And Quiet Flows the Don

by Mikhail Sholokhov

  ‘Why, it’s Listnitsky! Surely?’ he cried, and came with confident and unhesitating steps towards Eugene.

  Listnitsky at once recognized captain Kalmikov and his companion Chubov. They shook hands heartily. After introducing them to Atarshchikov, Eugene asked:

  ‘What fate had brought you here?’

  Twisting his whiskers, Kalmikov replied:

  ‘We’ve been commanded to Petrograd. I’ll tell you later. But first tell us all about yourself. How do you find life in the Fourteenth regiment?’

  They left the restaurant together. Kalmikov and Listnitsky dropped behind the others, turned down the first side-street and walked along towards a quiet part of the city, talking almost in whispers.

  ‘Our third corps is held in reserve on the Roumanian front,’ Kalmikov told Eugene. ‘About ten days ago I receive instructions from the regimental commander to hand over my company to another officer, and to go with Chubov to place ourselves at the disposition of the divisional staff. Wonderful! We go to the divisional staff. There we are confidentially informed that we are to go at once to report to general Krimov. So we go to the corps headquarters. Krimov sees me, and as he has been informed which officers are being sent to him, he tells me frankly: “The government is in the hands of men who are deliberately leading the country to destruction. The group at the head of the government must be replaced, and possibly the Provisional Government will have to be dismissed in favour of a military dictatorship.” He mentioned Kornilov as a probable candidate, and then proposed that I should go to Petrograd, to put myself at the disposition of the Central Committee of the Officers’ Alliance. And now several hundred reliable officers are gathered in the city. You can guess what our rôle is to be? The Central Committee of the Officers’ Alliance is working in close contact with our Soviet of the Alliance of Cossack Troops, and shock battalions are being organized at railway junctions and among the divisions.’

  ‘And what will come of it? What do you think?’

  ‘That’s the point! But do you mean to say that you, living here, still don’t know the situation? Undoubtedly there will be a governmental coup, and Kornilov will seize power. The whole army is on his side. We think there are two equated forces: the Bolsheviks and Kornilov. Kerensky is between the upper and nether millstones. One or the other will crush him. He is caliph for an hour. Of course we officers are like pieces on a chessboard; we don’t know where the player will move us to. I for instance don’t understand all that is happening at staff headquarters. But I do know that there is some secret understanding among the generals …’

  ‘But the army …? Will the army follow Kornilov?’ Eugene asked.

  ‘Of course the soldiers won’t. But we must lead them.’

  ‘You know that under pressure from the left Kerensky is trying to dismiss the commander-in-chief?’

  ‘He won’t dare. Tomorrow he will himself be on his knees. The Central Committee of the Officers’ Alliance has expressed its opinion quite categorically on that matter,’ Kalmikov replied. ‘There can’t be any talk of dismissing Kornilov. But did you see his arrival in the city yesterday? It was classic! His guard was a squadron of Tekins. There were machine-guns placed in every motor-car. And they all rode to the Winter Palace, where Kerensky was. An unequivocal warning enough! You should have seen the mugs of the Tekins in their shaggy cowls. They’re worth looking at!’

  The two officers walked back to the centre of the city, and took leave of each other.

  ‘We mustn’t lose sight of each other, Eugene,’ Kalmikov said as he shook hands. ‘Difficult times are coming! Keep your feet on the ground, or you’ll be lost.’

  As Listnitsky walked away Kalmikov called after him:

  ‘Oh, I’d forgotten to tell you. You remember Merkulov? The artist fellow?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He was killed in May. Quite unexpectedly. You couldn’t have seen a more silly death. A grenade burst in the hands of a patrol and blew off the man’s arms at the elbow, while all we found of Merkulov who was at his side was part of his entrails. For three years death had spared him …’

  He shouted something else, but the wind raised the grey dust and brought only the ends of his words to Listnitsky’s ears. Eugene waved his hand and strode away, giving an occasional glance back.

