And quiet flows the Don; a novel

by Sholokhov, Mikhail Aleksandrovich, 1905-

  XX

  Aksinya confessed her pregnancy to Grigory only during the sixth month, when she was no longer able to conceal it from him. She had

  kept silent so long because she was afraid he would not believe it was his child she was carrying. During the first months of anxious expectation she had sometimes been sick without Grigory noticing it, or if he had noticed it, without his guessing the reason why.

  Wrought up, she told him one evening, anxiously scanning his face the while for any change in its expression. But he turned away to the window and coughed with vexation.

  "Why didn't you tell me before?"

  "I was afraid to, Grisha. I thought you might throw 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's yours!"

  "So you say."

  "Reckon up for yourself. From the day of the wood-cutting it's. . . ."

  "Don't make things up, Aksinya! Even if it was Stepan's, what could you do about it? I want an honest answer."

  Weeping angry tears, Aksinya sat down on the bench and broke into a fierce whisper.

  "I lived with him so many years and nothing ever happened! Think for yourself! I'm

  not an ailing Woman. ... I must have got it from you. . . . And you. . . ."

  Grigory talked no more about the matter. A new thread of wary aloofness and a light mocking pity was woven into his attitude to Aksinya. She withdrew into herself, asking for no favours. During the summer she lost her good looks, but pregnancy hardly affected her shapely figure; her general fullness concealed her condition, and although her face was thinner it gained a new beauty from her warmly-glowing eyes. She easily managed her work as cook, especially as that year fewer labourers were employed on the estate.

  Old Sashka grew fond of Aksinya, with the capricious fondness of old age. Perhaps it was because she treated him with daughterly care: washed his linen, mended his shirts, gave him softer bits at the table. After seeing to his horses old Sashka would come into the kitchen, fetch water, mash potatoes for the pigs, do all kinds of odd jobs, and hopping about round her, expose the bare gums of his mouth as" he said:

  "You're good to me, and I'll repay you. I'll do anything for you, Aksinya. I'd have been done for without a woman's care. The lice were eating me up. If you ever want anything, just ask me."

  Yevgeny had arranged for his coachman to be freed from the spring training camp, and Grigory worked at the mowing, occasionally drove old Listnitsky to the district centre, and spent the rest of the time hunting with him after bustards. The easy-going, comfortable life began to spoil him. He grew lazy and stout, and looked older than his years. The only thing that worried him was the thought of his forthcoming army service. He had neither horse nor equipment, and he could hope for nothing from his father. He saved the wages he received for himself and Aksinya, and even stinted himself on tobacco, hoping to be able to buy a horse without having to beg from his father. Old Listnitsky also promised to help him. Gri-gory's presentiment that his father would give him nothing was quickly confirmed. At the end of July Pyotr visited his brother, and in the course of conversation mentioned that his father was as angry with him as ever, and had declared that he wouldn't help him get a horse. "Let him go to the local command for one," he had said.

  "He needn't worry, I'll go to do my service on my own horse," Grigory declared, stressing "my own."

  "How'll you get it? Dance for it?" Pyotr asked, chewing his moustache.

  "I'll dance for it, or beg for it, and if I can't get 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 about his work, food, wages, and chewing the ends of his moustache, nodded his approval. Having completed his inquiries, as he turned to go, he said to his brother:

  "You'd better come back, it's no good sticking on your high horse. Do you expect to earn more 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 he asked at last: "How's everything at home?"

  iPyotr laughed as he untied his horse from the railing of the steps.

  "You've got as many homes as a hare has holes! Everything's all right. Mother misses you. We've got in the hay, three loads of it."

  Grigory worriedly scanned the old mare his brother was riding: "No foal this year?"

  "No, Brother, she's barren. But the bay

  which we got from Christonya has foaled. A stallion it is, a good one too. Long in the legs, sound pasterns, and a strong chest on him. It'll be a good horse."

  Grigory sighed. "I miss the village, Pyotr," he said. "I miss the Don. You never see running water here. It's a dreary hole!"

  "Come and see us," Pyotr replied as he hoisted 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, remembering something, he called to Grigory who was still standing on the steps:

  "Natalya ... I'd forgotten ... a terrible thing. . . ."

  The wind hovering vulture-like over the farm carried the end of the sentence away from Grigory's ears. Pyotr and the horse were enveloped in velvety dust, and Grigory shrugged his shoulders and went off to the stables.

  The summer was bone-dry. Little rain fell and the corn ripened early. As soon as the rye was garnered the barley was ripe and yellow. The four day-labourers and Grigory went out to reap it.

  Aksinya had finished work early that day, and she asked Grigory to take her with him.

  Despite his attempt to dissuade her, she quickly threw a kerchief over her head, ran out, and caught up with the wagon in which the men were riding.

  The event which Aksinya anticipated with yearning and joyous impatience, and Grigory with vague apprehension, happened during the harvesting. Feeling the symptoms, she threw down the rake and lay under a stook. Her travail came on quickly. Biting her blackened tongue, she lay flat on the ground. The labourers with the reaping machine passed her on the turn and shouted. One of them, a young man with a festering sore on his nose and numerous folds in his yellow face that looked as if it has been carved out of wood, called out to her:

  "Hey, you! Get up, or you'll melt!"

