‘We’ll be up in a minute. We’re sleeping on the floor because of the fleas. Stepan, get up, d’you hear?’ By her voice Gregor guessed that she felt awkward, and he hastened to go out.
Thirty cossacks were going from the village to the May training camp. Just before seven o’clock wagons with tarpaulin covers, cossacks on foot and on horseback, in sailcloth shirts and carrying their equipment, began to stream towards the square.
Gregor found Piotra standing on the steps, hurriedly stitching a broken rein.
His father, Pantaleimon, was attending to Piotra’s horse, pouring oats into a trough.
‘Not finished eating yet?’ Piotra asked, nodding towards the horse.
‘He’s hungry,’ his father replied deliberately, testing the saddle-cloth with his rough palm. ‘Let even a crumb stick to the cloth and it will chafe the animal’s back into a sore in one march.’
‘When he’s finished eating, he must have a drink, father.’
‘Gregor will take him down to the Don,’ Pantaleimon answered.
Gregor took the high, rawboned Don horse with a white star on its forehead, led it outside the gate, and resting his left hand lightly on its withers, vaulted on to its back and went off at a swinging trot. He tried to rein the horse in at the descent to the river, but the animal stumbled, quickened its pace, and flew down the slope. As he flung himself back and almost lay along the animal’s spine, Gregor saw a woman with pails going down the hill. He turned sharply off the path, and dashed into the water, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.
Aksinia Astakhova came swinging down the slope. When still some little distance away she shouted to him:
‘You mad devil! You almost rode me down. You wait, I’ll tell your father how you ride.’
‘Now, neighbour, don’t get angry. When you’ve seen your husband off to the camp maybe I’ll be useful on your farm,’ he replied.
‘How the devil would you be useful to me?’
‘When mowing time comes you may yet be asking me,’ Gregor smiled.
Aksinia dexterously drew a full pail of water from the river, and pressed her skirt between her knees away from the wind.
‘So they’re taking your Stepan?’ Gregor asked.
‘What’s that to do with you?’
‘What a spitfire! Can’t I ask?’
‘Well, they are taking him, and what of it?’
‘So you’ll be left a grass-widow?’
‘Yes!’
The horse raised its lips from the water, and stood gazing across the Don, its forefeet treading the stream. Aksinia filled her second pail, hoisted the yoke across her shoulders, and set off up the slope. Gregor turned the horse and followed her. The wind fluttered her skirt and played with the fine, fluffy curls on her swarthy neck. Her flat, embroidered cap flamed on her heavy knot of hair, her rose-coloured shirt, gathered into her skirt at the waist, tightly embraced her back and shoulders. As she climbed the slope she bent forward, and the hollow between her shoulders showed clearly beneath her shirt. Gregor watched her every movement. He badly wanted to renew the talk with her.
‘You’ll be missing your husband, won’t you?’ he asked.
Aksinia turned her head and smiled without halting.
‘And how else? You get married!’ she spoke pantingly. ‘Marry, and you’ll know whether you miss your friend or not.’
Gregor brought the horse level with her and gazed into her eyes.
‘But other wives are glad when their husbands go. Our Daria will grow fat without her Piotra,’ he remarked.
‘A husband’s not a leech, but he sucks your blood all the same. Shall we be seeing you married soon?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, it depends on father. After my army service, I suppose.’
‘You’re still young; don’t get married.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s nothing but sorrow.’ She looked up under her brows, and smiled grimly without parting her lips. For the first time Gregor noticed that her lips were shamelessly greedy and swollen. Combing his horse’s mane with his fingers, he replied:
‘I’ve no desire to get married. Someone loves me already as I am.’
‘Have you noticed anyone, then?’
‘What should I notice? Now you’re seeing your Stepan off …?’
‘Don’t try to play about with me. I’ll tell Stepan.’
‘I’ll show your Stepan …’
‘Mind you don’t cry first, my brave!’
‘Don’t alarm me, Aksinia!’
‘I’m not alarming you. Let other girls hem your tear-wipers, but keep your eyes off me.’
‘I’ll look at you all the more now.’
‘Well, look then.’
Aksinia smiled pacifically and left the track, seeking to pass round the horse. Gregor turned the animal sideways and blocked the road.
‘Let me pass, Grishka.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Don’t be a fool. I must see to my husband.’
