And quiet flows the Don; a novel (37 page)

round the orchard into the estate. "A sticker!" Grigory thought, as he smiled at his brother and at the same time ran his eye over the captain's sturdy 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 sturdy reddish horse and, turning his whole body in the saddle, surveyed Grigory smilingly. Then he rode on, and was hidden by the oncoming ranks of other Cossacks, familiar and unfamiliar.

"Hullo, Melekhov! Regards from the village."

"So you're joining us?" Grigory grinned, recognizing Mikhail Koshevoi by the golden slab of 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 dressed only in his shirt and hopping on one leg

trying to thrust the other into his sharovari as he ran.

"Hey, here's Zharkov!" rose a shout from the ranks.

"Hullo, stallion! Have they had to hobble you then?"

"How's my mother?"

"Still alive. She sent her love, but we wouldn't take any presents. We had enough to carry as it was."

Yegor listened with an unusually serious expression to the reply, and then sat down bare-bottomed in the grass, hiding his disappointed face and struggling ineffectually to get his trembling leg into his trousers.

Half-dressed Cossacks stood behind the blue-painted fence; on the other side the reserve squadron from the Don flowed along the chestnut-lined road into the yard.

"That you, Alexander?"

"Yes, it's me."

"Andreyan! Why, you lop-eared devil, don't you 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."

"Where was he from?"

"Vyeshenskaya stanitsa, Zaton."

"What do you want him for?" a third voice broke 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. Bullet in the chest, just under his left tit."

"Anyone here from Chornaya Rechka?"

"No. On you go."

The squadron was drawn up in the yard. The other Cossacks returned to their bathe and were joined soon after by the new arrivals. Grigory dropped down at his brother's side. The damp, crumbling clay of the dam had an unpleasant raw smell about it; the water was bright-green at the edges. Grigory sat killing the lice in the folds and seams of his shirt, and told his brother:

"Pyotr, I'm played out. I'm like a man who only needs one more blow to kill him. It's as though I'd been between millstones; they've crushed me and spat me out." His voice was cracked and" complaining, and a dark furrow (only now, with a feeling of anxiety, did Pyotr notice it) slanting diagonally across his forehead, made a startling impression of change and alienation.

"Why, what's the matter?" Pyotr asked as he pulled off his shirt, revealing his bare white body with the clean-cut line of sunburn around the neck.

"It's like this," Grigory said hurriedly, and his voice grew strong in its bitterness. "They've set us fighting one another, worse than a pack of wolves. Hatred everywhere. Sometimes I think to myself if I bit a man he'd get the rabies."

"Have you had to . . . kill anyone?"

"Yes," Grigory almost shouted, screwing up his shirt and throwing it down at his feet. Then he sat pressing his throat with his fingers, as though pushing down a word that was choking him, and turned his eyes away,

"Tell me," Pyotr ordered, avoiding his brother's eyes.

"My conscience is killing me. I sent my lance through one man ... in hot blood ... I couldn't have done it otherwise. . . . But why did I cut down the other?"

"Well?"

"It isn't 'well'! I cut down a man, and I'm sick at heart because of him, the swine! The bastard comes haunting me in my dreams. Was I to blame?"

"You're not used to it yet; you'll get over it,"

"Are you stopping with our squadron?" Gri-gory asked 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 to some infantry division or other. We're catching it 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 and went to the edge of the dam, sunburnt and well-built in spite of his stooped shoulders; he was older than when they last saw each other, Pyotr thought. Raising his hands, he dived into the water; a heavy green wave closed over him and billowed away. He struck out towards the group of Cossacks larking about in the middle, his hands slapping the water affectionately, his shoulders moving lazily.

Pyotr was slow in removing from his neck the cross with the prayer sewn to it. He thrust the string under his pile of clothes, entered the water with timorous caution, wetted his chest and shoulders, then pressed forward with a groan and swam to overtake Grigory. They made for the opposite bank, which was sandy and covered with bushes. The movement through the water cooled and soothed, and Grigory spoke re-strainedly and without his previous passion.

