And quiet flows the Don; a novel

by Sholokhov, Mikhail Aleksandrovich, 1905-

  Grigory's squadron had halted in Kamenka-Strumilovo for two days, and were now pre-

  paring to advance again. Grigory found the house in which the Cossacks of his troop were quartered, and went to see to his horse. His towels and some underlinen were missing from his saddle-bags.

  "Stolen before my very eyes, Grigory," Misha Koshevoi admitted guiltily. "There was a swarm of infantry quartered here, and they stole them."

  "Well, they can keep them, damn them! Only I want to bandage my head."

  "You can take my towel."

  Uryupin came into the shed where they were standing. He held out his hand as though the quarrel between him and Grigory had never occurred.

  "Hullo, Melekhov! So you're still alive!"

  "More or less."

  "Your head's all bleeding. Wipe yourself."

  "I will in my own time."

  "Let's have a look at what they've done to you." •

  He forced back Grigory's head, and snorted:

  "Why did you let them cut your hair off? What a sight you are! The doctors won't help you any. Let me heal you."

  Without waiting for Grigory's consent he drew a cartridge out of his cartridge-case, broke

  the bullet open and poured the black powder into his hand.

  "Misha, find me a spider's web."

  With the point of his sabre Koshevoi scraped a web from a beam and handed it to Uryupin. With the same sabre Uryupin dug up some earth and, mixing it with the web and the powder, chewed it between his teeth. Then he plastered the sticky mess over the bleeding wound and smiled:

  "It'll be all right again in three days," he declared. "But here I am looking after you, and yet you would have killed me."

  "Thanks for looking after me, but if I'd killed you I'd have had one sin the less on my conscience."

  "What a simpleton you are, lad."

  "Maybe. What's my head look like?"

  "There's a cut half an inch deep. Something to remember them by."

  "I shan't forget them."

  "You couldn't if you wanted to; the Austrians don't sharpen their swords properly so you'll have a scar for the rest of your life."

  "Lucky for you, Grigory, that he got you on the slant, or you'd have been buried on foreign soil," said Koshevoi with a smile.

  "What shall I do with my cap?"

  Grigory twisted his hacked and blood-stained cap confusedly in his hands.

  "Throw it away, the dogs will eat it."

  "The grub's arrived, lads. Come and get it!" came a shout from the door of the house.

  The Cossacks left the shed. Grigory's bay horse whinnied after him, turning up the whites of his eyes.

  "He pined after you, Grigory," Koshevoi nodded to the horse. "I was surprised, he wouldn't eat, and whinnied all the time."

  "When I crawled away I kept calling him," Grigory said in a thick voice. "I was sure he wouldn't leave me, and I knew it wouldn't be easy for a stranger to catch him."

  "That's true. We only just managed to get him with a lasso."

  "He's a good horse. He's my brother Pyotr's." Grigory turned his back to hide his wet eyes.

  They went into the house. Yegor Zharkov was lying asleep on a spring mattress in the front-room. An indescribable disorder silently bore witness to the haste with which the owners had left the place. Fragments of broken utensils, torn paper, books, scraps of material, children's toys, old boots, scattered flour were all tumbled in confusion about the floor.

  Yemelyan Groshev and Prokhor Zykov had cleared a space in the middle of the room, and

  were eating their dinner. At the sight of Gri-gory, Prokhor's calf eyes nearly dropped out of his head.

  "Grisha! Where did you spring from?"

  "From the other world!"

  "Run and get him some grub. Don't stare like that!" Uryupin shouted,

  "Won't be a minute. The kitchen's just round the comer."

  Prokhor ran to the door, chewing as he went. Grigory sat down wearily in his place. "I don't remember when I ate last," he smiled guiltily.

  Units of the Third Corps were moving through the town. The narrow streets were choked with infantry, baggage trains and cavalry, the crossroads were jammed and the noise of the traffic penetrated even through the closed doors of the houses. Prokhor quickly returned with a pot of soup and a pan of buckwheat.

  "What shall I pour the grub into?"

  Not knowing its purpose, Groshev picked up a chamber-pot, remarking: "Here's a pot with a handle."

  "Your pot stinks," Prokhor said with a frown.

  "Never mind. Pour it out and we'll share it afterwards."

  Zykov turned the basket upside down over the vessel, and the rich, thick gruel fell out in

  a mass, with an amber edge of fat round it. They ate and talked.

  "There's a battery of a highland mounted artillery battalion next door," Prokhor related, dabbing spittle over a grease spot on the stripe of his trousers. "They're feeding up their horses. Their warrant officer read in the paper that the Germans' allies were doing a bunk."

  "You should've been here this morning, Me-lekhov," Uryupin muttered through a mouthful of gruel: "We were thanked by the division commander himself. He reviewed us and thanked us for smashing the Hungarian hussars and saving the battery. 'Cossacks,' he said, 'the tsar and the fatherland will not forget you.' "

  As he spoke there was the sound of a shot outside, and a machine-gun began to stutter. Dropping their spoons, the Cossacks ran out. Overhead an aeroplane was circling low with a menacing roar.

  "Lie down under the fence. They'll be dropping a bomb in a minute. There's a battery billeted next door to us," Uryupin shouted. "Someone go and wake Yegor up. He'll get killed on his soft mattress!"

  "Bring out the rifles."

  Aiming carefully, Uryupin fired from the steps.

  Soldiers ran along the street, for some rea-

  son ducking their heads. From the next yard came the neighing of horses and a curt order. Grigory glanced over the fence; the gunners were hurriedly wheeling a gun into a shed. Screwing up his eyes at the prickly blue of the sky, he stared at the roaring, swooping bird. At that moment something fell away from it and glittered sharply in the sunlight.

  A shattering roar shook the house and the Cossacks crouching round the steps; in the next yard a horse neighed in mortal agony. A pungent wave of powder smoke drifted over the fence.

  "Lie flat," Uryupin shouted rushing down the steps. Grigory sprang after him, and they threw themselves down by the palings. One wing of the aeroplane glittered as it turned. From the street came irregular shots. Grigory had just thrust a fresh clip of cartridges into the magazine of his rifle when a shattering explosion threw him six feet away from the fence. A lump of earth struck him heavily on the head, filling his eyes with dust.

  Uryupin lifted him to his feet. A sharp pain in the left eye prevented Grigory from seeing. With difficulty opening the right eyelid, he saw that half the house was demolished; the bricks lay in a misshapen heap, a pink cloud of dust hovering over them.

  As he stood staring, Yegor Zharkov crawled

  from under the steps. His entire face was a cry; bloody tears were raining from his eyes that had been forced out of their sockets. With his head buried in his shoulders he crawled along, screaming without opening his blackening lips.

  Behind him one leg, torn away at the thigh, was dragged along by a shred of skin and a strip of scorched trouser; the other leg was gone completely. He crawled slowly along on his hands, a thin, almost childish scream coming from his lips. Then the scream stopped and he fell over on his side, pressing his face to the harsh, unkind, brick- and dung-littered earth. No one attempted to go to him.

  "Pick him up!" Grigory shouted, still pressing his hand to his left eye.

  Infantrymen ran into the yard; a two-wheeled cart with telephone operators stopped at the gate.

  "Keep moving!" an officer shouted at them as he galloped past. "Don't stand there gaping!" Two women, and an old man in a
long black coat came up. Zharkov was quickly surrounded by a little crowd. Pressing through them, Grigory saw that he was still breathing, whimpering and violently trembling. Great beads of sweat stood out on his deathly yellow brow.

  "Pick him up! What are you, men or devils?"

  "What are you howling about?" a tall infantryman snapped. "Pick him up, pick him up! But where are we to take him to? Can't you see he's dying?"

  "Both legs gone!"

  "Look at the blood!"

  "Where are the stretcher-bearers?"

  "What good could they do!"

  "And he's still conscious."

  Uryupin touched Grigory on the shoulder from behind. "Don't move him," he whispered. "Come round the other side and look."

  He drew Grigory along by the sleeve, and pushed the crowd aside. Grigory took one glance, then hunched his shoulders and turned away to the gate. Under Zharkov's belly the pink and blue intestines were steaming. The tangled mass lay on the sand, stirring and swelling. Beside it the dying man's hand scrabbled at the ground.

  "Cover his face," someone proposed.

  Zharkov suddenly raised himself on his hands and, throwing his head back until it hung between his shoulder-blades, shouted in a hoarse, inhuman voice:

  "Brothers, kill me.. ,. Brothers . . .! What are you standing looking for.. ,? Oh.... Oh .... Brothers, kill me!"

  The railway carriage rocked gently and the knock of its wheels was lullingly drowsy. A yellow band of light streamed from the lantern. It was good to be stretched out at full length, with boots off, giving the feet their freedom, to feel no responsibility for oneself, to know that no danger threatened one's life, and that death was so far away. It was especially pleasant to listen to the varying chatter of the wheels, for with their every turn, with every tug of the engine, the front was farther and farther off. And Grigory lay listening, wriggling the toes of his bare feet, all his body rejoicing in the fresh, clean linen. He felt as though he had thrown off a dirty skin, and, spotlessly clean, was entering a new life.

  His quiet, tranquil jojy was disturbed only by the pain in his left eye. It died away occasionally, then would suddenly return, burning the eye and forcing involuntary tears under the bandage. In the field hospital a young Jewish doctor had examined his eye and had told him: "You'll have to go back. Your eye is in a very unsatisfactory state."

  "Shall I lose it, doctor?"

  "Why should you think that?" the doctor smiled, catching the unconcealed alarm in Gri-

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  gory's voice. "But you must have it attended to, and an operation may be necessary. We shall send you to Petrograd or Moscow. Don't be afraid, your eye will be all right." He clapped Grigory on the shoulder and gently drew him outside into the corridor. As he turned back he rolled up his sleeves in readiness for an operation.

  After much hanging about Grigory found himself in a hospital train. He lay for days on end, enjoying the blessed peace. The ancient engine exerted all its strength to haul the long line of carriages. They drew near to Moscow, and arrived at night. The serious cases were carried out on stretchers; those who could walk were assembled on the platform. The doctor accompanying the train called out Grigory's name and handed him over to a nurse, instructing her as to his destination.

  "Have you got your luggage with you?" - "What luggage do you expect a Cossack to have? A greatcoat and a field-bag, that's all."

  "Follow me."

  The nurse led the way out of the station, her dress rustling. Grigory walked uncertainly behind her. They took a cab. The roar of the great city, the jangle of tram-bells, the bluish gleam of electric lights had a crushing effect upon him. He leaned against the back of the

  cab, staring inquisitively at the crowded streets, and it was strange for him to feel the agitating warmth of a woman's body at his side. Autumn had arrived in Moscow. Along the boulevards the leaves of the trees gleamed yellow in the lamplight, the night breathed a wintry chill, the pavements were shining, and above him the stars were autumnally clear and cold. From the centre of the town they turned into a deserted side-street. The horse's hoofs clattered over the cobbles; the driver in his long blue coat swayed on his high seat and waved the ends of the reins at his mare. Railway engines whistled in the distance. "Perhaps a train just off to the Don," Grigory thought, pricked with yearning.

  "Feeling sleepy?" the nurse asked.

  "No."

  "We shall soon be there."

  The waters of a pond gleamed oilily behind an iron railing, Grigory caught a glimpse of a railed-off landing stage with a boat tied to it. There was a smell of dampness in the air.

  "They even keep water behind iron bars here, not like our Don ..." Grigory thought vaguely. Leaves rustled under the rubber tyres of the cab.

  They stopped outside a three-storied house. Grigory jumped out.

  "Give me your hand," the nurse said, bending towards him. He took her small, soft hand in his and helped her to alight.

  "You smell of soldiers' sweat," she laughed quietly, ringing the bell.

  "You ought to spend some time out there, nurse, then you might stink of something else," Grigory replied with suppressed anger.

  The door was opened by a porter. They went up a gilt balustraded staircase to the first floor. Passing into an ante-room, Grigory sat down at a round table while the nurse whispered something to a woman in a white smock.

  Faces wearing spectacles of various colours appeared round the doors that lined both sides of the long narrow corridor.

  After a few minutes an orderly, also dressed in white, led him to a bathroom.

  "Strip!"

  "What for?"

  "You've got to have a bath."

  While Grigory was undressing and looking round in astonishment at the bathroom with its frosted-glass windows the orderly filled the bath with water, measured the temperature, and told him to get in,

  "This tub won't do for me," Grigory muttered, lifting a swarthy leg into the bath.

  The orderly assisted him to wash himself

  thoroughly, then gave him a towel, linen, house-shoes, and a grey, belted dressing-gown.

  "What about my clothes?" Grigory asked in amazement.

  "You'll wear these while you're here. Your clothes will be returned to you when you're discharged from the hospital."

  As Grigory passed a wall mirror he did not recognize himself. Tall, dark of face, with patches of crimson on his cheeks and a growth of moustache and beard, in a dressing-gown, his black hair pressed down under a bandage, he bore only a distant resemblance to the former Grigory Melekhov. "I've grown younger," he thought, smiling wanly to himself.

  "Ward six, third door on the right," the attendant told him.

  As Grigory entered the large white room a priest in a hospital gown and dark glasses half rose.

  "Ah, a neighbour? Glad to meet you, we shall keep each other company. I am from Zaraisk," he announced sociably, offering Grigory a chair.

  A few minutes later a corpulent nurse with a large, plain face opened the door.

  "Melekhov, we want to have a look at your eye," she said in a low, chesty voice, and stood aside to let him pass.

  The army command decided on a big cavalry attack on the south-west front with a view to breaking through the enemy lines, destroying their communications and disorganizing their forces with sudden assaults from the rear. The command set great store by the plan, and large forces of cavalry were concentrated in the area, Yevgeny Listnitsky's regiment among them. The attack was to have begun on August 28th, but a rain storm caused it to be postponed until the following day.

  Early in the morning the division was deployed over a huge area in preparation for the offensive.

  About eight versts away the infantry on the right flank made a demonstrative attack to draw the fire of the enemy. Also sections of one cavalry division were dispatched in a misleading direction.

  In front of Listnitsky's regiment there was no sign whatever of the enemy. About a verst away Yevgeny could see d
eserted lines of trenches, and behind them rye fields billowing in a wind-driven, bluish early morning mist. The enemy must have learned of the attack in preparation, for during the night they had retired

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  some six versts, leaving only machine-gun nests to harass the attackers.

  Behind heavy rainclouds the sun was rising. The entire valley was flooded with a creamy yellow mist. The order came for the offensive to begin, and the regiments advanced. Thousands of horses' hoofs set up a rumbling roar that sounded as though it came from under the ground. Listnitsky reined in his horse to prevent it from breaking into a gallop. A verst was covered, and the level lines of attacking forces drew near to the fields of grain. The rye, higher than a man's waist and entangled with twining plants and grasses, rendered the cavalry's progress extremely difficult. Before them still waved the ruddy heads of rye, behind them it lay crushed and trampled down by hoofs. After four versts of such riding the horses began to stumble and sweat, but still there was no sign of the enemy. Listnitsky glanced at his squadron commander; the captain's face wore an expression of utter despair.

  Six versts of terribly heavy going took all the strength out of the horses; some of them dropped under their riders, even the strongest stumbled, exerting all their strength to keep moving. Now the Austrian machine-guns began to work, spraying a hail of bullets. The rifle fire came in volleys. The murderous fire

  mowed down the leading ranks. A regiment of lancers was the first to falter and turn; a Cossack regiment broke. A rain of machine-gun bullets lashed them into panic-stricken flight. Owing to the criminal negligence of the High Command, this extraordinarily extensive attack was overwhelmed with complete defeat. Some of the regiments lost half their complement of men and horses. Four hundred Cossacks and sixteen officers were killed and wounded in Listnitsky's regiment alone.

  Listnitsky's own horse was killed under him, and he himself was wounded in the head and the leg. A sergeant-major leaped from his horse and picked him up, flung him over his saddle-bow and galloped back with him.