And quiet flows the Don; a novel (8 page)

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

XIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pyotr threw the reins down.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, stay where you are."

"Shut up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Show a light," Pyotr demanded.

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

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

Christonya unfastened the traces.

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

"Whoa! Easy there! Easy!"

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

"Seems to be broken," he boomed.

"See if he can walk."

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

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

"Broken, damn it! A horse lost!"

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

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

"Look where you drive, you snake!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Master!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old woman followed Stepan into the shed.

"Which one is it?"

"The black," sighed Stepan.

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

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

Stepan waved his hand and went to the cart.

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

"Let him stay," he replied.

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

W2

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

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

"Which lad is it?"

"Pantelei Melekhov's."

"That's the Turk, isn't it?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

103

of the village came sounds of brawling and singing.

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

"Granny!"

"Who's there?"

"It's me, Aksinya! Get up!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drozdikha sprinkled some salt over the damp sand at her feet and some more into the water, then put the rest in Aksinya's bosom.

"Sprinkle some water over your shoulder. Quickly!"

Aksinya did so. She stared moodily and angrily at Drozdikha's russet cheeks.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all. Go and sleep."

Aksinya ran breathlessly home. The cows were lowing in the yard. Darya, sleepy-eyed and flushed, was driving her cows off to join the village herd. She smiled as she saw Aksinya run 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 in splashes of sound. The village herdsman cracked his stockwhip in the side-street. Aksinya hurriedly drove out the cows, then carried the milk into the porch to strain it. She wiped her hands on her apron, and, lost in thought, poured the milk into the strainer.

A heavy rattle of wheels and snorting of horses in the street. Aksinya set down the pail and went to look out of the front window.

Holding his sabre pommel, Stepan was coming through the wicket-gate. The other Cossacks were galloping away towards the village square. Aksinya crumpled her apron in her fingers and sat down on the bench. Steps in the porch. . . . Steps in the passage.. .. Steps at the very door. . ..

Stepan stood on the threshold, gaunt and estranged.

"Well?"

Aksinya, all her full, buxom body reeling, went to meet him.

"Beat me," she said slowly, and turned sideways towards him.

"Well, Aksinya?"

"I shan't hide. I have sinned. Beat me, Ste-

pan

I"

Her head drawn into her shoulders, crouching down and protecting only her belly with her arms, she faced him. Her eyes stared un-blinkingly from their dark sockets, out of her dumb, fear-distorted face. Stepan swayed and walked past her. His unwashed shirt smelled of male sweat and bitter roadside scents. He dropped on to the bed without removing his cap. He lay for a moment, then jerked his shoulders, and threw off his sword-belt. His blond usually crisp moustache drooped limply. Not turning her head, Aksinya glanced sidelong at

him. Now and then she shuddered. Stepan put his feet on the foot of the bed. The mud slowly oozed from his boots. He stared at the ceiling and 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 stood by the stove. In burning terror she watched her husband's little gristly ears rising and falling as he ate.

Stepan rose from the table and crossed himself.

"Come on, m'dear, tell me about it," he curtly demanded.

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 ground from under Aksinya's feet and flung her towards the door. Her back struck against the door-post, and she groaned dully.

Women are weak and soft in the body, but Stepan could send lusty and sturdy guardsmen flying with a well-aimed blow on the head. It may have been fear that lifted Aksinya, or perhaps it was a woman's will to live-she cam^

to her senses, lay a moment, resting, then scrambled on to all fours.

Stepan was lighting a cigarette in the middle of the room and did not see her rising to her feet. He threw his tobacco pouch on the table, but Aksinya had already slammed the door behind her. He chased after her.

Her head streaming with blood, Aksinya ran towards the fence separating their yard from the Melekhovs'. Stepan overtook her at the fence. His black hand fell like a hawk on her head. His fingers wound into her hair. He tore at it and threw her to the ground, into the cinders that Aksinya dumped by the fence every day.

What if a husband does trample his wife with his boots, his hands behind his back? One-armed Alexei Shamil walked past the gate, looked in, blinked and parted his bushy little beard with a smile; after all it was quite understandable why Stepan should be punishing his lawfully-wedded wife. Shamil was tempted to stop to see whether he would beat her to death or not, but his conscience would not allow him. After all, he wasn't a woman.

Watching Stepan from afar, you v/ould have thought he was doing the Cossack dance. And so Grigory thought, as through the window he saw Stepan jumping up and down. But he

looked again, and flew out of the house. Pressing his heavy fists against his chest, he ran on his 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 at Grigory like a bear.

The Melekhov brothers fought desperately. They pecked at Stepan like carrion-crows at a carcass. Grigory went down several times under Stepan's rock-like fist. He was not quite a match for a hardened brawler like Stepan, but the stocky agile Pyotr, although he bent under the blows like a reed before the wind, stood firmly on his feet.