And Quiet Flows the Don

by Mikhail Sholokhov

  He heard the rattle of a revolver, and looked in the direction of the sound. A man was reclining by a pine tree.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, listening to the sound of his voice as though it were another’s.

  ‘A Russian? My God! Come here!’ the man by the pine slipped to the ground. Gregor went to him.

  ‘Bend down!’ the man ordered him.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I shall fall and not be able to get up again. I’m wounded in the head.’

  ‘What regiment are you?’

  ‘The Twelfth Don Cossack.’

  ‘Help me, cossack!’

  ‘I shall fall, your Excellency,’ Gregor replied, recognizing the officer by his epaulettes.

  ‘Give me your hand at least.’

  Gregor stooped and helped the officer to rise, and they went off together. But with every step the officer hung more heavily on his arm. As they rose out of a dell he seized Gregor by the sleeve and said:

  ‘Let me drop, cossack. I’ve got a wound … right across the stomach.’

  He swooned; but Gregor dragged him along, falling and rising again and again. Twice he dropped his burden and left it; but each time he returned, lifted it, and stumbled on as if in a waking sleep.

  At eleven o’clock they were picked up by a patrol and taken to a dressing station.

  Gregor secretly left the station the very next day. Once on the road he tore the bandage from his head, and walked along waving the blood-soaked bandage in his relief.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ his company commander asked him in amazement, when he turned up at regimental headquarters.

  ‘I’ve returned to duty, your Excellency,’ he replied.

  His company had halted in Kamenka-Strumilovo for two days, and were now preparing to advance again. Gregor 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, Gregor,’ Misha Koshevoi admitted guiltily. ‘The infantry were quartered here, and they stole them.’

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

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

  ‘Hullo, Melekhov! So you’re still alive!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Your head’s all bleeding. Let me have a look.’

  He forced back Gregor’s head, and snorted:

  ‘Why did you let them cut your hair off? The doctors would have made a fine mess of you. Let me heal you.’

  Without waiting for Gregor’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,’ he ordered.

  With the point of his sabre Koshevoi scraped up a web and handed it to Uriupin. With the same sabre Uriupin 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.’

  ‘Thank you for looking after me, but if I had killed you I’d have had one sin the less on my conscience. What’s the wound like?’

  ‘It’s a cut half an inch deep. You won’t forget it in a hurry. The Austrians don’t sharpen their swords, and you’ll have a scar for the rest of your life.’

  They turned to leave the shed. Gregor’s bay horse whinnied after him, turning up the whites of his eyes.

  ‘He pined after you, Gregor,’ Koshevoi nodded to the horse. ‘He wouldn’t eat, but was whinnying all the time.’

  ‘When I crawled away I kept calling him,’ Gregor 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 had to take him by force. We lassoed him.’

  ‘He’s a good horse. He’s my brother Piotra’s.’ Gregor 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 witnessed 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.

  Yemelian Groshev and Prokhor Zikov had cleared a space in the middle of the room, and were eating their dinner. At the sight of Gregor, Zikov’s calfish eyes nearly dropped out of his head.

  ‘Grishka! Where have you dropped from?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘From the other world! Don’t stare like that!’

  ‘Run and get him some soup,’ Uriupin shouted.

  Prokhor rose and went to the door, chewing as he walked. Gregor sat down wearily in his place. ‘I don’t remember when I ate last,’ he smiled guiltily.

  Prokhor quickly returned with a pot of soup and a bag of buck-wheat gruel.

  ‘What shall I pour the gruel into?’ he asked.

  Not knowing its purpose, Groshev picked up a bedroom utensil, remarking: ‘Here’s a pot with a handle.’

  ‘Your pot stinks,’ Prokhor frowned.

  ‘Never mind. Pour it out and we’ll share it afterwards.’

