And Quiet Flows the Don

by Mikhail Sholokhov

  The train reduced speed, and finally stopped. The cossacks rose. As he buttoned his tunic Krivoshlikov said with a wry smile:

  ‘Well, here we are, at home!’

  ‘They’re not giving their guests a very hospitable welcome!’ Skachkov tried to jest.

  A tall captain threw open the door without knocking, and entered the compartment. He surveyed the members of the delegation with eyes expressive of his hostility, and said with deliberate roughness:

  ‘I have been instructed to accompany you. Please leave the carriage as quickly as possible, mister Bolsheviks. I cannot guarantee the crowd and … your safety.’

  ‘There they are, the scoundrels, the betrayers of the cossacks!’ a long-whiskered officer standing among the crowd on the platform shouted as they got out. Podtielkov turned pale and glanced back at Krivoshlikov with disconcerted eyes. A strong escort of officers guarded the delegation. To the very door of the government headquarters they were accompanied by a frenzied crowd demanding that they should be lynched on the spot. Not only officers and Junkers, but elegantly dressed women and students, and even a few cossacks hurled abuse at them.

  The hall of the government administration was not large enough to accommodate all the crowd that had gathered. While the members of the delegation were seating themselves on one side of a table, the members of the government arrived. Accompanied by Bogaevsky, Kaledin, stooping slightly, approached the table with a firm wolfish stride. He pulled back his chair and sat down, setting his cap with its officer’s cockade calmly on the table, brushing back his hair and buttoning up the great side-pocket of his tunic. Then he bent towards Bogaevsky and whispered something to him. His every movement and gesture was expressive of resolute, deliberate confidence, of mature strength. Bogaevsky seemed more agitated in face of the coming negotiations. He sat whispering, hardly moving his lips, his slanting eyes glittering behind his pince-nez. He betrayed his nervousness by restless movements of his hands, adjusting his collar, feeling his chin, and raising his eyebrows. The rest of the government delegates seated themselves on either side of Kaledin, and the general stared across at Podtielkov opposite him and said: ‘I think we can begin.’

  Podtielkov smiled, and speaking in audible tones, stated the reasons for the arrival of the delegation. Krivoshlikov picked up the ultimatum prepared by the Military Revolutionary Committee and stretched it across the table, but Kaledin rejected it with a movement of his white hand, and said firmly:

  ‘There is no point in wasting time while every member of the government separately studies the document. Please to read your ultimatum aloud. Then we shall discuss it.’

  Krivoshlikov stood up. His girlishly thin voice flowed indistinctly through the crowded hall as he read the Committee’s demand for the abdication of the military ataman and his government. Hardly had his voice died away when Kaledin loudly asked:

  ‘What troops have given you authority for this ultimatum?’

  Podtielkov exchanged glances with Krivoshlikov, and began to calculate aloud:

  ‘The Ataman Lifeguards, the Cossack Lifeguards, the 6th and 32nd batteries, the 44th regiment …’ as he mentioned each division he bent down the fingers of his left hand, and a jeering titter ran through the hall. He frowned, set his hairy hands down on the table, and raised his voice: ‘the 28th regiment, the 28th battery, the 27th regiment, the 14th regiment …’

  When he had finished, Kaledin asked a few unimportant questions, then, pressing his chest against the edge of the table, he stared at Podtielkov and demanded:

  ‘Do you recognize the authority of the Soviet of People’s Commissars?’

  Podtielkov gulped down a glass of water, set the glass back on the table, wiped his whiskers with his sleeve, and replied evasively:

  ‘Only all the people can reply to that.’

  Afraid that the more simple Podtielkov might say too much, Krivoshlikov intervened:

  ‘The cossacks will not condemn any government in which there are representatives of the parties of national freedom. But we are cossacks, and the government should be our own cossack government.’

  ‘How are we to interpret that remark, when Bronstein and such men are at the head of the Soviet?’

  ‘Russia has trusted them, and we shall trust them.’

