimply won't exist.""Well, that Icouldn't say.""No doubt about it.""But you can't replace men by machines.-You're going too far.""I'm not referring to men, but to horses. Motorcycles or motor cars will take their place.""I can just imagine a motor squadron!""That's all nonsense!" Kalmykov interposedexcitedly. "An absurd fantasy! Armies will use555It

horses for a long time yet. We don't know whatwar will be like in two or three centuries' time,but today cavalry. .". ."What will you do with the cavalry whenthere are trenches all along the front? Tell methat!""They'll break through the trenches, rideacross them, and make sorties far to the rearof the enemy; that will be the cavalry's task.""Nonsense!""Oh, shut up and let's get some sleep."The argument tailed off, and snores took itsplace. Listnitsky lay on his back, breathing thepungent scent of the musty straw on which hehad spread his cloak. Kalmykov lay down athis side."You should have a talk with the volunteerBunchuk," he whispered to Yevgeny. "He's inyour troop. A very interesting fellow!""In what way?" Listnitsky asked, as heturned his back to Kalmykov."He's a Russianized Cossack. Lived in Moscow.An ordinary worker, but interested in thequestion of machinery. He's a first-rate machine-gunner,too.""Let's go to sleep," Listnitsky proposed."Perhaps we should," Kalmykov agreed,thinking of something else. He frowned sheepishly:"You must forgive me, Lieutenant, for559

the way my feet smell. You know, I haven'tchanged my socks for a fortnight, they aresimply rotting with sweat. . . . It's really foul.I must get a pair of foot-cloths from one of themen.""Not at all," Listnitsky mumbled as hedropped asleep.Listnitsky completely forgot Kalmykov's referenceto Bunchuk, but the very next day chancebrought him into contact with the volunteer. Theregimental commander ordered him to ride atdawn on reconnaissance patrol, and if possibleto establish contact with the infantry regimentwhich was continuing the advance on the leftflank. Stumbling about the yard in the half-light,and falling over the bodies of sleeping Cossacks,Listnitsky found the troop sergeant and rousedhim:"I want five men to go on a reconnaissancewith me. Have my horse got ready. Quickly!"While he was waiting for the men to assemble,a stocky Cossack came to the door of thehut."Your Honour," the man said, "the sergeantwill not let me go with you because it isn't myturn. Will you give me permission to go?""Are you out for promotion? Or have youdone something wrong?" Listnitsky asked, tryingto make out the man's face in the darkness.560

"I haven't done anything.""All right, you can come," Listnitsky decided.As the Cossack turned to go, he shoutedafter him:.""Hey! Tell the sergeant. . ."My name's Bunchuk," the Cossack interrupted."A volunteer?""Yes."Recovering from his confusion, Listnitskycorrected his style of address: "Well, Bunchuk,please tell the sergeant to. . . . Oh, all right, I'lltell him myself."The morning darkness thinned as Listnitskyled his men out of the village past sentries andoutposts. When they had ridden some distancehe called:"Volunteer Bunchuk!""Sir!""Please bring your horse up beside me."Bunchuk brought his commonplace mountalongside Listnitsky's thoroughbred."What village are you from?" Listnitskyasked him, studying the man's profile."Novocherkasskaya.""May I be informed of the reason that compelledyou to join up as a volunteer?""Certainly!" Bunchuk replied with the slightesttrace of a smile. The unwinking gaze of36—1933 JS61

his greenish eyes was harsh and fixed. "I'm interestedin the art of war. I want to master it.""There are military schools established forthat purpose.""There are.""Well, what isyour reason?""I want to study it in practice first. I can getthe theory afterwards.""What were you before the war broke out?""A worker.""Where were you working?""In Petersburg, Rostov, and the armamentworks at Tula. I'm thinking of applying to betransferred to a machine-gun detachment.""Do you know anything about machineguns?""1 can handle the Bertier, Madsen, Maxim,Hotchkiss, Vickers, Lewis, and several othermakes.""Oho! I'll have a word with the regimentalcommander about it!""Please do."Listnitsky glanced again at Bunchuk's stockyfigure. It reminded him of the Don-side corkelm.There was nothing remarkable about theman. Only the firmly pressed jaws and the directchallenging glance distinguished him from themass of other rank-and-file Cossacks aroundhim. He smiled but rarely, with only the corners562

of his lips; and even then his eyes grew no softer,but still retained a faint gleam of aloofness.Coldly restrained, he was exactly like the corkelm,the tree of a stern, iron hardness that growson the grey, loose soil of the inhospitable Donsideearth.They rode in silence for a while. Bunchukrested his broad palms on his blistered saddlebow.Listnitsky selected a cigarette, and as helit it from Bunchuk's match he smelled thesweet resinous scent of horse's sweat on theman's hand. The back of his hand was thicklycovered with brown hair, and Listnitsky felt aninvoluntary desire to stroke it.Swallowing down the pungent tobaccosmoke, he said:"When we get to the wood, you and anotherCossack will take the track running off to theleft. Do you see it?""Yes.""If you don't come across our infantry bythe time you have gone half a verst, turnback.""Very good."They broke into a trot.At a turn of the road into the forest stooda clump of maidenly birches. Beyond them theeye was wearied by the joyless yellow of stuntedpines, the straggling forest undergrowth36* 563

and bushes crushed by Austrian baggage trains.On the right the earth trembled with the thunderof distant artillery, but by the birches itwas inexpressibly quiet. The earth was drinkingin the heavy dew; the pink-hued grasseswere flooded with autumnal colours that criedof the speedy death of colour. Listnitsky haltedby the birches and, taking out his binoculars,studied the rise beyond the forest. A bee settledon the honey-coloured hilt of his sabre."Stupid!" Bunchuk remarked quietly andcompassionately."What is?" Listnitsky turned to him.With his eyes Bunchuk indicated the bee, andListnitskysmiled:"Its honey will be bitter, don't you think?"It was not Bunchuk that answered him. Froma distant clump of pines a piercing magpiestutter shattered the silence, and a spurt ofbullets tore through the birches, sending abranch crashing on to the neck of Listnitsky'shorse.They turned and galloped back towards thevillage, urging on their horses with shout andwhip. The Austrian machine-gun flung the restof its ammunition after them.After this first encounter Listnitsky had morethan one talk with the volunteer Bunchuk. Oneach occasion he was struck by the inflexible564

will that gleamed in the man's eyes, and couldnot discover what lay behind the intangiblesecrecy that veiled the face of one so ordinarylooking.Bunchuk always spoke with a smilecompressed in his firm lips, and he gave Listnitskythe impression that he was applyinga definite rule to trace a tortuous path. He wastransferred to a machine-gun detachment. Afew days later, while the regiment was restingbehind the front, Listnitsky overtook himwalking along by the wall of a burned-outshed."Ah! Volunteer Bunchuk!"The Cossack turned his head and saluted."Where are you going?" Listnitsky asked,"To my commander.""Then we're going the same way."For some time they walked along the streetof the ruined village in silence.People were moving about round the fewoutbuildings that remained intact, horsemenrode past, a field-kitchen was smoking in themiddle of the street with a long queue of Cossackswaiting their turn beside it; there wasa cold drizzle in the air."Well, are you learning the art of war?"Listnitsky asked, glancing sidelong at Bunchuk,who was slightly behind him."Yes, I am,"565

"What do you propose to do after the war?"asked the lieutenant, glancing for some reasonat Bunchuk's hands."Some will reap what is sown . . . but I shallsee," Bunchuk replied."How am I to interpret that remark?""You know the proverb, 'Those who sowthe wind shall reap the whirlwind'? Well, that'show.""But dropping the riddles?""It's quite clear as it is. Excuse me, I'mturning to the left here."He put his fingers to the peak of his cap andturned off the road. Shrugging his shoulders,Listnitsky stood staring after him."Is the fellow trying to be original, or is hejust someone with a bee in his bonnet?" hewondered in irritation, as he stepped into thesquadron-commander's well-kept dug-out.XVIThe second and third lines of reserves werecalled up together. The villages of the Donwere as deserted as though everybody had goneout to mow or reap at the busy time of harvest.But a bitter harvest was reaped along thefrontiers that year; death dogged the footstepsof the men, and many a Cossack's wife wailed566

are-headed for her departed one: "Oh, mydarling, who has taken you from me?" Thedear heads were laid low on all sides, the Cossackblood was shed, and glassy-eyes, unwakeable,they rotted while the artillery thundereditsfuneral dirge in Austria, in Poland, in Prussia.. . . For the eastern wind did not carry theweeping of their wives and mothers to theirears.The flower of the Cossackry had left the vil-and horror oflages and perished amid the licethe battle-fields.One pleasant September day a milky gossamerweb, fine and cottony, hung over the villageof Tatarsky. The bloodless sun smiled likeone bereft, the stern, virginal blue sky was repellentlyclear and proud. Beyond the Donthe forest was a jaundiced yellow, the poplargleamed pallidly, the oak dropped occasionalfigured leaves; only the alder remained gaudilygreen, gladdening the keen eye of the magpiewith its hardiness.That day Pantelei Prokofyevich received aletter from the army on active service. Dunyabrought it back from the post. As the postmasterhanded it to her he bowed, shook his oldbald pate, and deprecatingly opened his arms."Forgive me for the love of God for openingthe letter. Tell your father I opened it. I badly567

.wanted to know how the war was going. . .Forgive me and tell Pantelei Prokofyevich whatI said." He seemed confused and, unaware ofthe ink-smear on his nose, came out of his officev/ith Dunya, muttering something unintelligible.Filled with foreboding, she returnedhome, and fumbled at her breast a long timefor the letter."Hurry up!" Pantelei shouted, plucking athis beard.As she drew it out she said breathlessly:"The postmaster told me he had read the letterand that you mustn't be angry with him.""The devil take him! Is it from Grigory?"the old man asked, breathing agitatedly intoher face. "From Grigory? Or from Pyotr?""No, Father. ... I don't know the writing.""Read it!" Ilyinichna cried, tottering heavilyto the bench. Her legs were giving her muchtrouble these days. Natalya ran in from theyard and stood by the stove with her head onone side, her elbows pressing into her breasts.A smile trembled like sunlight on her lips. Shestill hoped for a message from Grigory or theslightest reference to her in his letters, in rewardfor her dog-like devotion and fidelity."Where's Darya?" Ilyinichna whispered."Shut up!" Pantelei shouted. "Read it!" headded to Dunya.568

" 1 have to inform you,' " she began, then,slipping off the bench where she had been sitting,she screamed:"Father! Mother. . .! Oh, Mama Our Grisha.. . ! Oh, oh. . . ! Grisha's . . . been killed."Entangled among the leaves of a half-deadgeranium, a wasp beat against the window,buzzing furiously. In the yard a hen cluckedcontentedly; through the open door came thesound of ringing, childish laughter.A shudder ran across Natalya's face, thoughher lips still wore her quivering smile. Risingto his feet, his head twitching paralytically,Pantelei stared in frantic perplexity at Dunya.The communication read:Ihave to inform you that your son GrigoryPanteleyeuich Melekhou, a Cossack in theTwelfth Don Cossack Regiment, was killed onthe 16th of September near the town of Kamenka-Strumilovo.Your son died the death ofthe brave; may that be your consolation inyour irreplaceable loss. His personal effects willbe handed to his brother, Pyotr Melekhov. Hishorse will remain with the regiment.Field ArmyCommander of the Fourth Squadron,Junior Captain Polkovnikov.18th September, 1914.569

