"Why is that?" his master would ask, turning purple with laughter and twitching his moustache,
"Through vodka!" Sashka would bark out the words, blinking rapidly and licking his lips. "Don't drink, Mikolai 'Lexeyevich, or we'll go broke-you and me. We'll drink everything away!"
"Go and drink this away!" old Listnitsky would throw out a twenty-kopeck piece, and Sashka would catch it and hide it in his cap, crying: i
"Well, good-bye. General,"
"Have you watered the horses yet?" his
master would ask with a smile, knowing what was coming.
"Oh, you lousy devil! You son of a swine!" Sashka would turn livid, and his voice would crack with anger. "Sashka forget to water the horses? Eh? Even if I was dead I'd still crawl for a pail to water the horses. And he thinks. .,."
The old man would march off fuming at the undeserved reproach, cursing and shaking his fist. Everything he did was forgiven, even drinking and his familiarity with his master. He was indispensable as a stableman. Winter and summer he slept in the stables, in an empty stall. He was stableman and horse-doctor; he gathered herbs for the horses in the spring, and dug up medicinal roots in the steppe and in the valleys. Bunches of dried herbs hung high up on the stable walls: milfoil to cure heaves, snake-eye grass as an antidote for adder-bite, blackleaf for the feet, a small white herb that grows at the root of the willow to treat sores, and many other little-known remedies for all the various ailments and diseases of horses.
Winter and summer, a subtle throat-tickling aroma hung like a fine-spun web about the stall in which Sashka slept. Hay packed as
hard as a board, covered with a horse-cloth, and his coat, smelling of horse sweat, served as mattress and bedding to his plank-bed. The coat and a sheepskin were all the old man's worldly goods.
Tikhon, a huge, dull-witted Cossack, lived with Lukerya, and secretly nursed a quite needless jealousy of her and Sashka, Once every month he would take the old man by the button of his greasy shirt and lead him round to the back of the house.
"Old man, don't you set your cap at my woman,"
"That depends ..." Sashka would wink significantly.
"Keep off her!" Tikhon begged.
"I like 'em pock-marked, lad. I don't need vodka if you can give me a pock-marked wench. The more pock-marked they are the fonder they are of us menfolk, the hussies."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself at your age,... And you a doctor, too; you look after the horses, you know all the secrets."
"I can do all kinds of doctoring," Sashka persisted.
"Keep off her, grandad. It's wrong,"
"I'll get that Lukerya one of these days, lad, I'll have her, my lad. You can say good-bye to Lukerya, I'll be taking her away from you.
She's like a currant pie, only with the currants picked out. That's the kind for me!"
"Don't let me catch you or I'll kill you!" Tikhon would say, sighing and drawing some copper coins out of his pocket.
And so it went on month after month.
Life mouldered away in a sleepy torpor at Yagodnoye, The estate lay in a valley remote from all frequented roads, and from the autumn onward all communication with the neighbouring villages was broken. In the winter nights the wolf packs emerged from their forest lairs and terrified the horses with their howling. Tikhon used to go to the meadow to frighten them off with his master's double-barrelled gun, and Lukerya, wrapping her ample bottom in her rough blanket, would wait in suspense for the sound of the shots, her little eyes disappearing into her greasy pockmarked cheeks. At such times her imagination transformed the ugly bald-headed Tikhon into a handsome and reckless youth, and when the door of the servants' quarters slammed and Tikhon entered in a cloud of steam, she made room for him on the bed and, cooing affectionately, warmly embraced her frozen mate.
In summer-time Yagodnoye hummed till late at night with the voices of labourers. The master sowed some forty dessiatines with various
crops, and hired labourers to harvest them. Occasionally Yevgeny came home, and would stroll through the orchard and over the meadow, and feel bored. The mornings he spent fishing in the pond. Plump^chested and of medium height, he wore a forelock Cossack fashion on the right side of his head. His officer's tunic fitted him snugly.