  ‘Will you have relations with them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kaledin drummed with his fingers and asked inquiringly:

  ‘What have you in common with the Bolsheviks?’

  ‘We want to have cossack self-government in the Don region.’

  ‘Yes, but surely you know that on February 17th a Military Council is to be called? The members will be re-elected. Will you agree to joint control?’

  ‘No!’ Podtielkov raised his eyes and replied firmly. ‘If you are in the minority we shall dictate our will to you.’

  ‘But that will be coercion!’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bogaevsky turned his eyes from Podtielkov to Krivoshlikov and asked:

  ‘Do you recognize the Military Council?’

  ‘Only in so far as …’ Podtielkov shrugged his shoulders. ‘The regional Military Revolutionary Committee will call a congress of representatives of the people. It will work under the control of the military forces. If the congress doesn’t satisfy us we shall not recognize it.’

  ‘And who are to be the judges in this matter?’ Kaledin raised his eyebrows.

  ‘The people!’ Podtielkov proudly threw back his head.

  After a short interval Kaledin spoke again. All noise died away in the hall, and the low, autumnally lacklustre tones of his voice sounded clearly in the silence:

  ‘The government cannot abdicate its powers at the demand of the regional Military Revolutionary Committee. The present government has been elected by all the population of the Don, and only they, and not individual sections, can demand that we abdicate our powers. You are blind instruments in the hands of the Bolsheviks. You are doing the will of German mercenaries, not realizing the colossal responsibility to the cossacks which you are taking on yourselves. I advise you to reconsider the matter, for you are bringing terrible misery on your native land by entering into conflict with the government which reflects the will of the entire population. I shall not cling to my authority. A great Military Council is to be called, and it will accomplish the destinies of the country. But until it meets I must remain at my post. For the last time I advise you to think over your position.’

  Podtielkov pushed back his chair and replied tensely, stuttering with agitation, seeking words expressing an overwhelming power of conviction:

  ‘If the Military Government could be trusted I would willingly renounce all our demands. But the people do not trust it! It is not us, but you who are beginning the civil war. Why have you given the shelter of the cossack land to these runaway generals? That is why the Bolsheviks are coming to make war on our gentle Don. I will not submit to you! You will pass over my dead body first! I do not believe that the Military Council can save the Don. Why are you sending your partisans against the miners? Tell me, what guarantee is there that the Military Government will avoid civil war? The people and the front-line cossacks are on our side!’

  A laugh like a rustling wind ran through the hall, and angry exclamations against Podtielkov were heard. He turned his flushed face in their direction, and shouted, making no attempt to hide his bitter anger:

  ‘You’re laughing now, but you’ll be weeping before you’re done with!’ He turned back to Kaledin, and fixed his eyes on him: ‘We demand that you hand over the government to us, the representatives of the toiling people, and clear out all the bourgeoisie and the Volunteer Army.’

  With Kaledin’s permission several speakers from the Don Military Government attempted to talk over the members of the Revolutionary Committee to a different point of view. The hall grew blue and heavy with tobacco smoke. Beyond the windows the sun was drawing near to the end of its daily journey. Frozen fir branches clung to the outer panes. />
  At last Lagutin could endure it no longer. Interrupting one of the speakers, he turned to Kaledin:

  ‘Come to a decision: it’s time to end this!’

  Bogaevsky whispered reprovingly:

  ‘Don’t get agitated, Lagutin! Take a drink of water. It’s dangerous for anyone prone to epilepsy to get agitated. And besides, it’s not the thing to interrupt speakers; this isn’t a Soviet here!’

