And quiet flows the Don; a novel

by Sholokhov, Mikhail Aleksandrovich, 1905-

  Kruchkov's forelock figured constantly in the newspapers and magazines. There were Kruchkov brands of cigarettes. The merchants of Nizhny-Novgorod presented him with a gold-mounted sabre.

  The uniform taken from the German officer Astakhov had killed was mailed to a plywood board and General von Rennenkampf put it in his car with Ivankov and his adjutant to hold it and drove before parading troops about to go

  to the front, making the customary fiery speeches in the official jargon.

  And what had really happened? Men, who had not yet acquired the knack of killing their own kind, had clashed on the field of death, and in the mortal terror that embraced them, had charged, and struck, and battered blindly at each other, mutilating one another and their horses; then they had turned and fled, frightened by a shot which had killed one of their number. They had ridden away morally crippled.

  And it was called a heroic exploit.

  X

  The front was not yet the huge unyielding viper that it was to become. Cavalry skirmishes and battles flared up along the frontier. In the days immediately following the declaration of war the German command put out feelers in the shape of strong cavalry detachments that caused alarm among the Russian troops by slipping past the frontier posts and spying out the disposition and numbers of their forces. The Russian Eighth Army was screened by the 12th Cavalry Division under the command of General Kaledin. On its left flank the 11th Cavalry Division had advanced across the Austrian frontier, but having captured Leshnuv

  and Brodi, was brought to a halt when the Aus-trians were reinforced by Hungarian cavalry. The Hungarian cavalry hurled itself at the Russian units and forced them back towards Brodi.

  Since his first battle Grigory Melekhov had been tormented by a dreary inward pain. He grew noticeably thinner and frequently, whether on the march or resting, sleeping or waking, he saw the features and form of the Austrian whom he had killed by the railings. In his sleep he lived again and again through that first battle, and even felt the shuddering convulsion of his right hand clutching the lance. He would awaken and drive the dream off violently, shading his painfully screwed-up eyes with his hand.

  The cavalry trampled down the ripened corn and scarred the fields with hoofprints, and it was as though a pounding hailstorm had swept Galicia. The heavy soldiers' boots tramped the roads, scratched the macadam, churned up the August mud. The gloomy face of the earth was pock-marked with shells; fragments of iron and steel 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 is

  ready for harvest-the sky was unsmilingly grey, the rare fine days were oppressive and sultry,

  August was drawing to a close. The leaves turned yellow in the orchards, and a mournful purple spread from their stalks. From a distance it looked as though the trees were gashed with wounds and bleeding to death.

  Grigory studied with interest the changes that occurred in his comrades. Prokhor Zykov returned from hospital with the marks of a horseshoe on his cheek, and pain and bewilderment lurking in the corners of his lips. His calfish eyes blinked more than ever. Yegor Zharkov lost no opportunity to curse and swear, was even bawdier than before, and riled against everything under the sun. Yemelyan Groshev, a serious and efficient Cossack from Grigory's own village, 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 the seeds of grief implanted by the war.

  The regiment was withdrawn from the line for a three-day rest, and its complement was made up by reinforcements from the Don. The Cossacks of Grigory's squadron were about to go for a dip in a neighbouring lake, when a considerable force of cavalry rode into the village from the station some three versts away. By the

  time the men had reached the dam of the lake the force was riding down the hill. Prokhor Zy-kov was pulling off his shirt when, looking up, he stared and exclaimed:

  "They're Cossacks, Don Cossacks!"

  Grigory gazed after the colimin crawling into the 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," Gro-shev exclaimed, 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 to recognize the horse Pyotr was riding. "Must have bought a new one!" he thought, turning his gaze to his brother's face. Deeply tanned, with moustache clipped and brows bleeched by the summer sun, it was strangely altered since their last meeting.

  Grigory went to meet him, taking off his cap and waving mechanically. After him poured the half-dressed Cossacks, trampling underfoot the brittle undergrowth of angelica and burdock.

  Led by an elderly, stocky captain with a wooden hardness in the lines of his authoritative clean-shaven mouth, the detachment swung

  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 th
e 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