Gregor smilingly teased the horse, and it edged Aksinia towards the cliff.
‘Let me pass, you devil! There are people over there. If they see us what will they think?’ she muttered. She swept a frightened glance around and passed by, frowning and without a backward look.
Piotra was saying good-bye to his family on the steps. Gregor saddled the horse. His brother hurried down the steps and took the reins. Scenting the road, the horse fretted and chewed the bit. With one foot in the stirrup, Piotra said to his father:
‘Don’t overwork the baldheads, father. Come autumn we’ll sell them. Gregor will need an army horse, you know. And don’t sell the steppe grass; you know yourself what hay there’ll be in the meadow this year.’
‘Well, God be with you. It’s time you were off,’ the old man replied, crossing himself.
Piotra flung his bulky body into the saddle, and adjusted the folds of his shirt in his belt at the back. The horse moved towards the gate. The sabre swung to the rhythm of the motion, and its pommel glittered dully in the sun.
Daria followed with the child on her arm. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve his mother, Ilinichna, stood in the middle of the yard.
‘Brother! The pasties! You’ve forgotten the pasties! The potato pasties!’ Dunia ran to the gate. ‘He’s left his pasties behind,’ she groaned, leaning against the gate-post, and tears ran down her greasy, burning cheeks on to her jacket.
Daria stood gazing under her hand after her husband’s white, dusty shirt. Shaking the rotting gate-post, old Pantaleimon looked at Gregor:
‘Take and mend the gate, and put a new post in.’ He stood in thought a moment, then communicated the news: ‘Piotra’s gone.’
Through the wattle fence Gregor saw Stepan getting ready. Aksinia, bedecked in a green woollen skirt, led out his horse. Stepan smilingly said something to her. Unhurriedly, in lordly fashion, he kissed his wife, and his arm lingered long around her shoulder. His sunburnt and work-stained hand showed coal-black against her white jacket. He stood with his back to Gregor; his stiff, clean-shaven neck, his broad, somewhat heavy shoulders, and (whenever he bent towards his wife) the twisted ends of his light-brown moustache were visible across the fence.
Aksinia laughed at something and shook her head. Sitting as though rooted into the saddle, Stepan rode his black horse at a hurried walk through the gate, and Aksinia walked at his side, holding the stirrup, and looking up lovingly and thirstily into his eyes.
With a long, unwinking stare Gregor watched them to the turn of the road.
Towards evening a thunderstorm gathered. A mass of heavy cloud lay over the village. Lashed into fury by the wind, the Don sent great foaming breakers against its banks. The sky flamed with dry lightning, occasional peals of thunder shook the earth. A vulture circled with outspread wings below the clouds, and ravens croakingly pursued him. Breathing out coolness the cloud passed down the Don from the east. Beyond the water-meadows the heaven blackened menacingly, the steppe lay in an expectant silence.
In the village the closed shutters rattled, the old people hurried home crossing themselves. A grey pillar of dust whirled over the square, and the heat-burdened earth was already beginning to be sown with the first grains of rain.
Shaking her braided tresses, Dunia ran across the yard, clapped fast the door of the chickenhouse, and stood in the middle of the yard with nostrils distended like a horse scenting danger. In the street the children were kicking up their heels. Eight-year-old Mishka, his father’s absurdly large peaked cap drawn over his eyes, was spinning round and piercingly chirruping:
‘Rain, rain, go away,
We’re going off for the day,
To pay God our vow,
And to Christ to bow.’
Dunia enviously watched Mishka’s scarred bare feet brutally trampling the ground. She, too, wanted to dance in the rain and to get her head wet, so that her hair might grow thick and curly; she, too, wanted to stand on her hands like Mishka’s friend in the roadside dust, at the risk of falling into the nettles. But her mother was watching and angrily moving her lips at the window. With a sigh she ran into the house. The rain was now falling heavily. A peal of thunder broke right over the roof and went rolling away across the Don.
In the porch Pantaleimon and perspiring Gregor were hauling a folded drag-net out of the side-room.