  Grigory got one of the men to take his place at the machine and went across to her.

  "What's the matter?"

  Her lips writhing uncontrollably, she said hoarsely:

  "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, here

  .. . with the Cossacks . . ." she moaned, as the pain gripped her like an iron band.

  Grigory ran for the horse. It was grazing in a hollow a little way off, and by the time he drove up, Aksinya had struggled on to all fours, thrust her head into a pile of dusty barley, and was spitting out the prickly ears she had chewed in her pain. She fixed her dilated eyes vacantly on Grigory, and set her teeth into her crumpled apron to prevent the labourers from hearing her horrible, rending cry.

  Grigory lifted her into the wagon and drove the horse fast towards the estate.

  "Oh! Don't hurry. .. . Oh, death! You're . . . shaking . .. me . . ." Aksinya screamed as her head knocked on the bottom of the wagon.

  Grigory silently plied the whip and swung the reins around his head, without a glance back at her.

  Pressing her cheeks with her palms, her staring, frenzied eyes rolling wildly, Aksinya bounced about in the wagon as it swung from side to side over
the bumpy, little-used road, Grigory kept the horse at a gallop; the shaft-bow bobbed up and down before his eyes, obscuring a dazzling white cloud that hung like polished crystal in the sky. For a moment Aksinya ceased her shrieking howls. The wheels rattled, and her head thudded heavily against

  the bottom-board. At first her silence did not impress itself on Grigory, but then he glanced back. Aksinya was lying with a horribly distorted face, her cheek pressed hard against the side of the wagon, her jaws working like a fish flung ashore. The sweat was pouring from her brow into the deep sockets of her eyes. Grigory turned and raised her head, putting his crumpled cap under it. Glancing sidelong at him, she said firmly:

  "I shall die, Grisha. And that's all there is to it!"

  Grigory shuddered; a chill ran down his body to his toes. He sought for words of encouragement, of comfort, but could not find them. His lips twisted harshly and he burst out: "Don't talk nonsense, you fool!" Then he shook his head, and leaning over backwards, squeezed her foot: "Aksinya, my little pigeon.. . ."

  The pain died away and left Aksinya for a moment, then returned with redoubled force. Feeling something rending her belly, she arched her body and pierced Grigory's ears with a terrifying, rising scream. Grigory frantically whipped up the horse.

  Then above the rattle of the wheels Grigory heard her thin, feeble voice:

  "Grisha!"

  He reined in the horse and turned his head. Aksinya lay in a pool of blood, her arms flung out. Between her legs a living thing was stirring and squealing. Grigory frenziedly jumped down from the wagon and stumbled to the back. Staring into Aksinya's panting, burning mouth, he guessed rather than heard the words:

  "Bite through the cord ... tie it with cotton , . . from your shirt. . . ."

  With trembling fingers he tore strands of threads from the sleeve of his cotton shirt, and screwing up his eyes till it hurt, he bit through the navel cord and carefully tied up the bleeding end with cotton.

  XXI

  The estate of Yagodnoye clung to the side of the broad dry valley like a growth. The wind blew changeably from north or south; the sun 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 wooden torpor. So the days passed one after the other, alike as twins, and always the estate was cut off from the rest of the world.

  The black whisperer-ducks with red rings like spectacles roimd their eyes still waddled

  about the farmyard; the guinea-fowls were scattered about like beady rain; gawdy-feath-ered peacocks miaowed throatily like cats from the stable roof. The old general was fond of all kinds of birds, and even kept a maimed crane. In November, when it heard the faint call of the wild cranes flying to the south, it wrung the heart-strings with its copper-tongued cry of yearning. But it could not fly, for one wing hung uselessly at its side. As the general stood at the window and watched the bird stretching out its neck and jumping, fluttering off the ground, he laughed opening his big mouth under the grey awning of his moustache, and the deep tones of his laughter rocked through the empty white-walled hall.

  Venyamin carried his fuzzy head as high as ever, and spent whole days alone in the anteroom, playing cards with himself. Tikhon was as jealous as ever of his pock-marked mistress and Sashka, the day-labourers, Grigory, the master and even the crane to whom Lukerya was devoting the tenderness which overflowed her widowed heart. Every now and then old Sashka would get drunk and beg for twenty-kopeck pieces under old Listnitsky's window.

  During all the time of Grigory's stay only two events disturbed the mildewed torpor of the sleepy, monotonous life of Yagodnoye: the

  coming of Aksinya's child, and the loss of a prize gander. The inhabitants of Yagodnoye quickly grew accustomed to the baby girl, and finding some of the gander's feathers in the meadow, concluded that a fox had carried him off, and settled down again to their peaceful existence.

  In the morning, when he awoke, the master would call in Venyamin.

  "Did you dream of anything last night?"

  "Why, of course, I had a wonderful dream."

  "Tell it to me," Listnitsky would order curtly, rolling himself a cigarette.

  And Venyamin would relate it. If the dream happened to be uninteresting or frightening, Listnitsky would get angry.