  After a moment Kaledin rose. His reply had been previously prepared, and he had already issued instructions for a large force to advance in the direction of Kamenska. But he was playing for time, and he ended the conference with a procrastinating suggestion:

  ‘The Don Government will consider the Revolutionary Committee’s proposals, and will give an answer in writing by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  The reply of the Military Government, handed to the delegates of the Military Revolutionary Committee the next morning, constituted a complete rejection of the Committee’s proposals, and called for the dissolution of the Committee and the submission of its forces to the existing regional Military Council. It further proposed that the Military Revolutionary Committee should participate in a joint deputation to the Bolshevik forces, with a view to negotiating for a peaceful settlement of the question of their advance into the Don. This last proposal was accepted by the delegates, and Lagutin and Skachkov became members of the deputation sent to Taganrog. Podtielkov and the others were detained for the time being in Novocherkass, but meantime Kaledin’s forces under the command of colonel Chornetsov had occupied the station of Likhi and continued their advance towards Kamenska, occupying that town on January 30th.

  The revolutionary forces had to evacuate Kamenska in a hurry. The depleted cossack companies crowded pell-mell into the trains, abandoning everything that could not easily be carried. The lack of organization, of a resolute officer who would assemble and order their really quite considerable forces, was making itself felt. During those days a captain named Golubov was outstanding among the elected commanders. He took command of the militant 27th cossack regiment and at once ruthlessly restored order. The cossacks submitted to him implicitly, recognizing that he had qualities that the regiment lacked: the ability to weld it into a unity, to allot duties, and to take command. During the evacuation he shouted at the cossacks who were slow in loading the wagons:

  ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you playing hide-and-seek, damn you? Get on with it! In the name of the revolution I order you to submit immediately … What? Who’s that demagogue? I’ll shoot him, the scum! Silence …! You’re a sabotager and secret counter-revolutionary, and no comrade!’

  And the cossacks did submit. Many of them even liked his hectoring ways, for they still had hankerings after the past. In the old days the biggest bully had always been the best commander in the cossacks’ eyes.

  The detachments of the Military Revolutionary Committee retreated to Gluboka. The virtual command passed into the hands of Golubov. In less than two days he had reorganized the scattered forces and taken the necessary steps to hold Gluboka. At his demand Gregor Melekhov was placed in command of a division consisting of two companies of a reserve regiment and one company of the Ataman regiment.

  As twilight was falling on February 2nd, Gregor went out to make the round of the outposts set along the railway line. The night promised to be frosty, and a light breeze was blowing from the east. The sky was clear. The snow scrunched beneath his feet. The moon rose slowly and onesidedly, like an invalid going upstairs. Beyond the houses the steppe smoked a dusky lilac. It was the evening hour when all outlines, colours, and distances are obliterated; when daylight is still inextricably entangled with the night, and everything seems unreal and fluid. At this hour even scents have their own more subtle shades.

  After making the round he returned to his quarters. His host, an employee on the railway, prepared the samovar and sat down at the table.

  ‘Are you going to attack?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gregor replied.

  ‘Or are you going to wait for them here?’

  ‘We shall see.’

  ‘That’s quite sound. I don’t think you’ve anything to attack with, and then it’s better to wait. I went through the German war as a sapper, and I know tactical strategy thoroughly. Your forces are small?’

  ‘They’ll be enough,’ Gregor endeavoured to avoid the disagreeable conversation.

  But the man maintained a zealous fire of questions, hovering about the table and scratching his lean belly beneath his waistcoat.

  ‘Plenty of artillery? Guns, cannon?’

  ‘You’ve been in the army; don’t you know a soldier’s duty?’ Gregor said with cold anger, and he rolled his eyes so violently that the man started back. ‘What right have you to question me as to the numbers of our troops, and our plans? I’ll have you arrested and cross-examined …’

  ‘Lord … Officer! My dear …’ The man turned pale and almost choked with anxiety. ‘I was stupid … stupid. Pardon me!’

  Soon afterward six cossacks of the 2nd Reserve regiment, who were also billeted in the house, returned and sat down to drink tea, laughing and talking noisily. Gregor was half-asleep, but he caught snatches of their conversation. One of them was telling of an incident of the same day:

  ‘I was present when it happened. Three miners from Gorlovka came along from mine number eleven and said they had collected a force, but they hadn’t any weapons. So they asked us to give them what we could spare. And Podtielkov … I heard him myself … tells them: “Go and ask elsewhere, comrades, we haven’t any here.” But how does he make out that we haven’t any? I know we’ve got reserves of rifles. That wasn’t the point. He was jealous of the peasants interfering …’

  ‘And quite right too!’ another exclaimed. ‘Give them weapons and they may fight or they may not, but as soon as the question of the land comes up they’ll be laying their hands on it.’