  On August 26th Kornilov left staff headquarters for a state conference at Moscow. It was a warm, rather cloudy day. The sky looked as though cast of aluminium. In the zenith hung a clearly defined, fluffy violet cloud. From it fell a slanting rain, broken with rainbow hues, and falling on the train flying over the rails, the distant, clean outlines of birches, and all the widow’s weeds of the early autumn earth. The train sped on, leaving behind a ruddy scarf of smoke. General Kornilov sat by the open window of his carriage, staring out at the landscape, and the warm drops of rain spattered munificently over his sunburnt face and the black, hanging whiskers. The wind fluttered and blew back the strand of hair that had fallen over his forehead.

  The day before Kornilov’s arrival in Moscow, captain Listnitsky came to the city with important documents entrusted to him by the Soviet of Cossack Troops at Petrograd. When he handed the packet over to the staff of the cossack regiment stationed in Moscow he learnt that Kornilov was expected to arrive next day.

  At noon the following day Listnitsky was at the station to meet the commander-in-chief. A dense crowd of people, chiefly military, was assembled in the waiting rooms and buffets. A guard of honour from the military academy was drawn up on the platform, and the Moscow women’s death battalion was arrayed outside. Kornilov’s train arrived about three o’clock. Listnitsky saw Kornilov, accompanied by several officers, alight from the train, inspect the guard of honour, and receive deputations from the Alliance of Cavaliers of St George, the Alliance of Army and Navy Officers, and the Soviet of the Alliance of Cossack Troops.

  As Kornilov approached he was bombarded with flowers thrown by the well-dressed women standing at the end of the platform. One rosy blossom caught in his epaulettes and hung there. He brushed it off with a slightly embarrassed, uncertain gesture. A bearded, elderly officer began to stammer out greetings in the name of the cossack regiments, but Listnitsky could not hear what was said, for the crowd pushed him against the wall. After the speeches Kornilov moved on, the way being cleared by officers with joined hands. But the crowd swept them away. Dozens of hands were stretched out to Kornilov. A stout, dishevelled woman hovered at his side, trying to press her lips to his sleeve. At the station entrance Kornilov was lifted shoulder high and carried out, to a tumult of acclamation. With a strong thrust of the shoulder Listnitsky managed to push aside some dignified elderly gentleman, caught at Kornilov’s feet, and put the general’s legs across his shoulder. Unconscious of the weight, panting with his agitation, endeavouring to keep his feet, he moved slowly forward, deafened by the roar of the crowd and the blare of a band. Down the steps they went into the square. In front was the crowd, the green ranks of soldiers, and a cossack company. Listnitsky set his hand to the peak of his cap, blinking his tear-filled eyes and trying to restrain the irresistible trembling of his lips. Afterwards he had a confused memory of the rattle of cameras, the frenzy of the crowd, the ceremonial march of the Junkers and the little, erect figure of general Kornilov taking the salute.

  Next day Listnitsky returned to Petrograd. He climbed into the upper berth of his compartment, unbuttoned his tunic and smoked, thinking of Kornilov.

  At about the same time, during a break in the session of the Moscow State Conference, two generals, one short and with the face of a Mongol, the other stout, with a thick growth of close-cropped hair on his square head, were strolling up and down one of the corridors of the Great Theatre, talking in whispers.

  ‘Does any point of the declaration provide for the abolition of committees in the army?’ Kornilov asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Kaledin.

  ‘A united front and complete solidarity are absolutely indispensable,’ Kornilov declare
d. ‘Without the enforcement of the measures I have indicated there can be no salvation. The army is quite incapable of fighting. Such an army not only cannot bring victory, but will not even be able to withstand any considerable attack. The divisions have been disintegrated by the Bolshevik propaganda. And here in the rear? You see how the workers react to any attempt to apply measures to bridle them. Strikes and demonstrations! The members of the conference have to go on foot … it’s scandalous! The militarization of the rear, the establishment of a harsh, punitive regime, the ruthless extermination of all the Bolsheviks – these are our immediate tasks. Can I count on your support in the future, general Kaledin?’