  Zikov turned the bag upside down over the vessel, and the rich, thick gruel fell in a mass, an amber edging of fat running down over it. They talked as they ate. Licking a grease-spot on the faded stripe of his trousers, Uriupin muttered through a mouthful of gruel:

  ‘You should have been here this morning, Melekhov. We were thanked by the divisional 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. Its powerful engine roared menacingly.

  ‘Lie down under the fence. They’ll be dropping a bomb in a minute. There’s a battery billeted next door to us,’ Uriupin shouted. ‘Someone go and wake Yegor up. They’ll kill him as he lies on a soft mattress!’

  Soldiers ran along the street, their bodies bent to the ground. From the next yard came the neighing of horses and a curt order. Gregor glanced over the fence; the gunners were hurriedly wheeling a gun under 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 suddenly away from it and glittered sharply in the sunlight.

  Uriupin ran down the steps, Gregor behind him, and they threw themselves down by the palings. One wing of the aeroplane glittered as it turned. From the street came irregular shots. Gregor had just thrust a charge 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 on the head, filling his eyes with dust and crushing with its weight.

  Uriupin lifted him to his feet. A sharp pain in the left eye prevented Gregor from seeing. With difficulty opening the right eyelid, he saw that half the house was demolished; the bricks were scattered in a horrible confusion, a rosy cloud of dust hovered 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 torn out of their sockets. With his head buried in his shoulders he crawled along, screaming without opening his deathly blackening lips.

  ‘A-i-i-i-i. A-i-i-i-i … A … i … i …’

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

  ‘Pick him up!’ Gregor shouted, not removing his hand from his left eye.

  Infantry ran into the yard; a two-wheeled cart with telephone operators stopped at the gate. Two women, and an old man in a long black coat came up. Zharkov was quickly surrounded by a little crowd. Pressing through them, Gregor saw that he was still breathing, whimpering and violently shivering. A beady, granular 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? You can see he’s dying.’

  ‘And he’s still conscious.’

  Uriupin touched Gregor on the shoulder from behind. ‘Don’t move him,’ he whispered. ‘Come round the other side and look.’

  He drew Gregor along by the sleeve, and pushed the crowd aside. Gregor took one glance, then with huddled shoulders turned away and went to the gate. Under Zharkov’s belly the rosy and blue intestines hung smoking. The end of the intertwined mass was poured out on to the sand and dung, stirring and swelling. The dying man’s hand lay at the side as though raking the ground.

  ‘Cover his face,’ someone proposed.

  Zharkov suddenly rose on his hand, and throwing his head back until it beat between the shoulder-blades, shouted in a hoarse, inhuman voice:

  ‘Brothers, kill me … Brothers …! What are you standing looking for …? Ah … Ah … Brothers, kill me!’

  The wagon rocked easily, 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 your 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 roar of the engine the front was farther and farther off. And Gregor 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 integument, and, spotlessly clean, was entering a new life.

  His quiet, tranquil joy 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 beneath 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 Gregor’s voice. ‘But you must have it attended to, and an operation may be necessary. We shall send you to Petersburg or Moscow. Don’t be afraid, your eye will be all right.’ He clapped Gregor 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 long wanderings Gregor 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. Those who could walk were assembled on the platform. The doctor accompanying the train called out Gregor’s name and handed him over to a nurse, instructing her as to his destination.

  The nurse led the way out of the station, her dress rustling. Gregor walked uncertainly behind her. They took a drozhki. The roar of the great city, the jangle of tram-bells, the blue gleam of electricity had a crushing effect upon him. He leant against the back of the drozhki, staring inquisitively at the crowded streets, and it was strange for him to feel the agitating body of a woman at his side. Autumn was visibly 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. In the distance railway engines whistled. ‘Perhaps a train just off to the Don,’ Gregor thought, pricked with yearning.

  They stopped outside a three-storeyed house. Gregor jumped out.

  ‘Give me your hand,’ the sister asked, bending down over him. He took her small, soft hand in his and helped her to alight.

  ‘You smell of soldiers’ sweat,’ she laughed quietly.

