And quiet flows the Don; a novel (9 page)

Stepan, one eye flashing (the other was turning the colour of an underripe plum) retreated to the steps.

Christonya happened to come along to borrow some harness from Pyotr, and he separated them.

"Stop that!" He waved his arms. "Break away, or I'll report it to the ataman."

Pyotr carefully spat blood and half a tooth into his palm, and said hoarsely:

"Come on, Grigory. We'll get him some other time."

"Mind I don't get you!" Stepan threatened from the steps.

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"All right, all right!"

"And no 'all right' about it, I'll tear your guts out."

"Is that serious or joking?"

Stepan came swiftly down the steps. Grigory broke forward to meet him, but pushing him towards the gate, Christonya promised:

"Only dare, and I'll give you a good hiding."

From that day onward the hatred between the Melekhovs and Stepan Astakhov drew itself into a tight knot. Grigory Melekhov was fated to untie that knot two years later in East Prussia, near the town of Stolypin.

XV

"Tell Pyotr to harness the mare and his own horse."

Grigory went out into the yard. Pyotr was pushing a wagonette out of the lean-to shed by the bam.

"Dad says you've got to harness the mare and your own horse."

"I know that without him telling me. Tell him to mind his own business," Pyotr responded, fixing the shaft-bow. Pantelei, solemn as a churchwarden at mass, although sweating like a bull, sat finishing his soup. Dunya was watch-

ing Grigory alertly, hiding a girlish twinkle somewhere in the shadowy cool of her long upturned lashes. Ilyinichna, large and portly in her lemon-yellow Sunday shawl, a motherly anxiety lurking at the corners of her lips, said to the old man:

"Stop stuffing yourself, Prokofyevich. One would think you were starving."

"Won't even let me eat. What a nagger you are, woman."

Pyotr's long, wheaten-yellow moustache appeared at the door.

"Your carriage is ready, if you please!"

Dunya burst into a laugh, and hid her face in her sleeve. Darya passed through the kitchen and looked the future bridegroom over with a flutter of her fine lashes.

Ilyinichna's shrewd widow cousin. Auntie Vasilisa, was to go with them as match-maker. She was the first to perch herself on the wagonette, twisting and turning her head, laughing, and displaying her crooked black teeth beneath the pucker of her lips.

"Don't show your teeth, Vasilisa," Pantelei warned her. "You'll ruin everything. Those teeth of yours look as if they had been on a night out, there's not one that can stand up straight."

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"Ah, Cousin, I'm not the bridegroom-to-be. .. ."

"Maybe you're not, but don't laugh all the same. What teeth... the colour's enough to make you sick."

Vasilisa took umbrage, but meanwhile Pyotr had opened the gate. Grigory sorted out the good-smelling leather reins and jumped into the driver's seat. Pantelei and Ilyinichna sat side by side at the back just like newlyweds.

"Whip'em up!" shouted Pyotr, letting go the halter.

Grigory bit his lips and lashed the horses. They pulled at the traces and started off without warning.

"Look out! You'll catch your wheel!" Darya shrilled, but the wagonette swerved sharply and, bouncing over the roadside hummocks, rattled down the street.

Leaning to one side, Grigory touched up Pyotr's lagging horse with the whip. His father held his beard in his hand, as though afraid that the wind would snatch it away.

"Whip up the mare!" he cried hoarsely, leaning over Grigory's shoulder. With the lace sleeve of her blouse Ilyinichna wiped away the tear that the wind had brought to her eye, and blinked at Grigory's blue satin shirt fluttering and billowing on his back. The Cossacks

along the road stepped aside and stood staring after them. The dogs came running out of the yards and yelped under the horses' feet. Their barking was drowned in the rumble of the freshly-shod wheels.

Grigory spared neither whip nor horses, and within ten minutes the village was left behind. Korshunov's large house with its plank fence soon came into view. Grigory pulled on the reins, and the wagonette, breaking off its iron song right in the middle, suddenly drew up at the painted finely-carved gates.

Grigory remained with the horses; Pantelei limped towards the steps. Ilyinichna and Va-silisa sailed after him with rustling skirts. The old man hurried, afraid of losing the courage he had summoned up during the ride. He stumbled over the high threshold, knocked his lame leg, and frowning with pain stamped furiously up the well-swept steps.