  ‘I am absolutely with you.’

  ‘I was sure of that. Thank you. You see how, when it is necessary to act resolutely and firmly, the government confines itself to half-measures and resounding phrases. We soldiers are accustomed to acting first and talking afterwards. They do the opposite. Well … the time is coming when they will eat the fruits of their half-measures. But I have no desire to take part in this dishonourable game. I remain an adherent of the open struggle. I am no double-dealer.’

  He halted, and twisting a button of Kaledin’s tunic, stuttered in his agitation:

  ‘They’ve removed the muzzle, and now they’re afraid of their own revolutionary democracy and are asking me to move reliable troops nearer to the capital, although at the same time they’re afraid to take any real measures themselves. One step forward, one step back … Only by a complete consolidation of our forces and strong moral pressure can we win concessions from the government. And if not … we shall see. I shall not hesitate to lay the front open. Let the Germans bring them to their senses!’

  He stood thinking for a moment, then added: ‘I shall expect you and the rest in my room after the session. What is the situation like on the Don?’

  Kaledin’s square head sank on to his chest and he stared down in front of him with a morose, lowering look. His lips trembled as he replied:

  ‘I haven’t my former confidence in the cossacks. And it is difficult to judge of the situation at the moment. A compromise is necessary; the cossacks must be conceded something in order to hold them. We are taking certain steps in this direction, but I cannot guarantee their success. I am afraid of a clash of interest between the cossacks and the settlers. The land … all their thoughts are centred on that at the moment.’

  ‘You must have reliable cossack divisions ready to hand, in order to safeguard yourself. When I return to the staff we shall find some way of sending several regiments from the front back to the Don.’

  ‘I shall be very grateful to you if you can.’

  ‘Well then, this evening we shall discuss the question of our future co-operation. I firmly believe in the successful accomplishment of our plan. But fortune is a fickle jade, general. If she turns her back on me despite everything, can I count on finding refuge with you in the Don?’

  ‘Not only refuge, but defence. The cossacks are famous for their hospitality.’ For the first time during the conversation Kaledin smiled.

  An hour later Kaledin, the ataman of the Don cossacks, announced to a hushed audience the historic Declaration of the Twelve Cossack Regiments. From that day on the threads of a great conspiracy, like a black spider-web, were flung throughout the Don, the Kuban, the Urals, throughout the cossack lands from end to end, from one village to another.

  Chapter Four

  About a mile from the ruins of a little town that had been wiped out by gunfire during the July offensive, the monstrously winding zigzag of trenches ran past a forest. The sector along the outskirts of the forest was held by the Special Company.

  Behind them, beyond the impenetrable green of a fir wood and young birches, stretched the rusty mud of peat marsh, and the crimson berries of dog-rose bushes shone gaily. To the right, beyond a protruding cape of forest, stretched a shell-holed macadam road. At the fringe of the forest grew miserable, bullet-rent bushes, and charred trunks huddled forlornly. Here the yellow-brown clay of the breastworks was visible, and the trenches ran like frowns across the open fields into the distance. Behind them even the marsh with its remains of former peat-works, even the broken road were an eloquent testimony to life and abandoned labour; but by the forest edge the earth presented a joyless and bitter picture to the eye.

  One day in August Ivan Alexievitch, the former employee at Mokhov’s mill, went off to the neighbouring town where the company baggage train was quartered, and did not return until early evening. As he made his way into his dugout he ran into Zakhar Koroliov. Zakhar was almost running, aimlessly waving his arms, his sabre catching in the edges of the sandbags. Ivan Alexievitch stepped aside to let him pass, but Zakhar seized him by a button of his tunic, and rolling the unhealthy yellow of his eyes, whispered:

  ‘Have you heard? The infantry to our right are leaving the front. Maybe they’re running away?’

  ‘What do you mean? Perhaps they’re being relieved. Let’s go to the troop officer and find out.’

  Zakhar turned back, and they went along to the troop officer’s dugout, slipping and stumbling over the slippery wet earth.