During the first days of Grigory's life on the estate he was frequently in the young master's company. One day Venyamin came smiling into the servants' quarters and, bowing his fuzzy head, announced:
"The young master wants you, Grigory."
Grigory, as on many other occasions, went to Yevgeny's room and stood at the door. The master pointed to a chair. Grigory seated himself on 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 gallop him."
"So Grandad Sashka told me."
"What about Sturdy?"
"The bay? He's a fine horse. Shoe's loose though, I'll have to get him reshod."
Screwing up his piercing grey eyes, the young master said: "You have to go to the training camp in May, don't you?"
"Yes."
"I'll speak to the ataman about it. You won't have to go."
"Thank you, sir."
There was a momentary silence. Unbuttoning the collar of his uniform, Yevgeny scratched his womanishly white chest.
"Aren't you afraid of Aksinya's husband taking her from you?"
"He's thrown her over; he won't take her back."
"How do you know?"
"I saw one of the men from the village the other day when I went there for nails. He told me Stepan was drinking hard. Says he doesn't want Aksinya any more, thinks he'll find someone hotter."
"Aksinya's a fine-looking woman," Listni-tsky remarked thoughtfully, staring over Gri-gory's head with something licentious in his smile.
"Not bad," Grigory agreed, and his face clouded.
Yevgeny's furlough was nearly over. He no longer wore a sling and could bend his arm freely.
During the last few days of his stay Yevgeny spent a great deal of his time in Gri-gory's room. Aksinya had whitewashed the
dirt-caked walls, scrubbed the window-frames, and scoured the floor with broken brick. There was a feminine warmth and cosiness in the cheerful empty little room. The officer, his short, fashionably-out coat thrown over his shoulders, chose times for his visits when Gri-gory was occupied with the horses. He would first go into the kitchen, stand joking with Lukerya for a minute or two, then pass into the farther room. He would sit down on a stool, hunching his shoulders, and fix a shamelessly smiling gaze on Aksinya. She was embarrassed by his presence, and the knitting-needles trembled in her fingers.
"Well, Aksinya, how are you getting on?" he would ask, puffing at his cigarette until the room was filled with blue smoke.
"Very well, thank you." Aksinya would raise her eyes, and meeting the lieutenant's transparent gaze, silently telling of his desire, she turned crimson. That naked stare of his was unpleasant and annoying. She replied disconnectedly to his questions, avoiding his eyes and seeking an opportunity to leave the room.
"I must go and feed the ducks now,"
"There's no hurry. The ducks can wait," he smiled, and his legs trembled in his tight riding breeches, and he continued to ply her with questions concerning her past life, using the
deep tones of his voice, which was like his father's and pleading lewdly with his crystal-clear eyes.
When Grigory came in, the fire would die out of Yevgeny's eyes and he would offer him a cigarette, leaving soon after.
"What did he want?" Grigory would ask Aksinya, not looking at her.
"How should I know?" Remembering the officer's look, Aksinya would laugh forcedly. "He came in and just sat there like this, Gri-sha," (she showed him how Yevgeny had sat with hunched back) "and sat and sat until I was sick of him."
"Did you ask him in?" Grigory's eyes would narrow angrily,
"What do I need him for?"
"You watch out, or I'll kick him down the steps one day."
Aksinya would gaze at Grigory with a smile on her lips, and not be sure whether he was speaking in jest or earnest.
XV
The winter broke up during the fourth week of Lent. Open water began to fringe the edges of the Don; the ice, melting from the top, turned grey and swelled spongily. In the evening
a low murmur came from the hills, indicating frost according to the time-honoured saying, but in reality the thaw was already on its way. In the morning the air tingled with the light frost, but by noon the earth was bare in patches, and in the nostrils was the scent of March, of the frozen bark, of cherry-trees, and rotting straw.