After the arrival of the letter Pantelei seemedsuddenly to wilt. He grew noticeably olderevery day. His memory began to go andhis mind lost its clarity. He walked about withbowed back, his face an iron hue; and the feverishgleam in his eyes betrayed his mentalstress.He put the letter away under the icon. Severaltimes a day he went into the porch to beckonto Dunya. When she came in he wouldorder her to get the letter and read it to him,fearfully glancing at the door of the best roomwhere his wife was mourning. "Read it quietly,to yourself like," he would say, winkingcunningly. Choking down her tears, Dunyawould read the first sentence, and then Pantelei,squatting on his heels, would raise his huge,hoof-like brown hand:"All right. I know the rest. Take the letterback and put it where you found it. Quietly, orMother. . .." And he would wink repulsively,his whole face contorted like burnt tree-bark.He began to go grey, and the dazzling greyhairs swiftly patched his head and wovethreads into his beard. He grew gluttonous too,and gobbled his food.Nine days after the requiem mass, the Me-Ickhovs invited Father Vissarion and their rela-570

tions to the repast in memory of the fallen Grigory.Pantelei ate fast and ravenously with thenoodles hanging from his beard like ringlets.Ilyinichna, who had been anxiously watchinghim during the past few days, burst into tears;"Father, what's the matter with you?""Eh?" the old man said with a start, raisinghis bleary eyes from his plate. Ilyinichnawaved her hand and turned away, pressing herhandkerchief to her eyes."Father, you eat as though you had fasted forthree days," Darya said angrily, her eyes glittering."I eat...? All right, I won't," Pantelei replied,overcome with embarrassment. Heglanced around the table, then, pressing his lipstogether, and sitting with knitted brows, helapsed into silence, not even replying to questions."Have courage, Prokofyevich! What's the goodof grieving so much?" Father Vissarion attemptedto rally him when the meal was ended."Grigory's death was a holy one; don't offendGod, old man. Your son has received a crownof thorns for his tsar and his fatherland. Andyou . . . it's a sin, and God won't pardon you.""That's just it.Father! 'Died the death of thebrave.' That's what his commander said."Kissing the priest's hand, the old man leaned571

against the door-post, and for the first timesince the arrival of the letter he burst intotears, his body shaking violently.From that day he regained his self-controland recovered a little from the blow.Each licked the wound in his own way. WhenNatalya heard Dunya scream that Grigory wasdead she ran into the yard. "I'll kill myself.It's all over for me," the thought drove her onlike fire. She struggled in Darya's arms, andthen with joyful relief she swooned, for at leastit postponed the moment when consciousnesswould return and violently remind her of whathad happened. She passed a week in dull oblivion,and returned to the world of realitychanged, quieter, gnawed by a black impotence.An invisible corpse haunted the Melekhovs'house and the living breathed in its moulderingscent.XVIIOn the twelfth day after the news of Grigory'sdeath the Melekhovs received two lettersby the same post from Pyotr. Dunya read themat the post office, and went speeding home likea stalk caught up by the wind, then swayedand stopped, leaning against a fence. Shecaused a great fluster in the village, and carried572

an indescribable feeling of agitation into thehouse."Grisha's alive! Our dear one's alive!" shesobbed and cried when still some distanceaway. "Pyotr's written. Grisha's wounded, buthe isn't dead. He's alive, alive!"In his letter dated September 20th, Pyotrhad written:Greetings, dear parents, I must tell you thatour Grisha all but gave up the ghost, but now.glory be, he's alive and well, as we wish you inthe name oi the Lord God health and well-being.Close to the town oi Kamenka-Strumilovohis regiment was in battle, and in the attackthe Cossacks oi his troop saw him cut down bya Hungarian hussar, and Grigory iell irom hishorse and aiter that nobody knew anything,and when I asked them they could tell me nothing.But aiterwards I learned irom MishaKoshevoi that Grigory lay till night-time, butthat in the night he came round and startedcrawling away. He crawled along making hisway by the stars, and came across one oi ouroiBcers wounded in the belly and legs by ashell. He picked him up and dragged him iorsix versts. And ior this Grigory has been giventhe Cross oi St.George and has been raised tothe rank oi corporal. Think oi that! His wound573

isn't serious, he only received a skin wound onthe scalp, hut he tell iroin his horse, and gotstunned. Misha told me he is already hack atthe front. You must excuse this letter, I'mwriting in the saddle.In his second letter Pyotr asked his familyto send him some dried cherries from their ownorchard, and told them not to forget him but towrite more often. In the same letter he upbraidedGrigory because, so he had been told, hewas not looking after his horse properly, andPyotr was angry, as the horse was really his.He asked his father to write to Grigory, andsaid he had sent a message to him that if hedid not look after the horse he would give himone on the nose that would draw blood, evenif he had got the Cross of St. George. The letterended with an endless list of greetings and betweenthecrumpled, rain-blotted lines it was nothard to detect a feeling of bitterness and grief.Evidently Pyotr was not having an easy time atthe front either.Old Pantelei was a pitiful sight to see. Hewas dazed with joy. He seized both letters andwent into the village with them, stopping allwho could read and forcing them to read theletters. It was not vanity but belated joy madehim brag all through the village,574

"Aha! What do you think of my Grisha?" heraised his hand when the stumbling readercame to the passage where Pyotr described Grigory'sexploit. "He's the first to get the Crossin our village," he declared proudly. And jealouslytaking the letters, he would thrust theminto the lining of his cap and go off in searchof another reader.Even Sergei Mokhov, who saw him throughhis shop window, came out, taking off hiscap."Come in for a minute,Prokofyevich!"Inside, he squeezed the old man's fist in hisown puffy white hand and said:"Well, I congratulate you; I congratulateyou. You must be proud to have such a son.I've just been reading about his exploit in thenewspapers.""Is it in the papers?" Pantelei's throat wentdry and he swallowed hard."Yes, I've just read it."Mokhov took a packet of the finest Turkishtobacco down from a shelf, and poured outsome expensive sweets into a bag withouttroubling to weigh them. Handing the tobaccoand sweets to Pantelei, he said:"When you send Grigory Panteleyevich aparcel, send him a greeting and these fromme."575

"My God! What an honour for Grisha! Thewhole village is talking about him. I've livedto see ..." the old man muttered, as he wentdown the steps of the shop. He blew his noseviolently and wiped the tears from his cheekwith his sleeve, thinking: "I'm getting old. Tearscome too easily. Ah, Pantelei, what has lifedone to you? You were as hard as flint once,you could carry eight poods on your back aseasily as a feather, but now. . . . Grisha's businesshas taken it out of you a bit!"As he limped along the street, pressing thebag of sweets to his chest, his thoughts againfluttered around Grigory like a lapwing over amarsh, and the words of Pyotr's letter wanderedthrough his mind. Grigory's father-in-lawKorshunov was coming along the road, and hecalled to Pantelei:"Hey, Pantelei, stop a minute!"The two men had not met since the day warwas declared. A cold, constrained relationshiphad arisen between them after Grigory lefthome. Miron was annoyed with Natalya forhumbling herself to Grigory, and for forcingher father to endure a similar humiliation."The wandering bitch," he would rail againstNatalya to his family. "Why can't she live athome instead of going to her in-laws. As if they576

fed her better there. It's through her foolishnessthat her father has to bear such shame andcan't hold up his head in the village."Miron went straight up to Pantelei andthrust out his oak-coloured hand:"How are you?".""Thanks be to God. . ."Been shopping?"Pantelei shook his head. "These are gifts toour hero. Sergei Platonovich read about hisdeed in the peapers and has sent him somesweets and tobacco. Do you know, the tears cameto his eyes," the old man boasted, staring fixedlyinto Miron's face in the attempt to discoverwhat impression his words had made.The shadows gathered under Miron's blondeye-lashes, giving his face a condescendingsmile."I see!" he croaked, and turned to cross thestreet. Pantelei hurried after him, opening thebag and trembling with anger."Here, try these chocolates, they're as sweetas honey," he said spitefully. "Try them, Ioffer them in my son's name. Your life is nonetoo sweet, so you can have one; and your sonmay earn such an honour some day, but then hemay not.""Don't pry into my life. ... I know bestwhat it's like."37—1933 577

''Just try one, do me the favour." Panteleibowed with exaggerated affability, running infront of Miron and fumbling with the paperbag."We're not used to sweets," Miron pushedaway his hand. "Gifts from strangers are badfor our teeth. It was hardly decent of you to gobegging alms for your son. If you're in need,you can come to me. Our Natalya's eating yourbread. We could have given to you in your poverty.""Don't you tell those lies, no one has everbegged for alms in our family. You're tooproud, much too proud. Maybe it's becauseyou're so rich that your daughter came to us.""Wait!" Miron said authoritatively. "There'sno point in our quarrelling. I didn't stop youto have a quarrel. I've some business I want totalkover with you.""We have no business to talkover.""Yes, we have. Come on."He seized Pantelei's sleeve and dragged himinto a side-street. They walked out of the villageinto the steppe."Well, what's the business?" Pantelei askedin more amiable tones. He glanced sidelong atKorshunov's freckled face. Folding the tail ofhis long coat under him, Miron sat down on578

the bank of a ditch and pulled out hisold tobaccopouch."You know, Prokofyevich, the devil knowswhy you went for me like a quarrelsome cock.As it is, things aren't too good, are they? Iwant to know," his voice changed to a hard,rough tone, "how long your son's going tomake a laughing-stock of Natalya. Tell methat!""You must ask him about it,not me.""I've nothing to ask him; you're the head ofyour house and I'm talking toyou."Pantelei squeezed the chocolate he still heldin his hand, and the sticky mess oozed throughhis fingers. He wiped his palm on thebrown clay of the bank and silently began tomake a cigarette, opening the packet of Turkishtobacco and taking a pinch. Then he offeredthe packet to Miron. Korshunov took it withouthesitation and made a cigarette from thetobacco Mokhov had presented so generously.Above them hung a sumptuous foaming whitecloud, and a tender thread stretched up towardsit, wavering in the wind.The day came to its close. The Septemberstillness was lulled in peace and inexpressiblesweetness. The sky had lost its full summergleam, and was a hazy dove colour. Appleleaves,brought from God knows where,37* 579

scattered the ditch with vivid purple. The roaddisappeared over the undulating ridge of thehill; in vain did it beckon towards the unknownregions beyond the emerald, dream-vaguethread of the horizon. Held down to their hutsand their daily round, the people pined in theirlabour, exhausted their strength on the threshingfloor;and the road, a deserted, yearning track,flowed across the horizon into the unseen. Thewind trod along it, stirring up the dust."This is weak tobacco, it's like grass," Mironsaid, puffing out a cloud of smoke."It's weak, but it's pleasant," Pantelei halfagreed."Give me an answer, Pantelei," Korshunovasked in a quieter tone, putting out his cigarette."Grigory never says anything about itletters.He's wounded now."in his"Yes, I've heard..". ."What will come after, I don't know. Maybehe'll be killed, and then what?""But how can it go on like this?" Mironblinked distractedly and miserably. "There sheis, neither maid nor wife nor honest widow,and it's a disgrace. If I had known it was goingto turn out like this I'd never have allowed thematch-makers across my threshold. Ah, Pante-580

lei . . . Pantelei. . . . Each is sorry for his ownchild. Blood is thicker than water.""How can I help it?" Pantelei replied withrestrained frenzy. "Tell me! Do you think I'mglad my son left home? Was it any gain to me?You people!""Write to him," Miron dictated, and thedust trickling from under his hands into theditch kept time with his words. "Let him sayonce and for all.""He's got a child by that..". ."And he'll have a child by this!" Korshunovshouted, turning livid. "Can you treat a humanbeing like that? Huh? She's already tried tokill herself and is maimed for life. ... Do youwant to trample her into the grave? Huh. . . .His heart, his heart .". . Miron hissed, tearingat his breast with one hand, tugging at Pantelei'scoat tails with the other. "Is it a wolf'sheart he'sgot?"Pantelei wheezed and turned away."The woman's devoted to him, and there'sno other life for her without him. Is she a serfin your service?""She's more than a daughter to us! Holdyour tongue!" Pantelei shouted, and he rosefrom the bank.They parted without a word of farewell, andwent off in different directions.581

