Its stern scraping the ground, the boat settled into the water and broke away from the shore. The current carried it off, rocking it and trying to turn it broadside on. Gregor steered with the oar, but did not row.
‘Why aren’t you rowing?’ his father demanded.
‘We’ll get into the middle first.’
Cutting across the swift mainstream current, the boat moved towards the left bank. Muffled by the water, the crowing of cocks reached them from the village. Its side scraping the black, gravelly cliff rising high above the river, the boat hove to in the pool below. Some forty feet from the bank the peeled branches of a sunken elm emerged from the water. Around it turbulent flecks of foam eddied and swirled.
‘Pay out the line, while I’m tying her fast,’ Pantaleimon whispered. He thrust his hand into the steaming mouth of the jug. The rye scattered audibly over the water, just as though someone had whispered in an undertone: ‘Shick.’ Gregor strung some swollen grains on the hook, and smiled.
‘Fish, fish! There are fish both large and small here,’ the old man ordered.
The line fell in spirals into the water and tautened, then slackened again. Gregor set his foot on the end of the rod and fumbled cautiously for his pouch.
‘We’ll have no luck today, father. The moon is on the wane,’ he remarked.
‘Did you bring the tinder?’
‘Aha!’
‘Give me a light.’
The old man began to smoke, and glanced at the sun, stranded on the farther side of the elm.
‘You can’t tell when a carp will bite,’ he replied. ‘Sometimes he will when the moon is waning.’
The water lapped noisily around the sides of the boat, and a four-foot carp, gleaming as though cast from ruddy copper, leapt upward with a groan, doubling his broad, curving tail above the water. Granular sprinkles scattered over the boat.
‘Wait now!’ Pantaleimon wiped his wet beard with his sleeve.
At the side of the sunken tree, among the branching, naked boughs, two carp leapt simultaneously; a third, smaller, writhed in the air, and struggled stubbornly close to the cliff.
Gregor impatiently chewed the wet end of the twine. The misty sun was half up. Pantaleimon scattered the rest of the bait, and glumly pursing his lips, stolidly watched the motionless end of the rod.
Gregor spat out the end of his cigarette, wrathfully watching its rapid flight. He inwardly cursed his father for awakening him so early. Through smoking on an empty stomach his mouth reeked like burnt bristles. He was about to bend and scoop up some water in his palm, but at that moment the end of the line feebly swayed and slowly sank.
‘Play him!’ the old man breathed.
Starting up, Gregor seized the rod, but it bent in an arc from his hand, and the end disappeared violently into the water.
‘Hold him!’ Pantaleimon muttered, as he pushed the boat off from the bank.
Gregor attempted to lift the rod, but the fish was too strong, and the stout line snapped with a dry crack. Gregor staggered and almost fell.
‘Now you can drink!’ his father cursed, just failing to catch the line as it slipped across the gunwhale.
Smiling agitatedly, Gregor fastened a new line to the rod, and threw out the end. Hardly had the lead touched bottom when the end of the rod bent.
‘There he is, the devil,’ Gregor grumbled, with difficulty holding in the fish, which was making for the middle current.
The line cut the water with a loud swish, raising a sloping, greenish rampart behind it. Pantaleimon picked up the bailer handle in his stumpy fingers.
A great red and yellow carp rose to the surface, lashed the water into foam, and dived back into the depths.
‘Strike till it stings your hand! No, wait!’ Gregor exclaimed.
‘Hold him!’ his father cried.
‘I am holding him!’
‘Don’t let him get under the boat!’
Taking breath, Gregor drew the carp towards the side of the boat. The old man thrust out the bailer, but with its last strength the carp again disappeared into the depths.
‘Raise his head! Make him swallow some air, and he’ll be quieter!’ Pantaleimon ordered.
Once more Gregor drew the exhausted fish towards the boat. Its nose struck against the rough side, and it lay there with gaping mouth, its orange-golden fins flickering.
‘We’ve won!’ Pantaleimon croaked, lifting the fish in the bailer.