Miron Korshunov took his time preparing for the ploughing season, spending the lengthening days in the shed sharpening the teeth of the harrows and repairing cartwheels. Old Grishaka usually fasted in the fourth week of Lent, He would come home from church, blue with cold, and complain to his daughter-in-law Lukinichna:
"That priest makes me sick. He's no good. He's as slow with the service as a carter with a load of eggs."
"You'd have been wiser to have fasted during Passion Week, it's warmer by then."
"Call Natalya," he replied. "I'll get her to make me a pair of warmer stockings."
Natalya still lived in the belief that Grigory would return to her; her heart longed and waited for him, and would not listen to the warning whisper of sober reason. She spent the nights in weary yearning, tossing on her bed, crushed by her undeserved and unexpect-
ed shame. Another woe was now added to the first, and she awaited its sequel in cold terror, fluttering about in her maiden room like a wounded lapwing in a forest glade. From the earliest days of her return home her brother Mitka had begun to give her odd glances, and one day, catching her in the porch, he asked frankly:
"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 terrified by what she saw there. Mitka's green cat's eyes glittered and their slits gleamed greasily in the dim light of the porch. Natalya slammed the door and ran to her grandfather's room, where she stood listening to the wild beating of her heart. The next day Mitka came up to her in the yard. He had been tui^ning over fresh hay for the cattle, and green stalks of grass hung from his straight hair and his fur cap, Natalya was chasing the dogs away from the pigs' trough.
"Don't fret yourself, Natalya...."
"I'll tell Father," she cried, raising her hands to protect herself.
"You're an idiot!"
"Keep away, you beast!"
"What are you shouting for?"
"Go away, Mitka! I'll go at once and tell Father. How dare you look at me like that? Have you no shame! It's a wonder the earth doesn't open and swallow you up."
"Well, it doesn't, does it?" Mitka stamped with his boots to confirm the statement and edged up to her.
"Don't come near me, Mitka!"
"I won't now, but I'll come at night. By God, I'll come!"
Trembling, Natalya left the yard. That evening she made her bed on the chest, and took her younger sister to sleep with her. All night she tossed and turned, her burning eyes seeking to pierce the darkness, her ears alert for the slightest sound, ready to scream the house down. But the silence was broken only by the snores of Grishaka sleeping in the next room, and an occasional grunt from her sister.
The thread of days unwound in that constant inconsolable grief that only women know.
Mitka had not got over the shame of his recent attempt at marriage, and he went about morose and ill-tempered. He went out every evening and rarely arrived home again before dawn. He carried on with women who liked to amuse themselves while their husbands were soldiering and went to Stepan Astakhov's to play cards for stakes. His father watched
his behaviour, but said nothing for the time being.
Just before Easter, Natalya met Pantelei Prokofyevich outside Mokhov's shop. He called to her:
"Wait a moment!"
She halted. Her heart felt a pang of yearning as she saw her father-in-law's face, remotely reminding her of Grigory.
"Why don't you come and see us old folks, sometimes?" the old man asked her, giving her a quick look, as though he himself had been guilty of some offence against her. "The wife misses you. . . . Well, how are you getting on?"
Natalya recovered from her embarrassment. "Thank you .. ." she said, and after a moment's hesitation (she wanted to say "Father!"), she added: "Pantelei Prokofyevich, I've been very busy at home."
"Our Grisha ., . ah!" the old man shook his head bitterly. "He's let us down, the scoundrel. And we were getting on so well together."
"Oh well. Father," Natalya answered shrilly with a catch in her voice. "I suppose it wasn't to be."
Pantelei fidgeted in embarrassment as he saw Natalya's eyes fill. Her lips twisted in an effort to hold back her tears,
"Good-bye, my dear," he said, "Don't grieve
over him, the son of a bitch! He's not worth the nail on your little finger. Maybe he'll come back. I'd like to see him. I'd like to get at him."
