The cossacks shuddered and came to a halt. A dry, boisterous wind was blowing from the east, carrying the smoke away from the roof of the granary towards the group of Ukrainians. One spark in the dry thatch, and the whole village would go up in flames.
A brief, stifled howl of rage arose from the cossacks. Some of them began to retreat towards the mill, whilst the Ukrainian, waving the brand above his head and scattering fiery rain, shouted:
‘I’ll burn it! I’ll burn it! Out of the yard!’
‘Horse-shoe’ Yakob, the cause of the fight, was the first to leave the yard. The other cossacks streamed hurriedly after him. Throwing their sacks hastily on to their wagons, the Ukrainians harnessed their horses, then, standing up in their wagons, waving the ends of the leather reins around their heads, whipping up their horses frantically, they tore out of the yard and away from the village.
Standing in the middle of the yard, his eyes and cheeks twitching, armless Alexei cried:
‘To horse, cossacks!’
‘After them!’ the cry was taken up.
Mitka Korshunov was on the point of dashing out of the yard, and the other cossacks were about to act on the advice. But at that moment an unfamiliar figure in a black hat approached the group with hasty steps and raised his hand, crying:
‘Stop!’
‘Who are you?’ Yakob asked.
‘Where did you spring from?’ another demanded.
‘Stop, villagers!’
‘Who are you calling villagers?’
‘The peasant! Give him one, Yakob!’
‘That’s right, close his peepers for him!’
The man smiled anxiously, but without a sign of fear. He took off his hat, wiped his brow with a gesture of ineffable simplicity, and finally disarmed them with his smile.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, waving his hat at the blood by the door of the weighing-shed.
‘We’ve been fighting the Hokhols,’ armless Alexei replied peaceably.
‘But what for?’
‘They wanted to go out of their turn,’ Yakob explained.
‘One of them would have set fire to the place in his desperation,’ Afonka Ozierov smiled. ‘The Hokhols are a terribly bad-tempered lot.’
The man waved his hat in Ozierov’s direction. ‘And who are you?’ he asked.
Ozierov spat contemptuously, and answered, as he watched the flight of the spittle:
‘I’m a cossack. And you … you’re not a gypsy, are you?’
‘I and you are both of us Russians.’
‘You lie!’ Afonka declared deliberately.
‘The cossacks are descended from the Russians. Do you know that?’ the stranger declared.
‘And I tell you the cossacks are the sons of cossacks.’
‘Long ago,’ the man explained, ‘serfs ran away from the landowners and settled along the Don. They came to be known as cossacks.’
‘Go your own way, man!’ Alexei advised, restraining his anger. ‘The swine wants to make peasants of us! Who is he?’
‘He’s the newcomer living with cross-eyed Lukieshka,’ another explained.
But the moment for pursuit of the Ukrainians was past. The cossacks dispersed, animatedly discussing the fight.
That night, in the steppe some five miles from the village, as Gregor wrapped himself in his prickly linen coat he said querulously to Natalia:
‘You’re a stranger, somehow! You’re like that moon, you don’t warm and you don’t chill a man. I don’t love you, Natashka; you mustn’t be angry. I didn’t want to say anything about it, but there it is; clearly we can’t go on like this. I’m sorry for you; we’ve been married all these days, and still I feel nothing in my heart. It’s empty. Like the steppe tonight.’
Natalia glanced up at the inaccessible, starry pastures, at the shadowy, translucent cloak of the clouds floating above her, and was silent. From somewhere in the bluish-black upper wilderness belated cranes called to each other with voices like little silver bells. The grass had a yearning, deathly smell. On the hillock glimmered the ruddy glow of the dying camp-fire.
Gregor awoke just before dawn. Snow lay on his coat to the depth of three inches. The steppe was hidden beneath the freezing, virginal blue of the fresh snow; the clearly marked tracks of a hare ran close by where he was lying.
For many years past, if a cossack rode alone along the road to Millerovo and fell in with Hokhols (the Ukrainian villages began with Lower Yablonska and stretched for some fifty miles, as far as Millerovo) he had to yield them the road, or they would set about him. So the cossacks were in the habit of driving to the district village in groups, and then they were not afraid of falling in with Hokhols on the steppe and exchanging invective:
‘Hey, Hokhol! Give us the road! You live on the cossacks’ land, you swine, and you don’t want to let them pass!’