XVIIIWhen swept out of its normal channel, lifescatters into many streams. It is difficult toforesee which it will take in its treacherous andwinding course. Where today it trickles, like arivulet over sand-banks, so shallow that theshoals are visible, tomorrow it will flow richand full.Suddenly Natalya came to the decision to goto Aksinya at Yagodnoye, and to ask, to beseechher to return Grigory to her. For somereason it seemed to Natalya that everythingdepended on Aksinya, that she had only to askher and Grigory would return, and with him, herown former happiness. She did not stop to considerwhether this was possible, or how Aksinyawould receive her strange request. Drivenon by subconscious motives, she sought to actupon her decision as quickly as possible.At the end of the month a letter arrived fromGrigory. After messages to his father and motherhe sent hisgreeting and regards to Natalya.Whatever the reason inciting him to this, it wasthe stimulus Natalya required, and she madeready to go to Yagodnoye the very next Sunday."Where are you off to, Natalya?" Dunya582

asked, watching her as she attentively studiedher features in the scrap of looking-glass."I'm going to visit my people," Natalya lied,and blushed as she realized for the first timethat she was risking great humiliation, a terriblemoral test."You might have an evening out with mejust for once," Darya suggested. "Come thisevening, won't you?""I don't know, but I don't think so.""You little nun! Our turn only comes whenour husbands are away," Darya said with a winkand stooped to examine the embroidered hemof her new pale-blue skirt. Darya had alteredconsiderably since Pyotr's departure. Unrestshowed in her eyes, her movements and carriage.She arrayed herself more diligently onSundays, and came back late in the eveningsombre-eyed and out of temper, to complainto Natalya:"It's terrible, really it is! They've taken awayall the decent Cossacks, and left only boys andold men in the village!""Well, what difference does that make toyou?""Why, there's nobody to lark about with ofan evening. If only I could go off alone to themill one day. There's no fun to be had herewith our father-in-law." And with cynical frank-583

ness she asked Natalya: "How can you bearit, dear; so long without a Cossack?""Shame on you! Haven't you any conscience?"Natalya blushed."Don't you feel any desire?""It'sclear you do.""Of course I do!" Darya flushed andlaughed and the arches of her brows quivered."Why should I hide it? I'd make even an oldman hot and bothered this very minute! Justthink, it's two months since Pyotr left.""You're laying up sorrow for yourself, Darya.""Shut up, you respectable old woman! Weknow you quiet ones! You would never admitit.""I've nothing to admit."Darya gave her an amused sidelong glance,and bit her lips with her small snappish teeth."The other day Timofei Manitsev, the ataman'sson, sat down beside me. I could see hewas afraid to begin. Then he quietly slippedhis hand under my arm, and his hand wastrembling. I just waited and said nothing, butI was getting angry. If he had been a lad now-but he's only a little snot. Sixteen years old,not a day more. I sat without speaking, and hepawed and pawed, and whispered: 'Come alongto our shed.' Then I gave him something!"684

She laughed merrily; her brows quivered andlaughter spurted from her half-closed eyes."What a ticking off I gave him! I jumped up.'Oh, you this and that! You yellow -neckedwhelp! Do you think you can wheedle me likethat? When did you wet the bed last?' I gavehim a fine talking to."Darya's attitude to Natalya had changed oflate, and their relations had grown simple andfriendly. The dislike which she had felt forthe younger woman was gone, and the two,different in every respect, lived together amicably.Natalya finished dressing and went out. Daryaovertook her in the porch."You'll open the door for me tonight?" sheasked."I expect I shall stop the night with my people."Darya thoughtfully scratched her nose withher comb and shook her head:"Oh, all right. I didn't want to ask Dunya,but I see I shall have to."Natalya told Ilyinichna she was going to visither people, and went into the street. Thewagons were rattling away from the market inthe square, and the villagers were coming fromchurch. She turned up a side lane and hurriedlyclimbed the hill. At the top she turned and585

looked back. The village lay flooded in sunlight,the little limewashed houses looked dazzlinglywhite, and the sun glittered on the steeproof of the mill, making the sheet-iron glitterlike molten ore.XIXYagodnoye also had been plucked of itsmenfolk by the war. Venyamin and Tikhon hadgone, and the place was even sleepier, drearierand more isolated than before. Aksinya waitedon the general in Venyamin's place, whilefat-bottomed Lukerya took over all the cookingand fed the fowls. Old Sashka tended thehorses and looked after the orchard. There wasonly one new face, an old Cossack named Nikitichwho had been taken on as coachman.This year old Listnitsky sowed less, and suppliedsome twenty horses for army remounts,leaving only three or four for the needs of theestate. He passed his time shooting bustardsand hunting with the borzois.Aksinya received only brief, infrequent lettersfrom Grigory, informing her that so far hewas well and going through the grind. He hadgrown stronger, or else he did not want to tellher of his weakness, for he never let slip anycomplaint that he found active service difficult586

and dreary.ters,There was a cold note in his letas though he had written them because hefelt he had to, and only in one did he write:"All the time at the front, and I'm fed up withfighting and carrying death on my back." Inevery letter he asked after his daughter, tellingAksinya to write about her.Aksinya seemed to bear the separation bravely.All her love for Grigory was poured outon her child, especially after she became convincedthat it was really his. Life gave irrefutableproofs of that: the girl's chestnut hairwas replaced by a black, curly growth; hereyes changed to a dark tint, and grew elongatedin their slits. With every day she became moreand more like her father; even her smile wasGrigory's. Now Aksinya could see him beyondall doubt in the child, and her feeling for itdeepened. No longer did she start back from thecradle, as she sometimes had before, thinkingshe discerned in the child's sleeping face somelikeness tothe hated features of Stepan.But the days crawled on, and at the end ofeach a caustic bitterness settled in Aksinya'sbreast. Anxiety for the life of her belovedpierced her mind like a sharp needle; it left herneither day nor night. Restrained during thehours of labour, it burst all dams at night, andshe tossed and turned, weeping soundlessly5S7

and biting her hand to avoid awakening thechild with her sobs; she tried to kill her mentalanguish with a physical pain. She wept therest of her tears into the baby's napkins, th.inkingin her childish naivete: "It's Grisha's child,he must feel in his heart how I yearn for him."After nights such as this she arose in themorning as though she had been beaten unmercifully.All her body ached, little silver hammersknocked incessantly in her veins, and sorrowlurked in the corners of her lips. The nights ofyearning aged Aksinya.One Sunday she had given her master hisbreakfast, and was standing on the steps whenshe saw a woman approaching the gate. Theeyes under the white kerchief seemed strangelyfamiliar. The v/oman opened the gate andentered the yard. Aksinya turned pale as sherecognized Natalya. She slowly went to meether. A heavy layer of dust had settled on Natalya'sshoes. She halted, her big, toil-roughenedhands hanging lifelessly at her sides, andbreathed heavily, trying to straighten herscarred neck and failing, so that it seemed shelooked sideways. "I've come to see you, Aksinya,"she said, running her dry tongue overher lips.Aksinya gave a swift glance at the windowsof the house and silently led Natalya into her58$

oom. Natalya followed her. To her strainingears the rustle of Aksinya's skirt seemed unnaturallyloud. "There's something wrong withmy ears, it must be the heat," the confusedthought scratched at her brain with a host ofothers.Aksinya closed the door, and standing in themiddle of the room with her hands under herapron, took charge of the situation."What have you come for?" she askedstealthily, almost in a whisper,"I'd like a drink," Natalya replied, staringheavily about the room,Aksinya waited. Natalya began to speak,with difficulty raising her voice:"You've taken my husband from me. . . . Giveme my Grigory back. You've broken m.y life.You see how. . ..""You want your husband?" Aksinya clenchedher teeth, and the words fell steadily like slowraindrops on stone. "You want your husband?Who are you asking? Why did you come?You've thought of it too late. Too late!"Laughing caustically, her whole body swaying,Aksinya went close up to Natalya. Shesneered as she stared in the face of her enemy.There she stood, the lawful but abandonedwife, humiliated, crushed with misery. She whohad come between Aksinya and Grigory, sep-589

arating them, causing a bloody pain in Aksinya'sheart. And while she had been wearingherself out with mortal longing, this other one,this Natalya, had been caressing Grigory andno doubt laughing at her, the unsuccessful,forsaken mistress."And you've come to ask me to give himup?" Aksinya panted. "You creeping snake!You took Grisha away from me first! You knewhe was living with me. Why did you marryhim? I only took back my own. He's mine. I."have a child by him, but you. . .With stormy hatred she stared into Natalya'seyes, and, waving her arms wildly, poured outa boiling torrent of words."Grisha's mine, and I'll give him up to noone! He's mine, mine! D'you hear...? Mine!Clear out, you shameless bitch, you're not hiswife. You want to rob a child of its father?And why didn't you come before? Well, whydidn't you come before?"Natalya went sideways to the bench and satdown, dropping her head and covering her facewith her hands."You left your husband. Don't shout likethat.""I have no husband but Grisha. No one, nowherein the whole world." Feeling an angerthat could not find vent raging within her, Ak-590

sinya gazed at the strand of black hair that hadslipped from under Natalya's kerchief."Does he need you?" she demanded, "Lookat your twisted neck! And do you think helongs for you? He left you when you were well,and is he likely to look at a cripple? I won'tgive Grisha up! That's all I have to say. Clearout!"Aksinya grew ferocious in defence of hernest, in revenge for all the suffering of the past.She could see that, despite the slightly crookedneck, Natalya was as good-looking as before.Natalya's cheeks and lips were fresh, untouchedby time, while her own eyes were webbedwith wrinkles, and all because of Natalya."Do you think I had any hope of gettinghim back by asking?" Natalya raised her eyes,drunk with suffering,"Then why did you come?" Aksinya panted."My yearning drove me on,"Awakened by the voices, Aksinya's daughterstirred in the bed and broke into a cry.The mother took up the child, and sat downwith her face to the window. Trembling in everylimb, Natalya gazed at the infant. A dryspasm clutched her throat. Grigory's eyes staredat her inquisitively from the baby's face.Weeping and swaying, she walked outinto the porch. Aksinya did not see her off.591