"I've been so fed up I've let the lice eat me!" he remarked. "If I were only at home now! I'd fly there if I had wings. Just to take one little peep! How are they all?"

"Natalya is living with us."

"How are Father and Mother?"

"All right. But Natalya's still waiting for you. She still believes you'll go back to her."

Grigory snorted and spat out water without answering. Pyotr turned his head and tried to look 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 the broken ends?"

"Well, she lives on hope. . . . She's a fine little wo^man. Strict too. She won't let anybody play about with her!"

"She ought to get a husband."

"Strange words from you!"

"Nothing strange about them. That's how it ought to be."

"Well, it's your business. I shan't interfere."

"And how's Dunya?"

"She's a woman. Brother! She's grown so much this year that you wouldn't know her."

"Is that so!" Grigory said, surprised and a little cheered.

"God's truth! She'll be getting married next, and we shan't even get our whiskers into the vodka. Or we may even get killed off, damn them!"

"Nothing simpler!"

They lay side by side on the sand, basking in the mild warmth of the sun.

Misha Koshevoi swam past. "Come on, Gri-sha, 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 war broke out."

"What was she doing there?"

"She'd come to get some things of hers from her husband."

Grigory coughed and buried the beetle with a sweep of his hand.

"Did you speak to her?"

"Only passed the time of day. She was looking well, and cheerful. She seems to have an easy time at the estate."

"And what about Stepan?"

"He gave her her odds and ends all right. Behaved decently enough. But you keep your eyes open! I've been told that when he was drunk he swore he'd put a bullet through you in the first battle. He can't forgive you."

"1 know."

"I got myself a new horse," Pyotr changed the conversation.

"Sold the bullocks?"

"For a hundred and eighty. And the horse cost a hundred and fifty. Not a bad one, either."

"What's the grain like?"

"Good. They took us off before we could get it in."

The talk turned to domestic matters, and the intensity of feeling passed. Grigory drank in Pyotr's news of home. For a brief moment he was living there again, just an ordinary self-willed lad.

"Well, let's have another dip and get dressed," Pyotr suggested, brushing the sand off his damp belly. His back and arms were covered with gooseflesh.

They returned with a crowd of Cossacks to the yard. At the orchard fence Stepan Astakhov overtook them. He was combing his hair back under the peak of his cap as he walked. Drawing level with Grigory, he said:

"Hullo, friend!"

"Hullo!" Grigory halted and turned to him with a touch of embarrassment and guilt in his face.

"You haven't forgotten me, have you?"

"Almost."

"But I remember you!" Stepan smiled derisively and passed on, slipping his arm round the shoulder of a corporal walking ahead of them.

After sundown a telephone message came from the divisional staff for Grigory's regiment to return to the front. The squadrons were assembled within fifteen minutes, and rode off singing to close a breach made in the line by the enemy cavalry.

As they said good-bye to each other Pyotr thrust 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 away in front of the rest. Death has a fancy for the hot-blooded ones. Look after yourself," Pyotr shouted,

"What's the prayer for then?"

Pyotr waved his hand.

For some time the squadrons rode without observing any precautions. Then the sergeants gave orders for the utmost possible quiet, and for all cigarettes to be put out. Flares, adorned with tails of lilac smoke, soared high over a distant wood.

A small brown Morocco notebook. The corners were frayed and broken; it must have spent a long time in its owner's pocket. The pages were covered with rather elaborate sloping handwriting. ,

, . . For some time now I have felt this need for putting pen to paper. I want to keep a sort of "college diary," First of all, about her. In February (I don't remember the date) I got to know her through a neighbour of hers, a student called Boyaryshkin. I ran into them outside a cinema. When Boyaryshkin introduced her, he said: "Liza comes from the Vyeshenskaya sta-nitsa. Be nice to her, Timofei. She's an excellent girl." I remember uttering some incoherent remark and taking her soft sweaty hand in mine. That was how I met Yelizaveta Mokhova. I realized at once that she had been spoiled. Women like her have something in their eyes that tells you too much. The impression she created on me, I admit, was not very favourable. It must have been that clammy hand of hers. I have never met anyone whose hands perspired so much; then those eyes, very beautiful eyes actually, with a glorious hazel tint in them, and yet unpleasant.