He and Ilyinichna entered the kitchen almost together. He disliked standing at his wife's side, as she was taller by a good six inches; so he stepped a pace forward, and removing his cap, crossed himself before the blackened icon.

"Good health to you!"

"Praise be!" the master of the house, a stocky, freckled old man replied, rising from the bench.

"Some guests for you, Miron Grigoryevich," Pantelei continued,

"Guests are always welcome. Marya, give the visitors something to sit on."

His elderly, flat-chested wife wiped non-existent dust from three stools, and pushed them towards the guests. Pantelei sat down on the very edge of one, and mopped his perspiring brow with his handkerchief.

"We've come on business," he began without beating about the bush. At this point Ilyinichna and Vasilisa, pulling up their skirts, also sat down.

"By all means. On what business?" the master smiled.

Grigory entered, stared around him and greeted the Korshunovs. A deep russet spread across Miron's freckled face. Only now did he guess the object of the visit. "Have the horses brought into the yard. Get some hay put down for them," he ordered his wife.

"We've just a little matter to talk over," Pantelei went on, twisting his curly beard and tugging at his ear-ring in his agitation. "You have a girl unmarried, we have a son. Couldn't we come to some arrangement? We'd like to know. Will you give her away now, or not? Mebbe we might become relations?"

"Who knows?" Miron scratched his bald spot. "I must say, we weren't thinking of giving her in marriage this autumn. We've our hands full with work here, and she's not so very old. She's only just past her eighteenth spring. That's right, isn't it, Marya?"

"That's it."

"She's the very age for marriage," Vasilisa put in. "A girl soon gets too old!" She fidgeted on her stool, prickled by the besom she had stolen from the porch and thrust under her jacket. Tradition had it that match-makers who stole the girl's besom were never refused.

"We had proposals for our girl way back in early spring. Our girl won't be left en the shelf. We can't grumble to the good God. . .. She can do everything, in the field or at home . . ." Korshunov's wife replied.

"If a good man were to come along, you wouldn't say no," Pantelei broke into the women's chatter.

"It isn't a question of saying no," the master scratched his head. "We can give her away at any time."

Pantelei thought he was going to be refused and got ruffled.

"Well, it's your own business, of course. A man's got his choice, he can ask where he likes. If you're keen on finding some merchant's son,

or someone of that kind, it's a different matter and we beg your pardon."

The negotiations were on the point of breaking down. Pantelei began to get agitated, and his face flushed a beetroot red, while the girl's mother clucked like a sitting hen shadowed by a kite. But Vasilisa intervened in the nick of time. She poured out a flood of quiet, soothing words, like salt on a burn, and healed the breach.

"Now, now, my dears! Once a matter like this is raised, it needs to be settled decently and for the happiness of your child. Natalya now-why, you might search far in broad daylight and not find another like her! Work bums in her hands! What a clever young woman! What a housewife! And as for her looks, you see for yourselves, good folk . . ." she opened her plump arms in a generous sweep, turning to Pantelei and the sulky Ilyinichna. "And he's a husband worthy of any. As I look at him my heart beats with yearning, he's so like my late husband, and his family are great workers. Ask anyone in these parts about Prokofyevich. In all the world he's known as an honest man and a kind one. ... In good faith, do we wish evil to our children?"

Her chiding little voice flowed into Pantelei's ears like syrup. He listened and thought admir-

ingly to himself: "Ah, the smooth-tongued devil, how she talks! Just try to keep up with her! Some women can even dumbfound a Cossack with their words. .. . And this from a petticoat!" He was lost in admiration of Vasilisa, who was now oozing praise for the girl and her family as far back as the fifth generation.

"Of course, we don't wish evil to our child."

"The point is it's early to give her in marriage," the master said pacifically, with a smile.

"It's not early! Honest to God it's not early," Pantelei rejoined.

"Sooner or later, we have to part with her," the mistress sobbed, half-hypocritically, half in earnest.

"Call your daughter, Miron Grigoryevich, and let's look at her."

"Natalya!"

A girl appeared timidly at the door, her dark fingers fidgeting with the frill of her apron.

"Come in! Come in! She's shy," the mother encouraged her, smiling through her tears.

Grigory looked at her.