Natalya walked away with her head sunk on her breast. Pantelei stood shifting from foot to foot as though about to break into a run. As she turned the comer Natalya glanced back; the old man was limping across the square, leaning heavily on his stick.
XVI
As spring approached, the meetings in Stockman's workshop were held less frequently. The villagers were preparing for the field work, and only Ivan Alexeyevich the engine-man and Knave came from the mill, bringing David with them. On Maundy Thursday they gathered at the workshop in the early evening. Stockman was sitting on his bench, filing a silver ring made from a fifty-kopeck piece. A sheaf of rays from the setting sun streamed through the window, forming a square of dusty yellowish-pink light on the floor. The engine-man picked up a pair of pincers and turned them over in his hand.
"I had to go to the master the other day to ask about a piston." he remarked, "It will have
to be taken to Millerovo, we can't mend it here. There's a crack in it this long." Ivan Alexeyevich measured the length of his little finger.
"There's a works at Millerovo, isn't there?" Stockman said, scattering a fine silver dust as he filed the coin.
"A steel foundry. I had to spend a few days there last year."
"Many workers?"
"I should say four hundred or thereabouts."
"And what are they like?" Stockman's tone was deliberate.
"They're well off. They're none of your pioletariat, they're muck."
"Why is that?" asked Knave, who was sitting next to Stockman, his stubby fingers clasped under his knees.
David, the mill-hand, his hair grey with flour dust, padded about the workshop, listening with a smile to the dry rustle of the shavings that he stirred up with his boots. He felt as if he were walking along a ravine deep in fallen scarlet leaves with the leaves giving easily and the damp turf springing youthfully underfoot.
"Because they're too well off. Each has his own little house, his wife, and every comfort. And a good half of them are Baptists into the bargain. The master himself is their preacher,
and they suck one another's noses, and the dirt on them is so thick you couldn't scrape it off with a hoe."
"Ivan Alexeyevich, what are these Baptists?" asked David, pouncing on the unfamiliar word.
"Baptists? They worship God in their own fashion. 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 Pla-tonovich," Ivan Alexeyevich continued his story, "and Atyopin was there, so he told me to wait outside. I sat down and waited and heard them talking through the door. Mokhov was saying there- was going to be a war with the Germans very soon; he had read it in a book. But Atyopin said there couldn't be a war between Germany and Russia."
Ivan Alexeyevich so cleverly im
itated Atyo-pin's lisp that David let out a short laugh, but, seeing Knave's sarcastic expression, immediately shut up.
" 'There can be no war with Germany because Germany's feeding on our grain,' " Ivan Alexeyevich continued to report the conversation he had overheard. "Then I heard a a third voice: I found out afterwards it was the officer, old Listnitsky's son. 'There will be a war,' he said, 'between Germany and France,
over the vineyards, but it has nothing to do with us.' What do you think, Osip Davydovich?" Ivan asked, turning to Stockman.
"I'm no good at prophecies," Stockman replied, staring fixedly at the ring in his outstretched hand.
"Once they do start we'll have to be in it too. Like it or not, they'll drag us there by the hair," Knave declared.
"It's like this, boys," Stockman said, gently taking the pincers out of the engineman's hands. He spoke seriously, evidently intending to explain the matter thoroughly. Knave seated himself comfortably on the bench, and David's lips shaped into an "O," revealing his strong teeth. In his concise vivid way Stockman outlined the struggle of the capitalist states for markets and colonies. When he had finished Ivan Alexeyevich asked indignantly:
"Yes, but where do we come in?"
"Your heads will ache from the drunken orgies of others," Stockman smiled.
"Don't talk like a kid," Knave said sarcastically. "You know the saying: 'When masters quarrel, the peasants' forelocks shake.' "
"Humph," Ivan Alexeyevich frowned as if he were trying to break down some great unyielding lump of thought.
"What's that Listnitsky always calling on
And quiet flows the Don; a novel Page 19