32* 499

Vasya, old friend, I find myself consciously touching up my style, even resorting to imagery, for when this "diary" reaches you in Semi-palatinsk (I'm thinking of sending it to you after this affair I have started with Yelizaveta Mokhova is over; it may amuse you) I want you to have a clear idea of what happened. I shall describe things in chronological order. Well, as I have said, I was introduced to her and the three of us went in to see some sentimental cinema rubbish. Boyaryshkin kept quiet (he had toothache, "molar-ache," as he called it) and I found it difficult to make conversation. We turned out to be from the same neighbourhood, that is, from neighbouring stanitsas, but after we had shared a few reminiscences about the beauty of steppe scenery and so on, our talk petered out. I preserved an unconstrained silence, so to speak, and she suffered the lack of conversation without the slightest discomfort. I learned from her that she was a second-year medical student, that she came of a merchant family, and that she 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 the tramstop), she asked me to call on her. I made a note of her address. I think I shall drop in on April 28th.

April 29th

Called on her today, she gave me tea and halvah. As a matter of fact, there is something in her. Sharp tongue, moderately clever, but she's got hold of that Artsibashev do-as-you-please theory, you can smell it a verst off. Came home late. Made myself cigarettes and thought of things completely unconnected with her, mainly money. My suit is in an appalling state, but I have no "capital." On the whole, things are rotten.

May 1st

Today was marked by an event of some importance. While passing the time quite harmlessly in 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 the Cossack's horses with a stick and the Cossack brought his whip into play. (I don't know why, but some people persist in calling a whip a switch. It has its own glorious title-why not use it?) I went up and decided to intervene impelled by the most noble feelings, I assure you. I told the Cossack he was a lout, and one or two other things besides. He was going to take a swing at me with his whip, but I told him pretty firmly that I was a Cossack of Kamenskaya stanitsa

myself and could knock hell out of him any day

of the week. The Cossack happened to be a good-natured fellow, young; hadn't been in the army long enough to get sour. He replied that he was from the stanitsa of Ust-Khoperskaya and a useful man with his fists. We parted peacefully. If he had started anything against me, there would have been a fight; and something rather worse would have happened to my own person. My intervention is to be explained by the fact that Liza was with us and when I am in her presence I am carried away by a purely childish desire to do something heroic. I can actually see myself turning into a young cockerel and feel an invisible red comb sprouting under my cap.. . . What am I coming to!

May 3rd

The only thing to do in my present mood is get drunk. On top of everything I have no money. My trousers are hopelessly split just where it matters 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 remote indeed. Might as well try to sew up a water-melon. Volodka Strezhnev has been round, Tomorrow I shall attend lectures.

m

May 7th

Money from Father. Rather a grumpy letter, but I don't feel a scrap of shame. What if Dad knew his son's moral supports are rotting like this. . . . Have bought a suit. My new tie attracts the attention even of the cabmen. After a shave at the best hairdresser's in town, came out as fresh as a draper's shop assistant. At the corner of the boulevard a policeman smiled at me. The old scoundrel! But what is past is past. ... I saw Liza quite by chance through the window of a tram. She waved her glove and smiled. How do you like that!

May 8th

"To love all ages are submissive. ..." I can still see the mouth of Tatyana's husband gaping up at me like a gun barrel. From my seat in the gallery I had an irresistible desire to spit into it. Whenever I think of that phrase, particularly the "sub-miss-ive" at the end, my jaw aches to yawn. Probably a nervous tick.