A minute or two later Sashka came into theroom."Who was that woman?" he asked, evidentlyhalf-guessing."Someone from our village."Natalya walked back about three versts, andthen lay down under a wild thorn. Crushed byher yearning, she lay thinking of nothing.Grigory's gloomy black eyes staring cut of achild's face were continually before her.XXSo vivid that it was almost a blinding pain,the night after the battle remained for ever imprintedin Grigory's memory. He returned toconsciousness some time before dawn; hishands stirred among the prickly stubble, andhe groaned with the pain that filled his head.With an effort he raised his hand, drew it upto his brow, and felt his blood-clotted hair.When his finger touched the wound it was asif a red-hot ember had been placed there. Then,grinding his teeth, he rolled over. Above himthe frost-nipped leaves of a tree rustled mournfullywith a glassy tinkle. The black brancheswere clearly outlined against the deep bluebackground of the sky, and stars glittered592

among them.Grigory gazed unwinkingly, andthe stars seemed to him like strange, bluishyellowfruits hanging from the twigs.Realizing what had happened to him, andconscious of an inescapable horror, he crawledaway on all fours, grinding his teeth. Thepain played with him, threw him down headlong.He seemed to be crawling for an eternity.He forced himself to look back; the treestood out blackly some fifty paces away. Oncehe crawled across a corpse, resting his elbowson the dead man's hard, sunken belly.He was sick with loss of blood, and he weptlike a babe, and chewed the dewy grass toavoid losing consciousness. By an overturnedcase of shells he managed to get on to his feet,and stood a long time swaying, then startedto walk. His strength began to return; hestepped out more firmly, and was even able totake his bearings by the Great Bear, movingin an easterly direction.At the edge of the forest he was halted bya sudden warning shout:"Stop, or I'll fire!"He heard the click of a revolver, and lookedin the direction of the sound. A man was leaningagainst a pine-tree,"Who are you?" he asked, listening to thesound of his voice as though it were another's.38—1933 593

."A Russian? My God! Come here!" the manby the pine slipped to the ground. Grigorywent to him."Bend down!""I can't." I"Why not?""I shall fall and not be able to get up again.I'm wounded in the head.""What regiment are you from?""The Twelfth Don Cossack.""Help me, Cossack!""I shall fall. Your Honour," Grigory replied,recognizing the man as an officer by hisshoulder-straps."Give me your hand at least,"Grigory helped the officer to rise, and theywent off together. But with every step the officerhimg more heavily on his arm. As theyrose out of a dell he seized Grigory by thesleeve and said:"Leave me, Cossack. I've got a woimd . ,right through the stomach."His eyes were dull behind his pince-nez andthe breath came from his open bearded mouthin hoarse gasps. He fainted, but Grigory draggedhim along, falling and rising again andagain. Twice he dropped his burden and leftit; but each time he returned, lifted it, andstumbled on as if walking in his sleep.594

:) 1At eleven o'clock they were picked up by apatrol and taken to a dressing station.Grigory slipped away from the station thevery next day. Once on the road he tore thebandage from his head, and walked along wavingthe blood-soaked bandage in his relief."Where have you come from?" his squadroncommander asked him in amazement, when heturned up at regimental headquarters."I've returned to duty. Your Honour."When he left the squadron commander, Grigorysaw his troop sergeant."My horse . . . the bay, where is it?""He's all right, lad. We caught him as soonas we had finished with the Austrians. Butwhat about you? We were praying for you togo to heaven.""You were in a hurry," Grigory said witha grim smile.An extract from regimental orders read asfollows"For saving the life of the commander ofthe 9th regiment of dragoons Lieutenant-ColonelGustav Grozberg, Cossack of the 12th DonCossack Regiment Melekhov Grigory is promotedto the rank of corporal and recommendedfor the St. George Cross, 4th class."Grigory's squadron had halted in Kamenka-Strumilovo for two days, and were now pre-38* 595

•paring to advance again. Grigory found thehouse in which the Cossacks of his troop werequartered, and went to see to his horse. Histowels and some underlinen were missing fromhissaddle-bags."Stolen before my very eyes, Grigory,"Misha Koshevoi admitted guiltily. "There wasa swarm of infantry quartered here, and theystoleIthem.""Well, they can keep them, damn them! Onlywant to bandage my head.""You can take my towel."Uryupin came into the shed where they werestanding. He held out his hand as though thequarrel between him and Grigory had neveroccurred."Hullo, Melekhov! So you're still alive!""More or less.""Your head's all bleeding. Wipe yourself.""I will in my own time.""Let's have a look at what they've done toyou."He forced back Grigory's head, and snorted:"Why did you let them cut your hair off?What a sight you are! The doctors won't helpyou any. Let me heal you."Without waiting for Grigory's consent hedrew a cartridge out of his cartridge-case, broke596

the bullet open and poured the black powderinto his hand."Misha, find me a spider's web."With the point of his sabre Koshevoi scrapeda web from a beam and handed it to Uryupin.With the same sabre Uryupin dug up someearth and, mixing it with the web and thepowder, chewed it between his teeth. Then heplastered the sticky mess over the bleedingwound and smiled:"It'll be all right again in three days," he declared."But here I am looking after you, andyet you would have killed me.""Thanks for looking after me, but if I'd killedyou I'd have had one sin the less on myconscience.""What a simpleton you are, lad.""Maybe. What's my head look like?""There's a cut half an inch deep. Something toremember them by.""I shan't forget them.""You couldn't if you wanted to; the Austriansdon't sharpen their swords properly so you'llhave a scar for the rest of your life.""Lucky for you, Grigory, that he got you onthe slant,or you'd have been buried on foreignsoil," said Koshevoi with a smile."What shall I do with my cap?"597

Grigory twisted his hacked and blood-stainedcap confusedly in his hands."Throw it away, the dogs will eat it.""The grub's arrived, lads. Come and get it!"came a shout from the door of the house.The Cossacks left the shed. Grigory's bayhorse whinnied after him, turning up the whitesof his eyes."He pined after you, Grigory," Koshevoinodded to the horse. "I was surprised, hewouldn't eat, and whinnied all the time.""When I crawled away I kept calling him,"Grigory said in a thick voice. "I was sure hewouldn't leave me, and I knew it wouldn't beeasy for a stranger to catch him.""That's true. We only just managed to gethim with a lasso.""He's a good horse. He's my brother Pyotr's."Grigory turned his back to hide his wet eyes.They went into the house. Yegor Zharkovwas lying asleep on a spring mattress in thefront-room. An indescribable disorder silentlybore witness to the haste with which the ownershad left the place. Fragments of broken utensils,torn paper, books, scraps of material, children'stoys, old boots, scattered flour were alltumbled in confusion about the floor.Yemelyan Groshev and Prokhor Zykov hadcleared a space in the middle of the room, and598

were eating their dinner. At the sight of Grigory,Prokhor's calf eyes nearly dropped outof his head."Grisha! Where did you spring from?""From the other world!""Run and get him some grub. Don't stare likethat!" Uryupin shouted,"Won't be a minute. The kitchen's just roundthe comer."Prokhor ran to the door, chewing as he went.Grigory sat down wearily in his place. "I don'tremember when I ate last," he smiled guiltily.Units of the Third Corps were moving throughthe town. The narrow streets were choked withinfantry, baggage trains and cavalry, the crossroadswere jammed and the noise of the trafficpenetrated even through the closed doors ofthe houses. Prokhor quickly returned with apot of soup and a pan of buckwheat."What shall I pour the grub into?"Not knowing its purpose, Groshev picked upa chamber-pot, remarking: "Here's a pot witha handle.""Your pot stinks," Prokhor said with a frown."Never mind. Pour it out and we'll share itafterwards."Zykov turned the basket upside down overthe vessel, and the rich, thick gruel fell out in599

a mass, with an amber edge of fat round it.They ate and talked."There's a battery of a highland mountedartillery battalion next door," Prokhor related,dabbing spittle over a grease spot on the stripeof his trousers. "They're feeding up theirhorses. Their warrant officer read in the paperthat the Germans' allies were doing a bunk.""You should've been here this morning, Melekhov,"Uryupin muttered through a mouthfulof gruel: "We were thanked by the divisioncommander himself. He reviewed us and thankedus for smashing the Hungarian hussars andsaving the battery. 'Cossacks,' he said, 'the tsarand the fatherland will not forget you.' "As he spoke there was the sound of a shotoutside, and a machine-gun began to stutter.Dropping their spoons, the Cossacks ran out.Overhead an aeroplane was circling low witha menacing roar."Lie down under the fence. They'll be droppinga bomb in a minute. There's a battery billetednext door to us," Uryupin shouted. "Someonego and wake Yegor up. He'll get killed onhis soft mattress!""Bring out the rifles."Aiming carefully, Uryupin fired from thesteps.Soldiers ran along the street, for some rea-600

son ducking their heads. From the next yardcame the neighing of horses and a curt order.Grigory glanced over the fence; the gunnerswere hurriedly wheeling a gun into a shed.Screwing up his eyes at the prickly blue of thesky, he stared at the roaring, swooping bird.At that moment something fell away from itand glittered sharply in the sunlight.A shattering roar shook the house and theCossacks crouching round the steps; in the nextyard a horse neighed in mortal agony. A pungentwave of powder smoke drifted over the fence."Lie flat," Uryupin shouted rushing downthe steps. Grigory sprang after him, and theythrew themselves down by the palings. Onewing of the aeroplane glittered as it turned.From the street came irregular shots. Grigoryhad just thrust a fresh clip of cartridges intothe magazine of his rifle when a shattering explosionthrew him six feet away from the fence.A lump of earth struck him heavily on thehead, filling his eyes with dust.Uryupin lifted him to his feet. A sharp painin the left eye prevented Grigory from seeing.With difficulty opening the right eyelid, he sawthat half the house was demolished; the brickslay in a misshapen heap, a pink cloud of dusthovering over them.As he stood staring, Yegor Zharkov crawled601

from under the steps. His entire face was a cry;bloody tears were raining from his eyes thathad been forced out of their sockets. With hishead buried in his shoulders he crawled along,screaming without opening his blackening lips.Behind him one leg, torn away at the thigh,was dragged along by a shred of skin and astrip of scorched trouser; the other leg wasgone completely. He crawled slowly along onhis hands, a thin, almost childish scream comingfrom his lips. Then the scream stopped andhe fell over on his side, pressing his face tothe harsh, unkind, brick- and dung-litteredearth. No one attempted to go to him."Pick him up!" Grigory shouted, stillpressinghis hand to his left eye.Infantrymen ran into the yard; a twowheeledcart with telephone operators stoppedat the gate."Keep moving!" an officer shouted at themas he galloped past. "Don't stand theregaping!" Two women, and an old man in along black coat came up. Zharkov was quicklysurrounded by a little crowd. Pressing throughthem, Grigory saw that he was still breathing,whimpering and violently trembling. Greatbeads of sweat stood out on his deathly yellowbrow."Pick him up! What are you, men or devils?"602