Bold grey eyes under a black lace scarf. A small, rosy dimple in the supple cheek. Grigory turned his eyes to her hands: they were large and marred with hard work. Under the short green jacket embracing the strong body,

the small, maidenly firm breasts rose outwards naively and pitifully, and their sharp little nipples showed like buttons.

In a moment Grigory's eyes had taken her all in, from the head to the long, beautiful legs. He looked her over as a horse-dealer surveys a mare before purchase, thought: "She'll do," then let his eyes meet hers. The simple, sincere, slightly embarrassed gaze seemed to be saying: "Here am I all, as I am. Judge of me as you wish." "Splendid!" Grigory replied with his eyes and smile.

"Well, that's all." Her father waved her out.

As she closed the door behind her, Natalya looked at Grigory without attempting to conceal her smile and her curiosity.

"Listen, Pantelei Prokofyevich," Korshunov began, after exchanging glances with his wife. "You talk it over, and we'll talk it over among the family. And then we'll decide whether we'll call it a match or not."

As he went down the steps Pantelei slipped in a last word:

"We'll call again next Sunday."

Korshunov remained deliberately silent, pretending he had not heard.

Only after he learned of Aksinya's conduct from Tomilin did Stepan, nursing his pain and hatred in his soul, realize that despite his poor sort of life with her he loved her with a dreary, hateful love. He had lain in the wagon at night, covered with his greatcoat, his arms locked behind his head, and thought of how his wife would greet him on his return home. It was as if he had a scorpion in his breast in place of a heart. As he lay thinking over a thousand details of his revenge his teeth felt as if they were clogged with heavy grains of sand. The fight with Pyotr had spilled his anger. When he arrived home he had been tired out and Ak-sinya had got off lightly.

From the day of his homecoming an unseen spectre dwelt in the Astakhovs' house. Aksinya went about on tiptoe and spoke in whispers, but in her eyes, sprinkled with the ash of fear, lurked a small spark, left from the flame Gri-gory had kindled.

As he watched her, Stepan felt rather than saw this. He tormented himself. At night, when the drove of flies had fallen asleep on the crossbeam, and Aksinya, her lips trembling, had made the bed, he pressed his horny palm over her mouth and beat her. He demanded

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shameless details of her relations with Grigory. Aksinya tossed about and gasped for breath on the hard bed smelling of sheepskin. Tired of torturing her dough-soft body, he passed his hand over her face, seeking for tears. But her cheeks were bumingly dry, and only her jaws worked under his fingers.

"Will you tell?"

"No!"

"I'll kill you!"

"Kill me, kill me, for the love of Christ! This isn't life.. . ."

Grinding his teeth, Stepan twisted the fine skin, all damp with sweat, on her breast. Aksinya shuddered and groaned.

"Does it hurt?" Stepan said jocularly.

"Yes, it hurts."

"Do you think it didn't hurt me?"

It would be late before he fell asleep. In his sleep he clenched his fists. Rising on her elbow, Aksinya would gaze at her husband's face, handsome and changed in slumber, then let her head fall back on the pillow, and whisper to herself.

She hardly saw Grigory now. Once she happened to meet him down by the Don. Grigory had been watering the bullocks and was coming up the slope, waving a switch and staring at his feet. Aksinya was going down to the

Don. She saw him, and felt the yoke of the buckets turn cold in her hands and the hot blood beat at her temples.

Afterwards, when she recalled the meeting, she found it difficult to convince herself that it had really happened. Grigory noticed her when she had all but passed him. At the insistent creaking of the buckets he raised his head, his eyebrows quivered and he smiled stupidly. Aksi-nya gazed straight over his head at the green waves of the Don, and beyond at the ridge of the sandy headland. A burning flush wrung tears from her eyes.

"Aksinya!"

She walked on several paces and stood with her head bent as though before a blow. Angrily whipping a lagging bullock, he said without turning his head:

"When is Stepan going out to cut the rye?"

"He's getting ready now."

"See him off, then go to our sunflower patch and I'll come along after."

Her pails creaking, Aksinya went down to the Don. The foam snaked along the shore, a yellow flare of lace on the green hem of the wave. White sea-gulls were hovering and mewing above the river. Over the surface of the water, tiny fish sprinkled in a silver rain. On the other side, beyond the white of the sandy