They sat on for another half-hour. But they had no more battles with carp.
‘Wind in the line. They won’t leap again today!’ the old man said at last.
Gregor pushed off from the bank. As he rowed he saw from his father’s face that he wished to say something, but Pantaleimon sat silently gazing at the huts of the village scattered under the hill.
‘Look here, Gregor …’ he began uncertainly, pulling at the knot of the sack beneath his feet. ‘I’ve noticed that you and Aksinia Astakhova …’
Gregor flushed violently, and turned his head away. His shirt collar cut into his muscular, sunburnt neck, pressing out a white band in the flesh.
‘You watch out, young man,’ the old man continued, now roughly and angrily. ‘Stepan’s our neighbour, and I won’t allow any playing about with his wife. That kind of thing can lead to mischief, and I warn you beforehand. If I see you at it I’ll whip you!’
Pantaleimon twisted his fingers into his gnarled hand, and watched the blood ebbing from his son’s face.
‘It’s all lies!’ Gregor snarled, and gazed straight into his father’s eyes.
‘Silence!’
‘What if people do talk –’
‘Hold your tongue, you son of a bitch!’
Gregor bent to the oars. The boat leapt forward. The water rocking behind the stern danced away in little scrolls.
They remained silent until, as they were approaching the shore, his father reminded Gregor:
‘You look out, don’t forget what I’ve said, or from today I’ll stop your little game. Not a step will you stir outside the yard!’
Gregor made no answer. As he beached the boat he asked:
‘Shall I hand the fish to the women?’
‘Take and sell it to Mokhov the merchant,’ the old man said more gently. ‘You can have the money for tobacco.’
Biting his lips, Gregor followed his father, his eyes wrathfully gnawing the back of the old man’s head. ‘Try it, father! I’m going out tonight even if you hobble me!’ he was thinking.
At the farm gate he ran into his old friend, Mitka Korshunov. Mitka was playing with the end of his silver-studded belt as he walked along. His round, yellow eyes gleamed greasily in their narrow slits. His irises were long like a cat’s, giving him a shifty and evasive look.
‘Where are you off to with the fish?’ Mitka asked.
‘We caught it today. I’m going to sell it to Mokhov.’
With a glance Mitka estimated the weight of the fish.
‘Fifteen pounds?’ he guessed.
‘And a half. We weighed it on the steelyard.’
‘Take me with you. I’ll do the selling for you,’ Mitka proposed.
‘Come on, then.’
‘And what do I get?’
‘You needn’t fear. We shan’t quarrel over that,’ Gregor laughed.
Mass was just ended, and the villagers were scattering through the streets. The three brothers nicknamed Shamil came striding down the road side by side. The eldest, armless Alexei, was in the middle. The tight collar of his army tunic held his veiny neck erect, his thin, curly, pointed little beard twisted provokingly sideways, his left eye winked nervously. His carbine had exploded in his hands at the shooting-butts many years previously, and a piece of the flying iron had ploughed into his cheek. Thenceforth his left eye had winked in season and out of season, and a blue scar furrowed across his cheek to bury itself in his tow of hair. The left arm had been torn off at the elbow, but Alexei was past-master at rolling a cigarette with one hand. He could pr
ess his pouch against his chest, tear off the right quantity of paper with his teeth, would bend it into a trough-shape, rake up the tobacco and roll the cigarette almost before you realized what he was doing.
Although he was armless he was the finest fighter in the village. His fist was not particularly large as fists go – the size of a calabash – but if he happened to get annoyed with his bullock when ploughing, and had mislaid his whip, he would give it a blow with his fist and the bullock would be stretched out over the furrows, blood streaming from its ears. And there it would lie. The other brothers, Martin and Prokhor, resembled Alexei down to the last detail. They were just as stocky and broad-shouldered, only each had two arms.
As he came up with Mitka and Gregor, Alexei winked five times in succession.
‘Selling your load?’ he asked.
‘Want to buy it?’ Gregor replied.
‘How much do you want for it?’
‘A couple of bullocks, and a wife thrown in.’