"What are you howling about?" a tall infantrymansnapped. "Pick him up, pick himup! But where are we to take him to? Can't yousee he's dying?""Both legs gone!""Look at the blood!""Where are the stretcher-bearers?""What good could they do!""And he's still conscious."Uryupin touched Grigory on the shoulderfrom behind. "Don't move him," he whispered."Come round the other side and look."He drew Grigory along by the sleeve, andpushed the crowd aside. Grigory took oneglance, then hunched his shoulders and turnedaway to the gate. Under Zharkov's belly the pinkand blue intestines were steaming. The tangledmass lay on the sand, stirring and swelling. Besideit the dying man's hand scrabbled at theground."Cover his face," someone proposed.Zharkov suddenly raised himself on hishands and, throwing his head back until ithung between his shoulder-blades, shouted ina hoarse, inhuman voice:"Brothers, kill me. . , . Brothers . . . ! What areyou standing looking for . . ,? Oh. . . . Oh ....Brothers, kill me!"603

XXI:The railway carriage rocked gently and theknock of its wheels was lullingly drowsy. Ayellow band of light streamed from the lantern.It was good to be stretched out at fulllength, with boots off, giving the feet theirfreedom, to feel no responsibility for oneself,to know that no danger threatened one's life,and that death was so far away. It was especiallypleasant to listen to the varying chatterof the wheels, for with their every turn, withevery tug of the engine, the front was fartherand farther off. And Grigory lay listening,wriggling the toes of his bare feet, all his bodyrejoicing in the fresh, clean linen. He felt asthough he had thrown off a dirty skin, and,spotlessly clean, was entering a new life.His quiet, tranquil jojy was disturbed onlyby the pain in his left eye. It died away occasionally,then would suddenly return, burningthe eye and forcing involuntary tears under thebandage. In the field hospital a young Jewishdoctor had examined his eye and had told him:"You'll have to go back. Your eye is in a veryunsatisfactory state.""Shall I lose it, doctor?""Why should you think that?" the doctorsmiled, catching the unconcealed alarm inGri-604

gory's voice. "But you must have it attendedto, and an operation may be necessary. Weshall send you to Petrograd or Moscow. Don'tbe afraid, your eye will be all right." Heclapped Grigory on the shoulder and gentlydrew him outside into the corridor. As heturned back he rolled up his sleeves in readinessfor an operation.After much hanging about Grigory foundhimself in a hospital train. He lay for days onend, enjoying the blessed peace. The ancientengine exerted all its strength to haul the longline of carriages. They drew near to Moscow,and arrived at night. The serious cases werecarried out on stretchers; those who could walkwere assembled on the platform. The doctoraccompanying the train called out Grigory'sname and handed him over to a nurse, instructingher as to his destination."Have you got your luggage with you?"- "What luggage do you expect a Cossack tohave? A greatcoat and a field-bag, that's all.""Follow me."The nurse led the way out of the station, herdress rustling. Grigory walked uncertainly behindher. They took a cab. The roar of thegreat city, the jangle of tram-bells, the bluishgleam of electric lights had a crushing effectupon him. He leaned against the back of the605

cab, staring inquisitively at the crowded streets,and it was strange for him to feel the agitatingwarmth of a woman's body at his side. Autumnhad arrived in Moscow. Along the boulevardsthe leaves of the trees gleamed yellow in thelamplight, the night breathed a wintry chill,the pavements were shining, and above himthe stars were autumnally clear and cold. Fromthe centre of the town they turned into a desertedside-street. The horse's hoofs clattered overthe cobbles; the driver in his long blue coatswayed on his high seat and waved the endsof the reins at his mare. Railway engines whistledin the distance. "Perhaps a train just off tothe Don," Grigory thought, pricked with yearning."Feeling sleepy?" the nurse asked."No.""We shall soon be there."The waters of a pond gleamed oilily behindan iron railing, Grigory caught a glimpse of arailed-off landing stage with a boat tied to it.There was a smell of dampness in the air."They even keep water behind iron barshere, not like our Don . .."Grigory thoughtvaguely. Leaves rustled under the rubber tyresof the cab.They stopped outside a three-storied house.Grigory jumped out.606

"Give me your hand," the nurse said, bendingtowards him. He took her small, soft handin his and helped her to alight."You smell of soldiers' sweat," she laughedquietly, ringing the bell."You ought to spend some time out there,nurse, then you might stink of something else,"Grigory replied with suppressed anger.The door was opened by a porter. They wentup a gilt balustraded staircase to the first floor.Passing into an ante-room, Grigory sat downat a round table while the nurse whisperedsomething to a woman in a white smock.Faces wearing spectacles of various coloursappeared round the doors that lined both sidesof the long narrow corridor.After a few minutes an orderly, also dressedin white, led him to a bathroom."Strip!""What for?""You've got to have a bath."While Grigory was undressing and lookinground in astonishment at the bathroom withits frosted-glass windows the orderly filled thebath with water, measured the temperature,and told him to get in,"This tub won't do for me," Grigory muttered,lifting a swarthy leg into the bath.The orderly assisted him to wash himself607

thoroughly, then gave him a towel, linen, houseshoes,and a grey, belted dressing-gown."What about my clothes?" Grigory asked inamazement."You'll wear these while you're here. Yourclothes will be returned to you when you'redischarged from the hospital."As Grigory passed a wall mirror he did notrecognize himself. Tall, dark of face, withpatches of crimson on his cheeks and a growthof moustache and beard, in a dressing-gown,his black hair pressed down under a bandage,he bore only a distant resemblance to the formerGrigory Melekhov. "I've grown younger,"he thought, smiling wanly to himself."Ward six, third door on the right," theattendant told him.As Grigory entered the large white room apriest in a hospital gown and dark glasses halfrose."Ah, a neighbour? Glad to meet you, weshall keep each other company. I am fromZaraisk," he announced sociably, offering Grigorya chair.A few minutes later a corpulent nurse with alarge, plain face opened the door."Melekhov, we want to have a look at youreye," she said in a low, chesty voice, and stoodaside to let him pass.608

XXIIThe army command decided on a big cavalryattack on the south-west front with aview to breaking through the enemy lines,destroyingtheir communications and disorganizingtheir forces with sudden assaults from therear. The command set great store by the plan,and large forces of cavalry were concentratedin the area, Yevgeny Listnitsky's regimentamong them. The attack was to have begun onAugust 28th, but a rain storm caused it to bepostponed until the following day.Early in the morning the division was deployedover a huge area in preparation for theoffensive.About eight verstsaway the infantry on theright flank made a demonstrative attack todraw the fire of the enemy. Also sections ofone cavalry division were dispatched in amisleading direction.In front of Listnitsky's regiment there wasno sign whatever of the enemy. About a verstaway Yevgeny could see deserted lines oftrenches, and behind them rye fields billowingin a wind-driven, bluish early morning mist. Theenemy must have learned of the attack in preparation,for during the night they had retired39—1933 609

some six versts, leaving only machine-gunnests to harass the attackers.Behind heavy rainclouds the sun was rising.The entire valley was flooded with a creamyyellow mist. The order came for the offensiveto begin, and the regiments advanced. Thousandsof horses' hoofs set up a rumbling roarthat sounded as though it came from under theground. Listnitsky reined in his horse to preventit from breaking into a gallop. A verst wascovered, and the level lines of attacking forcesdrew near to the fields of grain. The rye, higherthan a man's waist and entangled with twiningplants and grasses, rendered the cavalry's progressextremely difficult. Before them still wavedthe ruddy heads of rye, behind them it laycrushed and trampled down by hoofs. Afterfour versts of such riding the horses began tostumble and sweat, but still there was no signof the enemy. Listnitsky glanced at his squadroncommander; the captain's face wore anexpression of utter despair.Six versts of terribly heavy going took allthe strength out of the horses; some of themdropped under their riders, even the strongeststumbled, exerting all their strength to keepmoving. Now the Austrian machine-guns beganto work, spraying a hail of bullets. Therifle fire came in volleys. The murderous fire610

'mowed down the leading ranks. A regiment oflancers was the first to falter and turn; a Cossackregiment broke. A rain of machine-gunbullets lashed them into panic-stricken flight.Owing to the criminal negligence of the HighCommand, this extraordinarily extensive attackwas overwhelmed with complete defeat. Someof the regiments lost half their complement ofmen and horses. Four hundred Cossacks andsixteen officers were killed and wounded inListnitsky'sregiment alone.Listnitsky's own horse was killed under him,and he himself was wounded in the head andthe leg. A sergeant-major leaped from his horseand picked him up, flung him over his saddle-bowand galloped back with him.The chief of staff of the division. Staff ColonelGolovachev, took several snap-shots of theattack, and afterwards showed them to someofficers. A wounded lieutenant struck him inthe face with his fist and burst into tears. ThenCossacks ran up and tore Golovachev to pieces,made game of his corpse, and finally threw itinto the mud of a roadside ditch.So ended thisbrilliantly inglorious offensive.From a hospital in Warsaw Yevgeny informedhis father that he had been given leaveand was coming down to Yagodnoye. The oldman shut himself up in his room, and came out39* 611

again only the next day. He ordered Nikitich,the coachman, to harness the trotting horse tothe drozhki, had breakfast, and drove toVyeshenskaya. There he telegraphed fourhundred rubles to his son and sent him a shortletter.I am very glad, my dear boy, that you havereceived your baptism of Bre.The nobleman'splace is out there, not in the palace. You aremuch too honest and clever to be able to cringewith a peaceful conscience. Nobody in ourfamily has ever done that. For that reason, yourgrandfather lost favour and died in Yagodnoye,neither hoping for nor awaiting grace from theEmperor. Take care of yourself, Yevgeny, andget well. Remember, you are all I have in theworld. Your aunt sends her love. She is well.As for myself, I have nothing to write. Youknow how I live. How can things at the frontbe as they are? Is it possible that we have nopeople with common sense"? I don't believe thenewspaper reports. They are all lies, as I knowfrom past years. Is it possible, Yevgeny, thatwe shall lose the campaign? I am impatientlyawaiting you at home.True, there was nothing in old Listnitsky'slife to write about. It dragged on as before,612

without variation; only the cost of labour rose,and there was a shortage of liquor. The masterdrank more frequently, and grew more irritableand fault-finding. One day he summonedAksinya to him and complained:"You're not attending to your duties. Whywas the breakfast cold yesterday? Why wasn'tthe glass properly cleaned? If it happens againI shall discharge you. I can't stand slovenliness.D'you hear?"Aksinya pressed her lips together and burstinto tears."Nikolai Alexeyevich! My daughter is ill. Letme have time to attend to her. I can't leaveher.""What's the matter with the child?""She seems to be choking.""What? Scarlet fever? Why didn't you speakbefore, you fool? Run and tell Nikitich to driveto Vyeshenskaya for the doctor. Hurry!"Aksinya ran out, the old man bombardingher the while, with his deep bass voice:"You fool of a woman, fool!"Nikitich brought the doctor back the nextmorning. He examined the unconscious, feverishchild, and without replying to Aksinya's entreatieswent straight to the master. The oldman received him in the ante-room.613