But the point is that I, at my age, am in love. Though it makes my hair stand on end to write it. .. . Called on Liza. Began with a very long and high-flown introduction. She pretended not to understand and tried to change the subject. Is it toQ early yet? Devil take it, this new suit

has mixed everything up. When I look at myself in the mirror I feel I am irresistible. Now is the time, I think! Actually, with me it is straightforward accounting that wins the day. If I don't propose now, in two months' time it will be too late; my trousers will be worn out and I won't be able to propose anyhow. As I write this I overflow with self-admiration. What a brilliant combination I am of all the best qualities of the best people of our time. Here you have gentle yet fiery passion as well as the "voice of reason firm." A Russian salad of all the virtues, not to mention a host of other admirable qualities.

Well, I got no further with her than my preliminary introduction. We were interrupted by her landlady, who called her out into the corridor and asked her for a loan. She refused although she had the money. I knew that for a fact and I pictured her face as she refused in that truthful voice of hers and with such sincerity in those hazel eyes. I didn't want to talk about love after that.

May 13th

I am well and truly in love. There can be no doubt about it. Everything tells me so. Tomorrow I shall propose. So far I have not yet worked Qut my part.

May 14th

The thing came about in a most unexpected fashion. It was raining, a nice warm shower. We were walking along the Mokhovaya, the wind was sweeping rain across the pavement. I talked and she was quiet, with her head down as if she were thinking. A trickle of rain ran off the brim of her hat on to her cheek, and she was beautiful. I quote our conversation:

"Yelizaveta Sergeyevna, I have told you what I feel, now it is up to you."

"I doubt the sincerity of your feelings."

I shrugged my shoulders in an idiotic fashion and said icily that I was ready to take an oath, or something of the kind.

She said: "Look here, you are talking like a character out of Turgenev. Can't you make it simpler?"

"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 shall I put it? I like you just a little bit.. . . You're very tall,"

"I'll get taller," I promised.

"But we know each other iso little, we...,"

"In ten years' time we'll know each other a lot better."

She rubbed her wet cheeks with a pink hand and said: "Well, all right then, let's live together. Time will show. But you must let me break off my former attachment first."

"Who is he?" I inquired.

"You don't know him. He's a doctor, a vene-rologist."

"When will you be free?"

"By Friday, I hope."

"Shall we be living together? In the same flat, I mean?"

"Yes, I think it would be more convenient that way. You will move into my flat."

"Why?"

"I have a very comfortable room. It is quite clean and the landlady is a nice person."

I raised no objection. At the corner of the Tverskaya we parted. To the great astonishment of a lady who happened to be passing we kissed.

What does the future hold in store?

May 22nd

Living a life of honey. Today my "honey" mood was clouded by Liza's telling me I must change my underwear. Of course, my under-

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 24th

Today I decided to buy some new underwear but Liza put me to unexpected expense. She suddenly had an irresistible desire to dine at a good restaurant and buy herself a pair of silk stockings. We have dined and bought, but I am in despair. No underwear for me!

May 27th

She's sucking me dry. I am physically no more than a bare sunflower stalk. Not a woman but a smouldering fire!

June 2nd

We woke up today at nine. My accursed habit of wriggling my toes led to the following results. She pulled back the bed-clothes and subjected my foot to a prolonged examination. Then she summed up her observations thus:

"You have a foot like a horse's hoof. Worse! And that hair on your toes-ugh!" She jerked her shoulders in a kind of feverish disgust, buried her head under the bed-clothes and turned away to the wall.

I was confused. I tucked my feet out of sight and touched her on the shoulder.

"Liza!"

"Leave me alone!"

"Liza, this won't do at all. I can't change the shape of my feet, they weren't made to order, you know. And as for the vegetation, you never know where hair will grow next. It grows everywhere. You're a medical student, you ought to know the laws of nature."

She turned over. There was a nasty glint in her hazel eyes.

"For goodness sake buy some deodorant powder. Your feet stink like a corpse."