Winking violently, Alexei waved the stump of his arm.
‘You’re a funny lad! He-he-he! A wife thrown in! And you’ll take the offspring, too?’
‘Clear off, or there will be some Shamils missing!’ Gregor snarled.
On the square the villagers were gathered around the church palings.
In the middle of a ring of people a grizzled old man, his chest covered with crosses and medals, was waving his arms about.
‘My old grandfather Grishaka is telling one of his tales about the Turkish war,’ Mitka directed Gregor’s attention with a glance. ‘Let’s go and listen.’
‘While we’re listening to him the carp will start stinking and swell,’ Gregor objected.
On the square behind the firecart shed rose the green roof of Mokhov’s house. Striding past the shed the two lads approached the steps. The balustrade was ornamented with wild vine entwined in the railings. On the steps lay a speckled, lazy shade.
‘See how some folk live, Mitka!’ Gregor said.
‘A handle, and gilt, too!’ Mitka sniffed as he opened the door leading to the veranda.
‘Who is there?’ someone called from the other side of the door.
Suddenly smitten with shyness, Gregor went in. The tail of the carp dragged over the painted floorboards.
‘Whom do you want?’
A girl was sitting in a wicker rocking-chair, a dish of strawberries in her hand. Gregor stared silently at the full, rosy, heartshaped lips embracing a berry. Raising her head, the girl looked the lads up and down. The berry rested patiently in the warm lips.
Mitka came to Gregor’s help. He coughed and asked:
‘Want to buy some fish?’
Her lips opened to admit the berry, and then smiled swiftly, almost imperceptibly.
‘Fish? I’ll tell you in a moment.’
She rocked the chair upright, and rising, slapped off in her embroidered slippers. The sun shone through her white dress, and Mitka saw the dim outline of full legs and the broad, billowing lace of her underskirt. He was astonished at the satiny whiteness of her bare calves; only on the cushioned little heels was the skin milkily yellow.
‘Look, Grishka, what a dress! Like glass! You can see everything through it,’ he said, nudging the carp instead of Gregor.
The girl came back through the door leading to the corridor, and sat down gently on the chair.
‘Go into the kitchen!’ she ordered.
Gregor tiptoed into the house. When he had gone Mitka stood blinking at the white thread of the parting dividing the girl’s hair into two golden half-circles. She studied him with saucy, restless eyes.
‘Are you from the village?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Whose son are you?’
‘Korshunov’s.’
‘And what is your name?’
‘Mitka!’
She attentively examined her rosy nails, and with a swift movement tucked up her legs.
‘Which of you caught the fish?’ she continued her cross-examination.
‘My friend, Gregor.’
‘And do you fish, too?’
‘When I feel like it.’
‘With angles?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to go fishing some time,’ she said, after a silence.
‘All right, I’ll take you if you want to.’
‘How is it to be done? Really, are you serious?’
‘You must get up very early,’ Mitka declared.
‘I’ll get up, only you’ll have to waken me.’
‘I can do that. But how about your father?’
‘What about my father?’
Mitka smiled. ‘He might take me for a thief. The dogs will have to be baited!’
‘That’s simple! I sleep alone in the corner room. That’s the window,’ she pointed with her finger. ‘If you come for me knock at the window and I’ll get up.’
The sound of Gregor’s timid voice, and the thick, oily tones of the cook came brokenly from the kitchen. Mitka was silent, fingering the tarnished silver of his belt.
‘Are you married?’ she asked, warming with a secretive smile.
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I’m just curious.’
‘No, I’m single.’
Mitka suddenly blushed, and she, playing with a smile and a little twig from the hot-house strawberries scattered over the floor, queried:
‘And are the girls fond of you, Mitka?’
‘Some are, some aren’t.’
‘You don’t say … And why have you got eyes like a cat?’
‘A cat?’ Mitka was now completely abashed.
‘Yes, that’s just it, they’re cat’s eyes.’
‘I must have got them from my mother. I can’t help it.’
‘And why don’t they marry you, Mitka?’