"Well, what's wrong with the child?" heasked, acknowledging the doctor's greetingwith a careless nod."Scarlet fever. Your Excellency!""Will it get better? Any hope?""Very little. It's dying. Think of its age.""You fool!" The old man turned livid. "Whatdid you study medicine for? Cure her!" Heslammed the door in the doctor's face and pacedup and down the hall.Aksinya knocked and entered. "The doctorwants horses to take him to Vyeshenskaya."The old man turned on his heel. "Tell himhe's a blockhead! Tell him he doesn't leave thisplace until the child is well. Give him a roomand feed him to his heart's content. But hewon't go away," he shouted, shaking his bonyfist. He strode over to the window, drummedwith his fingers for a minute, and then, turningto a photograph of his son as a baby in hisnurse's arms, stepped back two paces andstared hard at it,as though unable to recognizethe child.As soon as her child had fallen ill Aksinyahad decided that God was punishing her fortaunting Natalya. Crushed with fear for thechild's life, she lost control of herself, wanderedaimlessly about, and could not work. "SurelyCod won't take her!" the feverish thought beat614

incessantly in her brain, and not believing,with all her might trying not to believe, thatthe child would die, she prayed frantically toGod for his last mercy, that its life might bespared.But the fever was choking the little life. Thegirl lay flat on her back, the breath coming inlittle hoarse gasps from her swollen throat. Thedoctor attended her four times a day, andstood of an evening smoking on the steps of theservants' quarters, gazing up at the cold sprinklingof autumn stars.All night Aksinya remained on her knees bythe bed. The child's gurgling rattle wrung herheart."Mama ..." whispered the small parchedlips."My little one, my little daughter," shegroaned; "my flower, don't go away, Tanya.Look, my pretty one, open your little eyes,come back. My dark-eyed darling! Why, ohLord .?". .Occasionally the child opened its inflamedlids, and the bloodshot eyes gave her a waveringglance. The mother caught at the glancegreedily. It seemed to be withdrawn into itself,yearning, resigned.She died in her mother's arms. For the lasttime the little mouth gaped, and the body was615

acked with a convulsion. The tiny head fellback on its mother's arm, and the little Melekhoveyes gazed with an astonished, sombrestare.Old Sashka dug a small grave under an oldpoplar by the lake, carried the coffin to thegrave and with unwonted haste covered it withearth, then waited long and patiently forAksinya to rise from the clayey mound. Whenhe could wait no longer, he blew his nose violentlyand went off to the stables. He drew abottle of eau-de-Cologne and a little flagon ofdenatured alcohol out of a manger, mixed thespirits in a bottle, and muttered as he held theconcoction up to the light:"In memory! May the heavenly kingdomopen its gates to the little one! The angel isdead." He drank and shook his head wildly ashe bit into a soft pickled tomato; then staringtenderly at the bottle, he said:"Don't forget me, dear, and I'llnever forgetyou!" and burst into tears.Three weeks later Yevgeny Listnitsky sent atelegram saying he was on his way home. Atroika of horses was sent to meet him at thestation, and everybody on the estate was ontiptoe with expectation. Turkeys and geese werekilled, and old Sashka flayed a sheep. The preparationswere elaborate enough for a grand616

all. The young master arrived at night. Afreezing rain was falling, and the lamps flunglittle fugitive beams of light into the puddles.The horses drew up at the steps, their bells jangling.Throwing his warm cloak to Sashka,Yevgeny, limping slightly and very agitated,walked up the steps. His father hastened tomeet him, sending the chairs flying in his progress.Aksinya served supper in the dining-room,and went to summon them to table. Lookingthrough the keyhole, she saw the old man embracingand kissing his son on the shoulder;the loose flesh of the old man's neck was quivering.Waiting a few minutes, she lookedagain. This time Yevgeny was on his kneesbefore a great map spread out on the floor.The old man, puffing clouds of smoke fromhis pipe, was knocking with his knuckles onthe arm of a chair and roaring indignantly:"Alexeyev? It can't be! I don't believe it!"Yevgeny replied quietly, persuasively runninghis fingers over the map.The old man answered in a deep steadyvoice: "In that case the commander-in-chiefwas in the wrong. Complete lack of vision.Look, Yevgeny, I'll give you a similar instancefrom the Russo-Japanese campaign. Let me!Let me!"617

Aksinya knocked. The old man came outanimated and gay, with his eyes glitteringyouthfully. With his son he drank a bottle ofwine of 1879 vintage. As Aksinya waited onthem and observed their cheerful faces, shefelt her own loneliness all the more keenly. Anunwept yearning tortured her. After the deathof the child she had wanted to weep, but tearswould not come. A cry came to her throat, buther eyes were dry, and so the stony grief oppressedher doubly. She slept a great deal,seeking relief in a drowsy oblivion, but thechild's call reached her even in sleep. Sheimagined the infant was asleep at her side, andshe turned over and groped about the bed, hearingthe whispered: "Mama, mama." "Mydarling," she would answer with icy lips. Evenin the oppressive light of day she sometimesimagined that the child was at her knee, andshe caught herself reaching out her hand tostroke the curly head.The third day after his arrival Yevgeny satuntil late in the evening with old Sashka inthe stables, listening to his artless stories of thefree life the Don Cossacks had led in bygonedays. He left him at nine o'clock. A sharp windwas blowing through the yard; the mudsquelched slushily underfoot. A young, yellowwhiskeredmoon pranced among the clouds. By618

its light Yevgeny looked at his watch, andturned towards the servants' quarters. Hestopped by the steps to light a cigarette, stoodthinking for a moment, then, shrugging hisshoulders, resolutely mounted the steps. Hecautiously lifted the latch and opened the door,passed through into Aksinya's room, and strucka match."Who's there?" she asked, drawing theblanket around her."It's only me.""I'll be dressed in a minute.""Don't trouble. Ishall only stop for a momentor two."He threw off his overcoat and sat down onthe edge of the bed."So your little girl died. .". ."Yes, she died . .." Aksinya exclaimedechoingly."You've changed considerably. I can guesswhat the loss of the child meant to you. But Ithink you're torturing yourself uselessly; youcan't bring her back, and you're still youngenough to have children. Take yourself in handand be reconciled to the loss. After all, youhaven't lost everything. All your life is stillbefore you."He pressed her hand and stroked her caressinglyyet authoritatively, playing on the low619

tones of his voice. He dropped his voice to awhisper and, hearing Aksinya's stifled weeping,began to kiss her wet cheeks and eyes.Woman's heart is susceptible to pity andkindness. Burdened with her despair, notrealizing what she was doing, Aksinya yieldedherself to him with all her strong, long dormantpassion. But as the devastating, maddeningwave of delight abated she came to hersenses and cried out sharply; losing all senseof reason or shame she ran out half-naked, inonly her shift, on to the steps. Yevgeny hastilyfollowed her out, leaving the door open, pullingon his overcoat as he went. As he mountedthe steps to the terrace of the house he smiledjoyfully and contentedly.Lying in his bed, rubbing his soft plumpchest, he thought: "From the point of view ofan honest man, what I have done is shameful,immoral. Grigory, ... I have robbed my neighbour;but after all, I have risked my life atthe front. If the bullet had been a little moreto the right it would have gone through myhead and I should have been feeding the wormsnow. These days one has to live passionatelyfor each moment as it comes. I am allowed todo anything." He was momentarily horrifiedby his own thoughts; but his imagination againconjured up the terrible moment of attack, and620

how he had raised himself from his dead horseonly to fall again, shot down by bullets. Ashe dropped off to sleep he decided: "Timeenough for this tom.orrow, but now to rest."Next morning, finding himself alone withAksinya in the dining-room, he went towardsher, a guilty smile on his face. But she pressedagainst the wall and stretched out her hands,scorching him with her frenzied whisper:"Keep away, you devil!"Life dictates its own unwritten laws to man.Within three days Yevgeny went again toAksinya at night, and she did not refuse him.XXIII!A small garden was attached to the eyehospital. There are many such clipped, uninvitinggardens on the outskirts of Moscow, wherethe eye finds no rest from the stony, heavydreariness of the city, and as one looks atthem the memory recalls still more sharplyand painfully the wild freedom of the forest.Autumn reigned in the hospital garden. Thepaths were covered with leaves of orange andbronze, a morning frost crumpled the flowersand flooded the patches of grass with a waterygreen. On fine days the patients wanderedalong the paths, listening to the church bells621

of pious Moscow. When the weather was bad(and such days were frequent that year) theywandered from room to room or lay silentlyon their beds, boring themselves and oneanother.The civilian patients were in the majority inthe hospital, and the wounded soldiers wereaccommodated in one room. There were five ofthem: Jan Vareikis, a tall, ruddy-faced, blueeyedLatvian; Ivan Vrublevsky, a handsomeyoung dragoon from the Vladimir Province; aSiberian rifleman named Kosykh; a restlesslittle yellow soldier called Burdin, and Grigory.At the end of September another was added tothe number.While they were drinking their evening teathey heard a long ring at the bell. Grigorylooked out into the corridor. Three people hadentered the hall, a nurse and a man in a longCaucasian coat holding a third man under thearmpits. The man's dirty soldier's tunic withdark blood-stains on the chest indicated thathe had only just arrived from the station. Hewas operated on the same evening. A fewminutes after he had been taken into the operatingtheatre, the other patients heard the muffledsound of singing. While he was under chloroformand the surgeon was removing the remainsof one eye, which had been shattered by622

a shell splinter, he sang and uttered unintelligiblecurses. After the operation he wasbrought into the ward. When the effectsof thechloroform passed, he informed the othersthat he had been wounded on the Germanfront, that his name was Garanzha, and thathe was a machine-gunner, a Ukrainian fromChernigov Province. He made a particvilarfriend of Grigory, whose bed was next to his,and after the evening inspection they wouldtalk a long time in undertones."Well, Cossack, how goes it?" he openedtheir first conversation."Rotten.""Going to lose your eye?""I'm having injections.""How many have you had?""Eighteen so far.""Does it hurt?""No, I enjoy it.""Ask them to cut the eye right out.""What for? Not everybody has to be oneeyed.""That'sso."Grigory's jaundiced, venomous neighbourwas discontented with everything. He cursedthe government, the war, his own lot, thehospital food, the cook, the doctors, everythinghe could lay his tongue to.623