  But within an hour the company was relieved by infantry, and was on its way to the town. Next morning they took to their horses and were riding by forced marches to the rear.

  A fine rain was falling. The birches were bowed gloomily. The road plunged into a forest, and scenting the dampness and the mouldering, pungent scent of fallen leaves, the horses snorted and quickened their pace. The rain-washed spurge-flax hung in rosy beads, the foamy caps of the white clover gleamed an unearthly pallor. The wind sprinkled heavy granular water-drops from the trees over the riders. Their greatcoats and caps were dark with wet spots, as though spattered with shot. The smoke of tobacco curled and flowed above the ranks. An excited discussion of their unknown destination went on. After a while they struck up a song, rejoicing that they had been snatched out of the ‘wolves’ cemetery’, as they called the trenches. The same evening they were loaded into wagons at a station. The train dragged towards Pskov. And only some time later did they learn that the company was being transferred, together with other sections of the third army corps, to Petrograd to suppress outbreaks of disorder. Then the talk died away in the wagons, and a drowsy silence reigned.

  ‘Out of the frying-pan …’ one of them at last expressed their general opinion.

  At the first halt Ivan Alexievitch, who since March had been permanent chairman of the company committee, went to the company commander.

  ‘The cossacks are in a state of excitement, captain,’ he reported.

  The captain stared at the deep dimple in Ivan’s chin, and replied with a smile.

  ‘I am in a state of excitement myself, my friend.’

  ‘Where are we being taken to?’

  ‘To Petrograd!’

  ‘To put down risings?’

  ‘Well, you didn’t think you were going to assist the disorders, did you?’

  ‘We don’t want either the one or the other.’

  ‘As it happens they’re not asking our opinion.’

  ‘But the cossacks …’

  ‘What about the cossacks?’ the officer interrupted him angrily. ‘I know myself what the cossacks are thinking. Do you think I like the job? Take this and read it to the company. And at the next station I’ll talk to the cossacks.’

  The commander handed him a folded telegram, frowning with evident distaste.

  Ivan Alexievitch returned to his wagon, carrying the telegram gingerly in his hand as though it were a burning brand. ‘Call the cossacks from the other wagons,’ he said.

  The train was already in motion, but cossacks came jumping into Ivan’s wagon until some thirty were collected.

  ‘The commander’s given me a telegram to read,’ Ivan told them. In a deathly silence he read aloud the manifesto of the commander-in-chief, Kornilov:

  I, the supreme commander-in-chief Kornilov, before all the nation declare that my soldier
ly duty, my devotion as a citizen of free Russia, and my supreme love for the country have compelled me in these serious moments of the fatherland’s existence to refuse to carry out the instructions of the Provisional Government and resign the supreme command of the army and fleet. Supported in this decision by the commands of all the fronts, I declare to all the Russian people that I prefer death to removal from my post. A true son of the Russian people will always die at his post and sacrifice his life for the fatherland.

  It is not for me, a blood son of my people, who have given all my life to their service, to refuse to defend the great liberties of my people. An impudent enemy is among us, by bribery and treachery bringing ruin not only to freedom, but to the very existence of the Russian people. Awake, Russian people, and glance into the bottomless pit into which our country is falling!

  Avoiding all disturbance, averting all shedding of Russian blood, ignoring mutual reproaches and all my shame and humiliation at their hands, I address myself to the Provisional Government and say: ‘Come to me at the staff headquarters, where your freedom and safety are assured by my word of honour, and together with me work out and organize such a form of national defence as will safeguard freedom and lead the Russian nation towards the great future worthy of a mighty, free people.’

  General Kornilov.

  At the next station the train was halted for some time. The cossacks gathered outside their wagons, talking over Kornilov’s telegram and another from Kerensky, read by the company commander, declaring Kornilov a traitor and counter-revolutionary. The cossacks discussed the situation distractedly, and even the officers were in bewilderment.

  ‘Everything’s all mixed up,’ Martin Shamil complained. ‘How the devil are we to know who is guilty?’