  ‘You ought to spend some time out there, nurse, then you might stink of something else,’ Gregor 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, Gregor sat down at a round table while the nurse whispered something to a woman in a white overall. After a few minutes an orderly, also dressed in white, led him to a bathroom.

  ‘Strip!’ he ordered.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You’ve got to have a bath.’

  While Gregor was undressing and looking in astonishment around the bathroom the orderly filled the bath with water, measured the temperature, and told him to get in. He assisted him to wash himself thoroughly, then gave him a towel, linen, house-shoes, and a grey, belted overall.

  ‘What about my clothes?’ Gregor asked in amazement.

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

  As Gregor passed a wall mirror he did not recognize himself. Tall, dark of face, with patches of crimson on the cheeks and a growth of moustache and beard, in a dressing-gown, his hair swathed in a cap, he had only a distant resemblance to the former Gregor Melekhov. ‘I’ve grown younger,’ he smiled wanly to himself.

  The orderly showed him into a room, and a few minutes later a corpulent sister with a large, ugly face opened the door.

  ‘Melekhov, we want to have a look at your eyes,’ she said in a low, chesty voice, and stood aside to let him pass out.

  Chapter Eight

  The army command decided on a big attack on the south-west front with a view to breaking through the enemy lines, destroying his communication lines and disorganizing his forces with sudden assaults. The command set great store by the plan, and large forces of cavalry were concentrated in the area, among them being Eugene Listnitsky’s regiment. The attack was to have begun on 10 September, but a rain storm caused it to be postponed until the following day.

  Over a six-mile area the infantry on the right flank made a demonstrative offensive to draw the fire of the enemy. Also sections of one cavalry division were despatched in a misleading direction.

  In front of Listnitsky’s regiment, as far as the eye could see there was no sign whatever of the enemy. About a mile away Eugene could see deserted lines of trenches, behind them rye-fields billowing in a wind-driven, bluish early morning mist. The enemy must have learnt of the attack in preparation, for during the night they had retired some four miles, leaving only nests of machine-guns to harass the attackers.

  Behind the clouds 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. The many thousands of horses’ hoofs set up a deep rumbling roar that sounded as though it came from under the ground. A mile 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 rose continually the ruddy heads of rye, behind them it lay overthrown and trampled down by hoofs. After three miles of such riding the horses began to stumble and sweat, but still there was no sign of the enemy. Listnitsky glanced at his company commander; the captain’s face wore an expression of utter despair.

  Four miles of terribly heavy going took all the strength out o
f 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, sprinkling a hail of bullets. The murderous fire mowed down the leading ranks. A regiment of Uhlans was the first to falter and turn; a cossack regiment broke. The machine-gun rain lashed them into a panic-stricken flight. Thus 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.

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

  The chief of staff of the division, one colonel Golovachev, took several snapshots of the attack, and afterwards showed them to some officers. A wounded subaltern struck him in the face with his fist and burst into tears. Then cossacks ran up and tore Golovachev to pieces, made game of his corpse, and finally threw it into the mud of a roadside ditch. So ended this brilliantly inglorious offensive.

  From the hospital in Warsaw Eugene informed his father that he had been given leave and was coming down to Yagodnoe. The old man shut himself up in his room, and came out again only the next day. He ordered Nikititch the coachman to harness the trotting horse into the drozhki, had breakfast, and drove to Vieshenska. There he sent his son a telegram which was a miniature letter and cost four hundred roubles to despatch.

  Yet there was nothing in old Listnitsky’s life to write about. It dragged on as before, without variation; only the cost of labour rose, and there was a shortage of liquor. The master drank more frequently, and grew more irritable and fault-finding. One day he summoned Aksinia to him and complained:

  ‘You’re not working properly. Why was the breakfast cold yesterday? Why wasn’t the glass properly clean? If it happens again I shall discharge you. I can’t stand slovenliness. D’you hear?’

  Aksinia pressed her lips together and burst into tears.