"What did we, you and I, go to war for,that's what I want to know?""For the same reason everybody else did.""Hah! You're a fool! I've got to chew it allover for you! It's the bourgeoisie we're fightingfor,don't you see? What are the bourgeoisie?They're birds among the fruit-trees."He explained the difficult words to Grigory,peppering his speech with invective. "Don'ttalk so fast. I can't understand your Ukrainianlingo. Speak slower," Grigory would interrupthim."I'm not talking so quick as that, my boy.You think you're fighting for the tsar, but whatis the tsar? The tsar's a grabber, and thetsaritsa's a whore, and they're both a weighton our backs. Don't you see? The factory-ownerdrinks vodka, while the soldier kills the lice.The factory-owner takes the profit, the workergoes bare. That's the system we've got. Serveon, Cossack, serve on! You'll earn anothera good one, made of oak."cross,He spoke in Ukrainian, but on the rare occasionswhen he grew excited, he would breakinto pure Russian generously sprinkled withinvective.Day after day he revealed truths hithertounknown to Grigory, explaining the realcauses of war, and jesting bitterly at the auto-624

cratic government. Grigory tried to raise objections,but Garanzha silenced him with simple,murderously simple questions, and he wasforced to agree.Most terrible of all, Grigory began to thinkGaranzha was right, and that he was impotentto oppose him. He realized with horror that theintelligent and bitter Ukrainian was graduallybut surely destroying all his former ideasabout the tsar, the country, and his ownmilitary duty as a Cossack. Within a month ofthe Ukrainian's arrival the whole system onwhich Grigory's life had been based was asmoking ruin. It had already grown rotten,eaten up with the canker of the monstrousabsurdity of the war, and it needed only a jolt.That jolt was given, and Grigory's artlessstraightforward mind awoke. He tossed aboutseeking a way out, a solution to his predicament,and gladly found it in Garanzha'sanswers.Late one night Grigory rose from his bedand awoke Garanzha. He sat on the edge of theUkrainian's bed. The greenish light of theSeptember moon streamed through the window.Garanzha's cheeks were dark with furrows,the black sockets of his eyes gleamed humidly.He yawned and wrapped his legs in theblanket.40—1933 625

"Why aren't you asleep?""I can't sleep," Grigory replied. "Tell methis one thing. War is good for one and bad foranother, isn't it?""Well?" the Ukrainian yawned."Wait!" Grigory whispered, blazing withanger. "You say we are being driven to deathfor the benefit of the rich. But what aboutthe people? Don't they understand? Aren'tthere any who could tell them, who couldgo and say: 'Brothers, this is what you aredying for'?""How could they? Tell me that! Supposingyou did. Here we are whispering like geese inthe reeds, but talk out loud, and they'll have abullet ready for you. The people are deep inignorance. The war will wake them up. Afterthe thunder comes the storm.""But what's to be done about it? Tell me,you snake! You've stirred up my heart.""And what does your heart tell you?""I can't understand what it's saying," Grigoryconfessed."The man who tries to push me over thebrink will get pushed over himself. Wemustn't be afraid to turn our rifles against them.We must shoot the ones who're sending thepeople into hell." Garanzha rose in his bedand, grinding his teeth, stretched out his hand:626

"A great wave will rise and sweep them allaway.""So you think everything has to be turnedupside down?""Yes! The government must be thrown asidelike an old rag. The lords must be stripped oftheir fleece, for they've been murdering thepeople too long already.""And what will you do with the war whenyou've got the new government? We'll stillgo on scrapping, and if we don't, then ourchildren will. How are you going to root outwar, when men have fought for ages?""It's true, war has gone on since the beginningof time, and will go on so long as we don't$weep away the evil government. But whenevery government is a workers' governmentthey won't fight any more. That's what's got tobe done. And it shall be done, may the devilbury them! It shall be. And when the Germans,and the French and all the others have got aworkers' and peasants' government, whatshall we have to fight about then? Away withfrontiers, away with anger! One beautiful lifeall over the world. Ah. . .!" Garanzha sighed,and, twisting the ends of his whiskers, his oneeye glittering, smiled dreamily. "Grisha,I'd pour out my blood drop by drop to live tosee that day."40* 627

They talked on until the dawn came. In thegrey shadows Grigory fell into a troubledsleep.the morning they were awakened by theInsound of talking and a voice crying. IvanVrublevsky was lying face downwards on thebed sobbing, while round him stood the nurse,Jan Vareikis and Kosykh."What's he howling for?" Burdin grunted,poking his head out from under the bedclothes."He's broken his eye. He was just takingit out of the glass and it dropped on the floor,"Kosykh answered with more malice thansympathy.A Russified German, a seller of false eyes,had been moved by patriotic feelings to supplythe army with his products free of charge. Theday before, Vrublevsky had been fitted outwith a glass eye made so skilfully that it lookedjust as blue and handsome as the real one. Thework was so perfect that even close examinationcould not distinguish the imitation fromthe genuine. Vrublevsky had been laughingand happy as a child over it."I'll go home," he said in his broad Volgaaccent, "and catch any girl I like. I'll getmarried, then I'll confess that my eye's a glassone."628

"He will, too, the devil!" chuckled Burdin.And now an accident had happened and thehandsome young man would return to his villagea one-eyed cripple."They'll give you a new one, don't howl/',Grigory consoled him.Vrublevsky raised his tear-stained face fromthe pillow, revealing the empty socket."No, they won't. That eye cost three hundredrubles. They'll never give me a new one.""And what an eye it was! Every little linewas there!" Kosykh gloated.After breakfast Vrublevsky went off withthe nurse to the German's shop and the Germangave him a new eye,"Why, the Germans are better than theRussians!" Vrublevsky exclaimed, wild withjoy. "A Russian merchant wouldn't give youa kopeck, but this one gives me a new eyewithout a murmur."September passed. The days dragged by interminably,filled with deadly boredom. Inthe morning at nine o'clock the patients wereserved tea-two miserable, transparent slicesof French bread, and a knob of butter the sizeof a finger-nail. After dinner they were stillhungry. In the evening they had tea again,sipping cold water with it to break themonotony. The patients in the military ward629

changed. First the Siberian went, then theLatvian. At the end of October Grigory wasdischarged.The hospital surgeon examined Grigory'seyes and pronounced their sight satisfactory.But he was transferred to another hospital, asthe wound in his head had unexpectedly openedand was suppurating slightly. As he said goodbyeto Garanzha, Grigory remarked;"Shall we be meeting again?""Two mountains never meet, but. .". ."Well, khokhol, thank you for openingmy eyes. I can see now, and I'm not good toknow.""When you get back to your regiment tellthe Cossacks what I've told you.""I will.""And if you ever happen to be in ChernigovDistrict, in Gorokhovka, ask for the smithAndrei Garanzha, I'll be glad to see you. Solong, boy."They embraced. The picture of the Ukrainian,with his one eye, and pleasant lines runningfrom his mouth across his sandy cheeks, remainedlong in Grigory's memory.Grigory spent ten days in the secondhospital. He nursed unformulated decisions inhis mind. The jaundice of Garanzha's teachingwas working within him. He talked but little630

1with his neighbours in the ward, and a certainconfusion and alarm was manifest in all hismovements."A restless fellow," was the appraisal thehead doctor gave him, glancing hurriedly athis non-Russian face during the first examination.For the first few days Grigory was feverish,and lay in his bed listening to the ringing inhis ears.Then an incident occurred.A high personage, one of the imperial family,came to pay a visit to the hospital. Informedof this in the morning, the staff of the hospitalscurried about like mice in a burning granary.They redressed the wounded, changed the bedclothesbefore the time appointed, and oneyoung doctor even tried to instruct the menhow to reply to the personage and how toconduct themselves in conversation with him.The anxiety was communicated to the patientsalso, and some of them began to talk inwhispers long before the time fixed for thevisit. At noon a motor horn sounded at thefront door, and accompanied by the usualnumber of officials and officers, the personagepassed through the hospital portals.One of the wounded, a gay fellow and ajoker, assured his fellow patients afterwards63

that at the moment of the distinguishedvisitors' entry the Red Cross flag hangingoutside the hospital suddenly began to flutterfuriously,although the weather was unusuallyfine and still, while on the other side of thestreet the dandy with elegant curls portrayedon a hairdresser's signboard actually made alow bow.The distinguished personage went the roundof the wards, asking the usual absurd questionsbefitting one of his position and circumstances.The wounded, their eyes staring out oftheir heads, replied in accordance with the instructionsof the junior surgeon. "Just so. YourImperial Highness," and "Not at all. YourImperial Highness." The chief surgeon suppliedcommentaries to their answers, squirming likea grass-snake pierced by a fork; he was apitiful sight even from afar. The regal personagedistributed little icons to the soldiers.The throng of brilliant uniforms and the heavywave of expensive perfumes rolled towardsGrigory. He stood by his bed, unshaven, gaunt,with feverish eyes. The slight tremor of thebrown skin over his angular cheek-bones revealedhis agitation."There they are!" he was thinking. "Thereare the people who get pleasure out of drivingus from our native villages and flinging us632

to death. Ah! The swine! Curse them! Thereare the lice on our backs. Was it for them wetrampled other people's grain with our horsesand killed strangers? And I crawled over thestubble and shouted? And our fear? Theydragged us away from our families, starved usin barracks." The burning thoughts choked hisbrain. His lips quivered with fury. "Look attheir fat shining faces! I'd send you out there,curse you. Put you on a horse, with a rifle onyour back, load you with lice, feed you onrotten bread and maggoty meat!"Grigory's eyes bored into the sleek-facedofficers of the retinue, and rested on themarsupial cheeks of the royal personage."A Don Cossack, Cross of St. George," thechief surgeon smirked as he pointed to Grigory,and from the tone of his voice one wouldhave thought it was he who had won thecross."From what district?" the personage inquired,holding an icon ready,"Vyeshenskaya, Your Imperial Highness.""How did you win the cross?"Boredom and satiety lurked in the clear,empty eyes of the royal personage. His lefteyebrow was artificially raised, in a mannerintended to give his face greater expression.For a moment Grigory felt cold, and a queer41—1933 633

chopping sensation went on inside him. He hadfelta similar sensation when going into attack.His lips twisted and quivered irresistibly."Excuse me. ... I badly want to. . , . YourImperial. . . . Just a little need." Grigory swayedas though his back were broken, and pointedunder the bed.The personage's left eyebrow rose stillhigher. The hand holding the icon half-extendedtowards Grigory froze stiffly. His flabbylips gaping with astonishment, the personageturned to a grey-haired general at his side andasked him something in English. A hardlyperceptible embarrassment troubled the membersof his suite. A tall officer with epaulettestouched his eye with his white gloved hand;a second bowed his head; a third glanced inquiringlyat his neighbour. The grey-hairedgeneral smiled respectfully and replied inEnglish to His Imperial Highness, and HisHighness was pleased to thrust the iconinto Grigory's hand, and even to bestowon him the highest of honours, a touch on theshoulder.After the guests had departed Grigorydropped on to his bed and, burying his face inhis pillow, lay for some minutes, his shouldersshaking. It was impossible to tell whether hewas crying or laughing. Certain it is that he634

.rose with dry eyes. He was immediatelysummoned to the room of the chief surgeon."You common lout!" the doctor began,crushing his mousy-coloured beard in hisfingers."I'm not a lout, you snake!" Grigory replied,striding towards the doctor. "I never saw youat the front." Then, recovering his self-control,he said quietly: "Send me home."The doctor retreated behind his writingtable, saying more gently: "We'll send you!You can go to the devil!"Grigory went out, his lips trembling with asmile, his eyes glaring. For his monstrous, unpardonablebehaviour in the presence of theroyal personage he was deprived of his foodfor three days. But his comrades in the ward,and the cook, a soft-hearted man who sufferedfrom rupture, kept him supplied,XXIVIt was evening of November the fourth whenGrigory on his way from the station arrived atthe first village in his own district. Yagodnoyewas only a few versts distant. As he passeddown the street children were singing a Cossacksong under the river willows:With shining swords the Cossacks ride. . .41* 635