It was not pleasant for the Ukrainians, who had to bring their grain to the central granaries at Paramonov on the Don. Fights would break out without cause, simply because they were Hokhols, and as they were Hokhols the cossacks had to fight them.
Hundreds of years previously a diligent hand had sown the seeds of national discord in the cossack land, and the seed had yielded rich fruit. In the inter-racial struggles the blue blood of the cossacks and the crimson blood of the immigrant Muscovites and Ukrainians was poured out liberally over the Don country.
Some two weeks after the battle of the mill a district police officer and an investigating official arrived in the village. Stockman was the first to be cross-examined. The investigator, a young official from the cossack nobility, asked him:
‘Where were you living before you came here?’
‘At Rostov.’
‘What were you imprisoned for in 1907?’
‘For disorders.’
‘Hm! Where were you working then?’
‘In the railway workshops.’
‘What as?’
‘Locksmith.’
‘You’re not a Jew, are you? Or a converted Jew?’
‘No. I think …’
‘I’m not interested in what you think. Have you been in exile?’
‘Yes, I have.’
The investigator raised his head, and chewed his lips:
‘I advise you to clear out of this district,’ he said, adding in an undertone, ‘and I’ll see that you do.’
‘Why?’
‘What did you say to the cossacks on the day of the fight at the mill?’ he answered with a question.
‘Well …’
‘All right, you can go.’
Stockman went on to the verandah of Mokhov’s house (the authorities always made the merchant’s house their headquarters) and although a frown furrowed his brow, he glanced back at the door with a smile.
Chapter Nine
Winter came on slowly. After some days the snow melted and the herds were driven out to pasture again. For a week a southern wind blew, warming the earth; a late, straggling green sprang up over the steppe. The thaw lasted until St Michael’s Day, then the frost returned and snow fell, and the gardens by the Don, through the fences, were criss-crossed with the marks of hares’ feet. The streets were deserted.
Just after the snowfall a village assembly was held to arrange for the allotment and cutting of brushwood. Long before the hour fixed for the meeting the cossacks crowded around the steps of the village administration in their sheepskins and greatcoats, and the cold drove them inside. Behind a table, at the side of the ataman and secretary, the respected village elders were gathered; the younger cossacks squeezed together in a group and muttered out of the warmth of their coat collars. The secretary covered sheet after sheet of paper with close writing, whilst the ataman watched over his shoulder, and a restrained hum arose in the chilly room.
‘The hay this year …’
‘You’re right. The meadow hay is good, but the steppe hay is all clover.’
What about the wood-cutting?’
‘Quiet, please!’
‘You can’t fix the wood-cutting for Thursday,’ Ivan Tomilin attempted to shout down the ataman.
‘Why not?’
‘On Thursday half the village will be going out to bring in hay.’
‘You can leave that till Sunday!’
‘The better the day …’ a howl of derision arose from the assembly.
Old Matvey Kashulin leant across the rickety table and pointed his smooth ash stick at Tomilin.
‘The hay can wait! You’re a fool, brother! And that’s that! You …’
‘You’ve got no brains to boast about, anyway …’ armless Alexei joined in. For six years he had been quarrelling with old Kashulin over a piece of land. Every spring Alexei asserted his right to it, but each time Kashulin ploughed it up again.
‘Shut up, St Vitus!’
‘Pity you’re so far away, or I’d give you something to remember me by,’ Alexei stormed.
The ataman banged the table with his fist.
‘I’ll call the militia in in a moment, if there isn’t silence.’ When order was restored, he added: ‘Woodcutting will begin on Thursday at dawn.’
‘A fine time!’ ‘God grant it!’ arose the jeering remarks.
‘And one other thing: I’ve received an instruction from the district ataman.’ The village ataman raised his voice. ‘Next Saturday the youngsters are to go to be sworn in at the district ataman’s office. They are to be there by the afternoon.’
Pantaleimon Prokoffievitch was standing by the window nearest the door. At his side Miron Gregorievitch was sitting on the window-sill, screwing up his eyes and smiling into his beard. Close by them the younger cossacks were crowded, winking and smiling at one another. In the middle of their group, the fur cap of the Ataman’s Regiment thrust back on his smooth bald head, his unageing face everlastingly blushing like a ruddy winter apple, stood Avdeitch Senilin.
Avdeitch had served in the Ataman’s Lifeguards, and had come back with the nickname of ‘Bragger’. He had been one of the first in the village to be assigned to the Ataman’s Regiment. Whilst he was on service a strange thing had happened to him, and from the very first day of his return he had begun to tell astonishing stories of his extraordinary adventures in Petersburg. His astounded listeners at first believed him, drinking it all in with gaping mouths, but then they discovered that Avdeitch was the biggest liar the village had ever produced, and they openly laughed at him. But he was not to be abashed, and did not cease his lying. As he grew old he began to get annoyed when nailed down to a lie, and would resort to his fists; but if his listeners only laughed and said nothing he grew more and more fervent in his story-telling.
Avdeitch stood in the middle of the room, rocking on his heels. Glancing around the assembled cossacks, he observed in a ponderous, bass voice:
‘Speaking of service, these days the cossacks aren’t at all what they were. They’re small, and good-for-nothing. But …’ and he smiled contemptuously, ‘I once saw some dead bones! Ah! they were cossacks in those days!’
‘Where did you dig the bones up, Avdeitch?’ smooth-faced Anikushka asked, nudging his neighbour.
‘Don’t start telling any of your lies, Avdeitch, with the Holy Day so near,’ Pantaleimon wrinkled up his nose. He did not like Adveitch’s bragging habits.
‘It isn’t my nature to lie, brother,’ Avdeitch replied truculently, and stared in astonishment at Anikushka, who was shaking as though with fever. ‘I saw these dead bones when we were building a hut for my brother-in-law. As we were digging the foundations we came to a grave. The arms were as long as this …’ he extended both arms wide, ‘and the head was as big as a copper.’
‘You’d better tell the youngsters how you caught a robber in St Petersburg,’ Miron suggested, as he rose from the window-sill.
‘There’s nothing really to tell,’ Avdeitch replied, with a sudden attack of modesty.
‘Tell us, tell us, Avdeitch!’ arose a shout.
‘Well, it was like this,’ Avdeitch cleared his throat and drew his tobacco pouch out of his trouser pocket. He poured a pinch of tobacco on to his palm and stared around his audience with eyes beaming. ‘A thief had escaped from prison. They looked for him everywhere, but do you think they could find him? They just couldn’t. All the authorities were beaten.
‘Well, one night the officer of the guard calls me to him: “Go into that room,” he says. “His Imperial Majesty is in there. The Sire Emperor himself wants to see you.” Of course I was taken aback a bit, but I went in. I stood to attention, but he claps me on the shoulder and says: “Listen!” he says, “Ivan Avdeitch, the biggest thief in our empire has escaped. Look for him and find him, or never let me set eyes on you again!” “Very good, Your Imperial Majesty!” I said. So I took three of the best horses in the Tsar’s stables and set out. I rode all day, and I rode all night, until on the third day I came up with the thief near Moscow. I take him into my coach, and haul him back to Petersburg. I arrive at midnight, all covered with mud, and go straight to His Imperial Majesty Himself. All sorts of counts and princes tried to stop me, but I march on. Yes … I knock at the door. “May I come in, Your Imperial Majesty?” “Who is it?” “It’s me,” I said, “Ivan Avdeitch Sinilin.” I heard a noise in the room, and heard His Majesty Himself cry out: “Maria Fiodorovna, Maria Fiodorovna! Get up quickly and get a samovar going, Ivan Avdeitch has arrived.”’
There was a roar of laughter from the cossacks at the back of the crowd. The secretary, who was reading a notice concerning a lost animal, stopped in the middle of a sentence, and the ataman stretched out his neck like a goose and stared hard at the crowd rocking with laughter.
Avdeitch’s face clouded and his eyes wandered uncertainly over the faces before him.
‘Wait a bit!’ he said.
‘Ha-ha-ha!’
‘Oh, he’ll be the death of us!’
‘Get a samovar going! Avdeitch has arrived! Ha-ha-ha!’
The assembly began to break up. On the trampled snow outside the administration hut Stepan Astakhov and a tall, long-shanked cossack, the owner of the windmill, were stamping about to get themselves warm.
When Pantaleimon returned from the meeting he went at once to the room which he and his wife occupied. Ilinichna had been unwell for some days, and her swollen face reflected her weariness and pain. She lay propped up on a plump feather bed. At the sound of Pantaleimon’s footsteps she turned her head; her eyes rested on his beard, damp with his breath, and her nostrils dilated. But the old man smelt only of the frost and the sour sheep-skin. ‘Sober today,’ she thought, and contentedly laid down her knitting-needles.
‘Well, what of the wood-cutting?’ she asked.
‘They’ve decided to begin on Thursday.’ Pantaleimon stroked his beard. ‘Thursday morning,’ he added, sitting down on a chest at the side of the bed. ‘Well, feeling any better?’
‘Just the same. A shooting pain in all my joints.’
‘I told you not to go into the water,’ Pantaleimon fumed. ‘There were plenty of other women to steep the hemp … and how’s Natalia?’ he asked suddenly, bending towards the bed.
There was a note of anxiety in Ilinichna’s voice as she replied:
‘I don’t know what to do. She was crying again a day or two ago. I went out into the yard and found someone had left the barn door wide open. I went inside, and she was standing by the millet bin. I asked her what was the matter, but she said she only had a headache. I can’t get the truth out of her.’
‘Perhaps she’s ill?’
‘I don’t think so. Either someone’s given her the evil eye, or else it’s Grishka …’
‘He hasn’t been with that … You haven’t heard anything, have you?’
‘What are you saying, father?’ Ilinichna exclaimed in alarm. ‘And what about Stepan? He’s no fool! No, I haven’t heard anything.’
Pantaleim
on sat with his wife a while longer, then went out. Gregor was in his room sharpening hooks with a file. Natalia was smearing them with pork grease, and carefully wrapping each in a separate rag. As Pantaleimon limped by he stared inquisitively at her. Her yellow cheeks were flushed like an autumn leaf. She had grown noticeably thinner during the past month, and there was a new, unhappy look in her eyes. The old man halted at the door. ‘He’s killing the girl!’ he thought, as he glanced back at Natalia bowed over the bench.
‘Drop that, the devil take it!’ the old man shouted, turning livid with his sudden frenzy. Gregor looked at his father in astonishment.
‘I want to sharpen both ends, father.’
‘Drop it, I tell you! Get ready for the wood-cutting. The sledges aren’t ready at all, and you sit there sharpening hooks,’ he added more quietly, and hesitated at the door, evidently wanting to say something else. But he went out. Gregor heard him giving vent to the rest of his anger on Piotra.
A good two hours before dawn on the Thursday, Ilinichna got up and called Daria: ‘Get up! Time to light the fire!’
Daria ran in her shift to the stove and struck a light with the flint.
‘Get a move on with it!’ Piotra hurried his wife as he lit a cigarette.
‘They don’t go and wake that Natashka up! Am I to tear myself in two?’ Daria fumed.
‘Go and wake her up yourself,’ Piotra advised her. But the advice was unnecessary, for Natalia was already up. Flinging on her jacket, she went out to get fuel for the fire.
The kitchen smelt of fresh kvas, harness, and the warmth of human bodies. Daria bustled about, shuffling in her felt boots; under her rose-coloured shift her little breasts quivered. Her married life had not soured or withered her. Tall and slender, supple as a willow switch, she was as fresh as a young girl.
Dawn broke before the meal was ready. Pantaleimon hurried over his breakfast, blowing on the thick porridge. Gregor ate slowly, his face clouded, and Piotra amused himself with teasing Dunia, who was suffering with toothache and had her face bound up.
There was the sound of sledge-runners in the street. Bullock sledges were moving down to the Don in the grey dawn. Gregor and Piotra went out to harness their sledges. As he went Gregor wound a soft scarf, his wife’s gift, around his neck. A crow flew overhead with a full, throaty cry. Piotra watched its flight and remarked:
And Quiet Flows the Don Page 13