  "You dolt! A fool is visited by foolish dreams."

  Venyamin started to invent gay and amusing dreams. But it was difficult for him. He started to invent his gay dreams several days in advance, sitting on his trunk and shuffling the cards-puffy and oily as the cheeks of the player. His eyes staring fixedly, he exerted his brain until he reached a point where he stopped having proper dreams altogether. When he woke in the morning, he would strain his memory, trying to recall what he had dreamed, but darkness lay behind him, black darkness.

  He had dreamed nothing, not even seen a face in his sleep.

  Venyamin's store of artless inventions was soon exhausted, and the master grew angry when he caught him repeating himself.

  "You told me that dream about a horse last Thursday, damn you!"

  "I dreamed it again, Nikolai Alexeyevich! Honest to God, I dreamed it again!" Venyamin lied calmly.

  In December Grigory was summoned to the district administration at Vyeshenskaya. There he was given a hundred rubles to buy a horse, and was instructed to report two days after Christmas at the village of Mankovo for the army draft.

  He returned to Yagodnoye in considerable agitation. Christmas was approaching, and he had nothing ready. With the money he had received from the authorities plus his own savings he bought a horse for a hundred and forty rubles. He took Sashka with him and they purchased a presentable enough animal, a six-year-old bay with one hidden blemish. Old Sashka combed his beard with his fingers and said:

  "You won't get one cheaper, and the authorities won't see the flaw! They haven't got enough gumption!"

  Grigory rode the horse back to Yagodnoye, putting it through its paces.

  A week before Christmas Pantelei arrived unexpectedly at Yagodnoye. He did not drive into the yard, but tied up his horse and basket sledge at the gate, and limped towards the servants' quarters, rubbing the icicles off his beard that hung like a black log over the collar of his coat. Grigory happened to be looking out of the window and saw his father approaching.

  "Well I'm ... Father!"

  For some reason Aksinya ran to the cradle and wrapped up the child. Pantelei stumped into the room, bringing a breath of cold air with him. He removed his fur cap and crossed himself facing the icon, then gazed slowly around the room.

  "Good health!"

  "Good-morning, Father!" Grigory replied, rising from the bench and striding to the centre of the room, '

  Pantelei offered Grigory an icy hand, and sat down on the edge of the bench, wrapping his sheepskin around him. He scarcely glanced at Aksinya, who stood very still by the cradle.

  "Getting ready for your service?"

  "Of course."

  Pantelei was silent, staring long and ques-tioningly at Grigory.

  "Take your things off. Father, you must be frozen."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "We'll get the samovar going."

  "Thank you." The old man scraped an old spot 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 all there in the sledge."

  Grigory went out and removed the two sacks of equipment from the sledge. When he returned his father rose from the bench.

  "When are you going off?" he asked his son.

  "The day after Christmas. You aren't going already, are you. Father?"

  "I want to get back early."

  He took leave of Grigory, and still avoiding Aksinya's eyes, went towards the door. As he lifted the latch he turned his eyes in the direction of the cradle, and said:

  "Your mother sends her greetings. She's in bed with trouble in her legs." After a momentary pause, he said heavily: "I
shall ride with you to Mankovo. Be ready when I come."

  He went out thrusting his hands into warm, knitted gloves. Aksinya, pale with the humiliation she had suffered, said nothing. Grigory

  paced the room, glancing sideways at Aksinya as he passed her, and constantly stepping on a creaking board.

  On Christmas Day Grigory drove his master to Vyeshenskaya. Listnitsky attended mass, had breakfast with his cousin, a local landowner, and then ordered Grigory to get the sleigh ready for the return journey. Grigory had not finished his bowl of rich pork and cabbage soup, but he rose at once, went to the stable, and harnessed the dapple-grey trotting-horse to the light sleigh.

  The wind was sifting the fine, tingling snow-flakes; a silvery froth hissed through the yard; a soft fringe of hoar-frost hung from the trees beyond the fence. The wind shook it down, and as it fell and scattered, it reflected a rainbow-rich variety of colours from the sun. On the roof close to the smoking chimney the chilly jackdaws'were chattering loudly. Startled by the sound of footsteps, they flew off, circled round the house like dove-coloured snow-flakes, then flew to the east, to the church clearly outlined against the violet morning sky.

  "Tell the master we're ready," Grigory shouted to the maid that came to the steps of the house.

  Listnitsky came out and climbed into the sleigh, his whiskers buried in the collar of his

  raccoon coat. Grigory wrapped up his legs and adjusted the velvet-lined wolf-skin.

  "Warm him up," Listnitsky said glancing at the horse.

  Leaning back in his seat, his hands tense on the quivering reins, Grigory watched the ruts, anxiously remembering the far from feeble box on the ears the master had given him for handling the sleigh awkwardly one day early in winter. As they drove down to the Don Grigory released his grip on the reins and rubbed his wind-seared cheeks with his glove.

  They arrived at Yagodnoye within two hours. Listnitsky had been silent throughout the drive, occasionally tapping Grigory on the back with his finger as a signal to stop while he rolled and lit a cigarette. Only as they were descending the hill to the house did he ask: