With a dignified air Nikitich finished harnessing the horse and, giving Grigory an unfriendly look, led the old grey trotting horse to the steps. The frost-bound earth rustled under the wheels of the light droshki.
"Your Honour, let me drive you for the sake of old times," Grigory turned to Yevgeny with an ingratiating smile.
"The poor chap doesn't guess," Yevgeny thought, smiling with satisfaction, and his eyes glittered behind his pince-nez.
"All right, jump up."
"What, hardly arrived and you're already leaving your young wife? Didn't you miss her?" Old Listnitsky smiled benevolently.
Grigory laughed, "A wife isn't a bear. She won't run off into the forest."
He mounted the driver's seat, thrust the knout under it and gathered up the reins.
"Ah, I'll give you a drive, Yevgeny Nikolayevich!"
"Drive well and I'll stand you a tip."
"Haven't I already got enough to be thankful for. . . , I'm grateful to you for feeding .. . my Aksinya ... for giving her ... a piece. . .."
Grigory's voice suddenly broke, and a vague, unpleasant suspicion troubled the lieutenant. "Surely he doesn't know? Of course
not! How could he?" He leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette.
"Don't be long," old Listnitsky called after them.
Needle-sharp snow dust flew from under the wheels.
Grigory pulled with the reins at the horse's mouth and urged it to its topmost speed. Within fifteen minutes they had crossed the rise, and the house was out of sight. In the very first dell they came to, Grigory jumped down and pulled the knout from under the seat.
"What's the matter?" the lieutenant frowned.
"I'll show you!"
Grigory swung the knout and brought it down with terrible force across the lieutenant's face. Then, seizing it by the lash, he beat the officer with the butt on the face and arms, giving him no time to get up. A fragment of the glass from his pince-nez cut Listnitsky above the brow, and a little stream of blood flowed into his eyes. At first he covered his face with his hands, but the blows grew more frequent. He jumped up, his face disfigured with blood and fury, and attempted to defend himself; but Grigory fell back and paralyzed his arm with a blow on the wrist.
"That's for Aksinya! That's for me! For Aksinya! Another for Aksinya! For me!"
The knout whistled, the blows slapped softly. At last Grigory threw Yevgeny down on the hard ruts of the road and rolled him on the ground, kicking him savagely with the iron-shod heels of his boots. When he had no strength to do more he got on to the drozhki seat, and sawing at the horse's mouth, galloped it back. He left the droshki by the gate, and, seizing the knout, stumbling over the flaps of his open greatcoat, he rushed into the servants' quarters.
As the door crashed open, Aksinya glanced round.
"You snake! You bitch!" The knout whistled and curled around her face.
Gasping for breath, Grigory ran into the yard, and heedless of Sashka's questionings, left the estate. When he had covered a verst he was overtaken by Aksinya. Panting violently, she walked along silently at his side, occasionally pulling at his sleeve. At a fork in the road, by a brown wayside cross, she said in a strange, distant voice:
"Grisha, forgive me!"
He bared his teeth, and hunching his shoulders, turned up the collar of his greatcoat. Aksinya was left standing by the cross. He did not look back once, and did not see her hand stretched out to him,
At the crest of the hill above Tatarsky he noticed in astonishment that he was still carrying the knout; he threw it away, then strode down into the village. Faces were pressed against the windows, amazed to see him, and the 'women he met bowed low as ,he passed.
At the gate of his own yard a slim, black-eyed beauty ran to meet him, flung her arms around his neck and buried her face on his breast. Pressing her cheeks with his hands, he raised her head and recognized Dunya.
Pantelei Prokofyevich limped down the steps, and Grigory heard his mother start weeping aloud in the house. With his left hand he embraced his father; Dunya was kissing his right hand.
The almost painfully familiar creak of the steps, and Grigory was in the porch. His ageing mother ran to him light-footed as a girl, wetted the lapels of his greatcoat with her tears, and embraced her son closely, muttering something disconnected in her own mother-language that could not be put into words; while by the door, clinging to it to save herself from falling, stood Natalya, a tortured smile on her pale face. Cut down by Grigory's hurried, distracted glance, she dropped to the floor.
That night in bed, Pantelei gave his wife a dig in the ribs and whispered:
"Go quietly and see whether they're lying together or not."
"I made up their bed on the bedstead."
"But go on and look, look!"
Ilyinichna got up and peeped through a crack in the door leading to the best room.
"They're together."
"Well, God be praised! God be praised!" the old man whimpered, raising himself on his elbow and crossing himself.
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And quiet flows the Don; a novel Page 41