I remarked judiciously that her hands were always clammy. She remained silent and, to put it in lofty terms, a murky cloud descended on my soul. . . ,

June 4th

Today we went for a boat trip down the river Moskva. Recalled the Don countryside. Liza's conduct is unworthy of her. She keeps making cutting remarks at my expense, and sometimes they are very rude. To pay her back in her own coin 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 to her. She is simply spoiled. But I fear my influ-

6nce will not be strong enough to produce any radical change in her character. A lovable, spoiled little girl. A little girl, moreover, who has seen things that I know of only by hearsay. On the way home she dragged me into a chemist's and, with a smile on her face, bought talcum powder and some other rubbish. "This'll keep the smell down."

I made a gallant bow and thanked her.

Absurd, but there it is.

June 7th

She has really very little intellect, but she knows all the other things.

Every night before going to bed I wash my feet in hot water, pour eau-de-Cologne over them and powder them with some other disgusting stuff.

June 16 th

Every day she becomes 2Tiore and more intolerable. Yesterday she had an attack of hysterics. It is very hard to live with such a woman.

June 18th We have absolutely nothing in common! We are not even talking the same language.

This morning she went to my pocket for money before going to the baker's, and came across this little book. She looked at it.

"What's this you are carrying about?"

I felt hot all over. Suppose she glanced through it? I was surprised to hear myself answer in such a natural voice: "Just a notebook for calculations."

She pushed it back into my pocket quite indifferently and went out. I must be more careful. Direct impressions of this kind are only worth while when the other person knows nothing about them.

They shall be a source of entertainment to my friend Vasya.

June 21st

I 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 a hand in her development? These are questions that interest me intensely. She is devilishly beautiful. She takes pride in the perfection of her figure. It is just a cult of self-adoration-nothing else exists for her. I have tried several times to talk to her seriously. ... It would be easier to convince an Old Believer that God does not exist than to re-educate Liza.

Life together has become impossible and absurd. Yet I hesitate to break things off. I must confess that in spite of everything I like her. She has grown upon me.

June 24th

It all came out at once. We had a heart-to-heart talk today and she told me I could not satisfy her physically. The break is not yet official, in a few days probably.

June 26th

What she needs is a stallion! A real one!

June 28th

It is very difficult for me to give her up. She drags me down like mud. Today we took a ride out to the Vorobyovy Hills. She sat by the hotel window and the sun filtered under the carved roof on to her curls. Her hair is the colour of pure gold. And there's a piece of poetry for you!

July 4th

I have left my work. Liza has left me. Today I drank beer with Strezhnev. Yesterday we drank vodka. Liza and I parted as educated people should, in a practical manner. No nonsense. Today I saw her in Dmitrov Street with a young man in jockey boots. She acknowledged my greeting with restraint. It is about time I stopped writing these notes-the source has run dry.

.5/7

July 30th

I am quite unexpectedly impelled to take up the pen again. War. An explosion of bestial enthusiasm. Every top-hat stinks like a dead dog of patriotism. The other fellows are indignant, but I am gratified. I am eaten up with longing for my . . . "paradise lost." Last night I had a quiet little dream about Liza. She has left a deep mark of yearning. I should be glad of some diversion.

August 1st

I'm fed up with all this noise and fuss. The old feeling of longing has returned. I suck at it as a child sucks a dummy.

August 3rd

A way out! I shall go to the war. Foolish? Very. Shameful?

But what else can I do? Oh for a taste of something different! Yet there was no such feeling of satiety two years ago. Surely I'm not getting old?

August 7th

I am writing in the train. We have just left Voronezh. Tomorrow I shall be home. I have made up my mind, I shall fight for "the Faith, the Tsar, and the Fatherland."

August 12th

What a send-off they gave me. The ataman had a drink or two and made an impassioned speech. Afterwards I told him in a whisper that he was a fool. He was flabbergasted and so offended his cheeks turned green. Then he hissed spitefully: "And you call yourself educated! You wouldn't be one of those we gave the lash in 1905, would you?" I replied that, to my regret, I was not "one of those." My father wept and tried to kiss me with a dewdrop dangling from the tip of his nose. Poor dear father! He ought to be in my shoes. I suggested jokingly that he should come with me, and he exclaimed in alarm: "But what about the farm?" Tomorrow I leave for the station.