  The first speaker thoughtfully tapped his spoon against his glass, keeping time to his words as he replied deliberately:

  ‘No, that sort of thing won’t do. The Bolsheviks will meet us halfway for the sake of all the people, and we’re Bolsheviks of a kind. First we must kick Kaledin out, then we shall see …’

  ‘But my dear lad!’ a high-pitched voice remarked with conviction. ‘Don’t you see that we’ve got nothing to give away. We get perhaps three acres of good land in the share-out, and the rest is good for nothing. So what can we give them?’

  ‘They won’t take from you, but there are others with too much land.’

  As he dozed off Gregor heard the cossacks settling down on the floor for the night, still arguing about the land and how it should be divided.

  They were awakened before daybreak by the sound of a shot right outside the window. Gregor drew on his shirt, fumbling a moment with the sleeve, seized his tunic and put on his boots as he ran. Shots rattled out in the street. A cart rumbled by. Someone cried in a voice of fear outside the door:

  ‘To arms … to arms … damn you!’

  The Chornetsov forces had driven back the outposts and were pouring into the town. Riders dashed past in the grey misty darkness. Men were running, their boots clattering. A machine-gun had been set up at the corner of the street. A chain of some thirty cossacks barred the road. Another group ran off down the street. A battery thundered by, the horses galloping, the outriders waving their whips. Machine-guns suddenly started to sputter somewhere close at hand. In the next street a field-kitchen had been overturned in its headlong flight by one wheel hooking against a fence-post. ‘You blind devil! Couldn’t you see it?’ roared a mortally terrified voice.

  With difficulty Gregor collected his company and led it at a gallop towards the station. They found the cossacks already retreating in a dense stream.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Gregor seized one of the foremost by his rifle.

  ‘Let go!’ the cossack pulled. ‘Let go, you swine! What are you stopping me for? Can’t y
ou see we’re retreating?’

  ‘Knock him over …! Sweep the fool aside!’ others shouted.

  Close to a long warehouse at the end of the station Gregor tried to deploy his company in extended formation, but a fresh wave of fleeing cossacks swept them aside. The cossacks of Gregor’s company began to mingle with the crowd and fled back with them into the streets.

  ‘Stop! Halt, or I’ll fire!’ Gregor roared, trembling with fury.

  But they paid no attention to him. A hail of machine-gun bullets raked the street. The cossacks dropped to the road for a moment, crawled closer to the walls and fled into the side-turnings.

  ‘You won’t hold them now, Melekhov!’ a troop officer shouted as he ran past. Gregor followed him, grinding his teeth and waving his rifle.

  The panic which had taken possession of the cossacks ended in complete and disorderly flight from Gluboka, most of the equipment being left behind. Only at daybreak was it possible to reassemble the companies and throw them into a counter-attack.

  Livid and sweating, Golubov, in an open sheepskin jacket, ran along the files of his own 27th regiment, shouting in a metallic, steely voice:

  ‘Step out! No lying down! March, march!’

  The battle began at six. The mixed forces of cossacks and Red Guards from Voronezh swept on in a dense mass, trimming the snowy ground with a dark lacework of figures. A freezing wind was blowing from the east. Beneath the wind-driven clouds the dawn showed blood-red. Gregor sent off half the Ataman company to cover the 14th battery, and led the others into the attack.

  The first shell fell far beyond the Chornetsov forces. The tattered orange and blue flag of the explosion was flung upward. A second shell whistled overhead. A moment of tense silence, emphasized by rifle fire, then a distant echo as it burst. The enemy forces in front began to lie down. Screwing up his eyes against the wind, Gregor thought with a feeling of satisfaction: ‘We’ve got the range!’