As he listened to the familiar words a chillgripped his heart and hardened his eyes.Avidly sniffing in the scent of the smoke comingfrom the chimneys, he strode through thevillage,the song following him."And I used to sing that song, but now myvoice is gone and life has broken off the song.Here am I going to stay with another man'swife, no comer of my own, no home, like awolf," he thought, walking along at a steady,tired pace, and bitterly smiling at his ownqueerly twisted life. He climbed out of thevillage, and at the top of the hill turned tolook back. The yellow light of a hanging-lampshone through the window of the last house,and in its light he saw an elderly woman sittingat a spinning-wheel.He went on, walking through the damp,frosty grass at the side of the road. He spentthe night in a little village, and set out againas soon as day was dawning. He reachedYagodnoye in the evening. Jumping across thefence, he went past the stables. The sound ofSashka's coughing arrested him."Grandad Sashka, you asleep?" he shouted."Wait, who is that? I know the voice. Whois it?"Sashka came out, throwing his old coataround his shoulders. "Holy fathers. . . !636

Grisha! Where the devil have you comefrom?"They embraced. Gazing up into Grigory'sface, Sashka said: "Come in and have asmoke.""No, not now. I will tomorrow. I./'. ."Come in, I tell you."Grigory unwillingly followed him in, andsat down on the wooden bunk while the oldman recovered from a fit of coughing."Well, Grandad, so you're still alive. Stillwalking theearth?""Ah, I'm like a flint. There'll be no wearwith me.""And how's Aksinya?""Aksinya? Praise be, she's all right."The old man coughed violently. Grigoryguessed it was a pretence to hide his embarrassment,"Where did you bury Tanya?""In theorchard under a poplar.""Well, tell me all the news.""My cough's been troubling me a lot,Grisha.""Well?""We're all alive and well. The master drinksbeyond all sense, the fool.""How's Aksinya?"637

"She's a housemaid now. You might have asmoke. Try my tobacco, it's first-rate,""I don't want to smoke. Talk, or I'm leaving!I feel. .". . Grigory turned heavily, and thewooden bunk creaked under him. "I feel you'rekeeping something from me, like a stone underyour coat. Strike!""And I will strike! I can't keep silent, Grisha,and silence would be shameful.""Tell me, then," Grigory said, letting hishand drop caressingly on the old man's shoulder.He waited, bowing his back."You've been nursing a snake," Sashkasuddenly exclaimed in a harsh, shrill voice."You've been feeding a serpent. She's beenplaying about with Yevgeny."A stream of sticky spittle ran down over theold man's scarred chin. He wiped it away anddried his hand on his trousers."Are you telling the truth?""I've seen them with my own eyes. Everynight he goes to her, I expect he's with hernow,""So that's how it is!" Grigory cracked hisknuckles and sat with hunched shoulders fora long time, the muscles of his face working.There was a great vibrant ringing in hisears."A woman's like a cat," Sashka said. "She638

makes up to anyone who strokes her. Don'tyou trust them, don't give them your trust."He rolled a cigarette and thrust it intoGrigory's hand. "Smoke!"Grigory took a couple of pulls at thecigarette, then stubbed it out with his fingers.He went out without a word. He stopped bythe window of the servants' quarters, pantingheavily, and raised his hand several times toknock. But each time his hand fell as thoughstruck away. When at last he did knock hetapped at first with his finger; but then, losingpatience, he threw himself against the walland beat at the window furiously with his fist.The frame rang with the blows, and the blue,nocturnal light shimmered on the pane.Aksinya's frightened face appeared at thewindow for an instant, then she opened thedoor and gave a little scream. He embracedher, peering into her eyes."You knocked so hard you terrified me. I."wasn't expecting you. My dear. . ."I'm frozen."Aksinya felt his big body shivering violentlyalthough his hands were feverishly hot. Shefussed about unnecessarily, lighted the lampand ran about the room, a downy shawl aroundher plump, white shoulders. Finally she lit afirein the stove.639

"I wasn't expecting you. It's so long sinceyou wrote. I thought you'd never come. Didyou get my last letter? I was going to send youa parcel, but then I thought I'd wait to see if."I received a letter. . .She cast sidelong glances at Grigory, herred lips frozen in a smile.Grigory sat down on the bench without takingoff his greatcoat. His unshaven cheeksburned, and his lowered eyes were heavilyshadowed by the cowl of his coat. He beganto unfasten the cowl, but suddenly turned tofidget with his tobacco pouch, and searchedhis pockets for paper. With measureless yearninghe ran his eyes over Aksinya's face.She had devilishly improved during hisabsence, he thought. Her beautiful head wascarried with a new, authoritative poise, andonly her eyes and the large, fluffy ringlets ofher hair were the same. But her destructive,fiery beauty did not belong to him. How couldit, when she was the mistress of the master'sson!"You don't look like a housemaid, you'remore like a housekeeper."She gave him a startled look, and laughedforcedly.Dragging his pack behind him, Grigory wenttowards the door.640

"Where are you going?""To have a smoke.""I've fried you some eggs.""I won't be long."On the steps Grigory opened his pack, andfrom the bottom drew out a hand-paintedkerchief carefully wrapped in a clean shirt. Hehad bought it from a Jewish trader in Zhitomirfor two rubles and had guarded it as the appleof his eye, occasionally pulling it out andenjoying its wealth of rainbow colours, foretastingthe rapture with which Aksinya would bepossessed when he should spread it open beforeher. A miserable gift! Could he compete inpresents with the son of a rich landowner?Choking down a spasm of dry sobbing, hetore the kerchief into little pieces and pushedthem under the step. He threw the pack on tothe bench in the passage and went back to theroom."Sit down and I'll pull your boots off,Grisha."With white hands long divorced from hardwork she struggled with Grigory's heavy armyboots. Falling at his knees, she wept long andsilently. Grigory let her weep to her heart'scontent, then asked:"What's the matter? Aren't you glad to seeme?"641

In bed, he quickly fell asleep. Aksinya wentout to the steps in only her shift. She stoodthere in the cold, piercing wind, with her armsround the damp pillar, listening to the funeraldirge of the northern blast, and did not changeher position until dawn came.In the morning Grigory threw his greatcoatacross his shoulders and went to the house.The old master was standing on the steps,dressed in a fur jacket and a yellow Astrakhancap."Why, there he is, the Cavalier of St. George!But you're a man, my friend!" He salutedGrigory and stretched out his hand."Staying long?""Two weeks. Your Excellency,""We buried your daughter. A pity ... apity"Grigory was silent. Yevgeny came on to thesteps, drawing on his gloves."Why, it's Grigory. Where have you arrivedfrom?"Grigory's eyes darkened, but he smiled,"Back on leave, from Moscow.""You were wounded in the eye, weren't you?I heard about it. What a fine lad he's grown,hasn't he. Papa?"He nodded to Grigory and turned towardsthe stables, calling to the coachman:642

"The horse, Nikitich!"With a dignified air Nikitich finished harnessingthe horse and, giving Grigory an unfriendlylook, led the old grey trotting horseto the steps. The frost-bound earth rustledunder the wheels of the light droshki."Your Honour, let me drive you for thesake of old times," Grigory turned to Yevgenywith an ingratiating smile."The poor chap doesn't guess," Yevgenythought, smiling with satisfaction, and his eyesglittered behind hispince-nez."All right, jump up.""What, hardly arrived and you're alreadyleaving your young wife? Didn't you missher?" Old Listnitsky smiled benevolently.Grigory laughed, "A wife isn't a bear. Shewon't run off into the forest."He mounted the driver's seat, thrust theknout under it and gathered up the reins."Ah, I'll give you a drive, YevgenyNikolayevich!""Drive well and I'll stand you a tip.""Haven't I already got enough to be thankfulfor. . . , I'm grateful to you for feeding . . .."my Aksinya . . . for giving her ... a piece. . .Grigory's voice suddenly broke, and avague, unpleasant suspicion troubled thelieutenant. "Surely he doesn't know? Of course648

not! How could he?" He leaned back in hisseat and lit a cigarette."Don't be long," old Listnitsky called afterthem.Needle-sharp snow dust flew from under thewheels.Grigory pulled with the reins at the horse'smouth and urged it to its topmost speed. Withinfifteen minutes they had crossed the rise, andthe house was out of sight. In the very firstdell they came to, Grigory jumped down andpulled the knout from under the seat."What's the matter?" the lieutenant frowned."I'll show you!"Grigory swung the knout and brought itdown with terrible force across the lieutenant'sface. Then, seizing it by the lash, he beat theofficer with the butt on the face and arms,giving him no time to get up. A fragment ofthe glass from his pince-nez cut Listnitskyabove the brow, and a little stream of bloodflowed into his eyes. At first he covered his facewith his hands, but the blows grew morefrequent. He jumped up, his face disfiguredwith blood and fury, and attempted to defendhimself; but Grigory fell back and paralyzedhis arm with a blow on the wrist."That's for Aksinya! That's for me! ForAksinya! Another for Aksinya! For me!"644

The knout whistled, the blows slappedsoftly. At last Grigory threw Yevgeny down onthe hard ruts of the road and rolled him on theground, kicking him savagely with the ironshodheels of his boots. When he had nostrength to do more he got on to the drozhkiseat, and sawing at the horse's mouth, gallopedit back. He left the droshki by the gate, and,seizing the knout, stumbling over the flaps ofhis open greatcoat, he rushed into the servants'quarters.As the door crashed open, Aksinya glancedround."You snake! You bitch!" The knout whistledand curled around her face.Gasping for breath, Grigory ran into theyard, and heedless of Sashka's questionings,left the estate. When he had covered a verst hewas overtaken by Aksinya. Panting violently,she walked along silently at his side, occasionallypulling at his sleeve. At a fork in the road,by a brown wayside cross, she said in astrange, distant voice:"Grisha, forgive me!"He bared his teeth, and hunching his shoulders,turned up the collar of his greatcoat.Aksinya was left standing by the cross. Hedid not look back once, and did not see herhand stretched out to him,645

At the crest of the hill above Tatarsky henoticed in astonishment that he was stillcarryingthe knout; he threw it away, then strodedown into the village. Faces were pressedagainst the windows, amazed to see him,and the 'women he met bowed low as ,hepassed.At the gate of his own yard a slim, blackeyedbeauty ran to meet him, flung her armsaround his neck and buried her face on hisbreast. Pressing her cheeks with his hands, heraised her head and recognized Dunya.Pantelei Prokofyevich limped down thesteps, and Grigory heard his mother startweeping aloud in the house. With his left handhe embraced his father; Dunya was kissinghis right hand.The almost painfully familiar creak of thesteps, and Grigory was in the porch. Hisageing mother ran to him light-footed as a girl,wetted the lapels of his greatcoat with hertears, and embraced her son closely, mutteringsomething disconnected in her own motherlanguagethat could not be put into words;while by the door, clinging to itto save herselffrom falling, stood Natalya, a tortured smileon her pale face. Cut down by Grigory'shurried, distracted glance, she dropped to thefloor.646

That night in bed, Pantelei gave his wife adig in the ribs and whispered:"Go quietly and see whether they're lyingtogetheror not.""I made up their bed on the bedstead.""But go on and look, look!"Ilyinichna got up and peeped through a crackin the door leading to the best room."They're together.""Well, God be praised! God be praised!" theold man whimpered, raising himself on hiselbow and crossing himself.

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