Mitka recovered from his momentary confusion, and sensing the hidden sneer in her words, twinkled the yellows of his eyes.
‘My wife hasn’t grown up yet.’
She raised her eyebrows in astonishment, bridled up, and rose from her seat. Her fleeting smile lashed Mitka like a nettle.
There was the sound of footsteps ascending the steps from the street. Shuffling softly along in his capacious kid boots, the master of the house, Sergei Platonovitch Mokhov, carried his corpulent body with dignity past Mitka.
‘Want me?’ he asked as he passed, without turning his head.
‘He’s brought some fish, papa,’ the girl replied.
Gregor came out with empty hands.
Chapter Three
The first cock had crowed when Gregor returned from his evening out. From the porch came the scent of over-sour hops, and the spicy perfume of stitchwort.
He tiptoed into the hut, undressed, carefully hung up his Sunday striped trousers, crossed himself and lay down. A golden, criss-crossed pool of moonlight lay on the floor. In the corner under embroidered towels was the tarnished lustre of silvered ikons, from the shelf over the bed came the droning hum of agitated flies.
He would have fallen asleep, but in the kitchen his brother’s infant started to cry. The cradle began to creak like an ungreased cartwheel. He heard his brother’s wife Daria mutter in a sleepy voice:
‘Sleep, little brat! Neither rest nor peace do I get with you!’ She quietly crooned a lullaby to the child.
As he dozed off under the measured, soothing creak, Gregor remembered: ‘Why, tomorrow Piotra goes off to the camp. Daria will be left with the baby … We’ll have to do the mowing without him.’
He was aroused from sleep by a prolonged neighing. By its tone he recognized Piotra’s army horse. Helpless with sleep, his fingers were slow in buttoning up his shirt, and he almost dropped off again under the flowing rhythm of Daria’s song.
‘And where are the geese?
They’ve gone into the reeds.
And where are the reeds?
The girls have pulled them up.
And where are the girls?
The girls have taken hus
bands.
And where are the cossacks?
They’ve gone to the war.’
Rubbing his eyes, Gregor made his way to the stable and led Piotra’s horse out into the street. A flying cobweb tickled his face, and his drowsiness unexpectedly left him.
Along the Don lay a slantingly undulating, never-trodden track of moonlight. Over the Don hung a mist, and above it a starry grain. The horse set its hind hoofs down cautiously. The drop to the water was bad going. From the farther side of the river came the quacking of ducks. A sheat-fish turned and darted over the water above the mud by the bank, hunting at random for smaller fry.
Gregor stood a long time by the river. The bank exuded a dank and sickly rottenness. A tiny drop of water fell from the horse’s lips. A light, pleasant void was in Gregor’s heart, life was good and free from care. The red-tailed dawn was pecking up the starry grain from the dove-coloured floor of heaven.
Close to the stable he ran into his mother.
‘That you, Grishka?’ she asked.
‘And who else should it be?’
‘Watered the horse?’
‘Yes,’ he answered shortly.
Carrying some dried dung for fuel, his mother ran back to the hut, her withered bare feet slapping on the ground.
‘You might go and wake up the Astakhovs. Stepan said he would go with our Piotra,’ she called.
The morning rawness set a spring stiffly quivering in Gregor. His body tingled with prickles. He ran up the three echoing steps leading to the Astakhovs’ hut. The door was on the latch. Stepan was asleep on an outspread rug in the kitchen, his wife’s head on his breast.
In the greying twilight Gregor saw Aksinia’s shift wrinkled above her knees, and her birch-white, unashamedly parted legs. For a moment he stood gazing, feeling his mouth going dry and his head bursting with an iron clangour.
His eyes wandered. In a strange, hoarse voice he called:
‘Hey! Anyone here? Get up.’
Aksinia started out of her sleep.
‘Oh, who’s that?’ She hurriedly began to fumble with her shift, and in drawing it down her bare arm was entangled in her legs. A little drop of spittle was left on her pillow; a woman’s sleep is heavy at dawn.
‘It’s me. Mother sent me to wake you up.’