‘Raw thread and a pack-needle, quick!’ Gregor called to Dunia. Daria sat down to mend the net. Her mother-in-law grumbled as she rocked the baby:
‘You’re beyond belief, old man! We could go to bed. Light costs more and more, and yet you go on burning it. What are you up to now? Where the plague are you going? And you’ll get drowned into the bargain, the terror of the Lord is in the yard. Hark how it shakes the house! Lord Jesus Christ, Queen of Heaven …’
For a moment it became dazzlingly blue and silent in the kitchen; the rain could be heard drumming on the shutters. A clap of thunder followed. Dunia whimpered and buried her face in the net. Daria signed the cross towards the windows and door. The old woman stared with terrible eyes down at the cat rubbing itself against her legs:
‘Dunia, chase this cat away,’ she exclaimed. ‘Queen of Heaven, forgive me my sins … Dunia, turn the cat out into the yard! Stop it, unclean power! May you …’
Dropping the net, Gregor shook with silent laughter.
‘Well, what are you grinning at? Enough of that!’ his father shouted at him. ‘Hurry with your mending, women. I told you the other day to see to the net.’
‘And what fish do you expect to catch?’ his wife stammered.
‘If you don’t understand, hold your tongue! The fish will make for the bank now, they’re afraid of storms. I fear the water will be turned muddy already. Run, Dunia, and see whether you can hear the water-courses running.’
Dunia edged unwillingly towards the door.
Old Ilinichna would not be repressed. ‘Who’s going to wade with you? Daria mustn’t, she may catch cold in her breast,’ she persisted.
‘Me and Gregor, and for the other net … we’ll call Aksinia and another of the women.’
Dunia ran in, out of breath. Drops of rain hung trembling on her lashes. She smelt of the dank, black earth.
‘The courses are roaring like anything,’ she panted.
‘Put on your coat and run to Aksinia,’ her father told her. ‘If she’ll go, ask her to fetch Malashka Frolova, too.’
Dunia quickly returned with the women. Aksinia, in a blue skirt and a ragged jacket belted with rope, looked shorter and thinner. Exchanging laughs with Daria, she took off her kerchief, wound her hair into a tighter knot, and throwing back her head, stared coldly at Gregor. As corpulent Malashka tied up her stocking, she said hoarsely:
‘Have you got sacks? True God, we’ll stir up the fish today.’
They all went into the yard. The rain was still falling heavily, the puddles frothed and crawled in streams down towards the Don.
Gregor led the way down to the river.
‘Aren’t we near the landing-place yet, Gregor?’ his father asked after a while.
‘Here we are.’
‘Begin from here,’ Pantaleimon shouted, attempting to drown the howling wind.
‘Can’t hear you, grandad,’ Malashka called throatily.
‘Start wading, for God’s sake,’ he replied. ‘I’ll take the deep side … The deep … I say. Malashka, you deaf devil, where are you dragging to? I’ll go out into the deeps … Gregor! Let Aksinia take the bank!’
A groaning roar from the Don. The wind was tearing the slanting sheet of rain to shreds. Feeling the bottom with his feet, Gregor waded up to his waist into the water. A clammy cold crept into his chest, drawing tightly in a ring round his heart. The waves lashed his face and tightly screwed-up eyes like a knout. The net bellied out and was carried off into the deeps. Gregor’s feet, shod in woollen socks, slipped over the sandy bottom. The net was dragged out of his hand. Deeper, deeper. A sudden drop. His legs were carried away. The current snatched him up and bore him towards the middle stream. With his right hand he vigorously paddled back to the bank. The black, swirling depths frightened him as never before. His feet joyously found the muddy bottom. A fish knocked against his knee.
Again the net heeled over and slipped out into the depths. Again the current carried the ground away from under his feet, and Gregor swam, spitting out water.
‘Aksinia, you all right?’ he called.
‘All right, so far,’ he heard her answer.
‘Isn’t the rain stopping?’
‘The fine rain’s stopping and a heavy rain beginning.’
‘Talk quietly. If my father hears he’ll go for me.’
‘Afraid of your father, too?’ she sneered.
For a moment they hauled in silence.
‘Grishka, there’s a sunken tree by the bank, I think. We must get the net round it.’
A terrible buffet flung Gregor far away from her.
‘Ah – ah!’ Aksinia screamed somewhere near the bank. Terrified, he swam in the direction of her call.
‘Aksinia!’
Wind, and the flowing roar of the water.
‘Aksinia!’ Gregor shouted again, going cold with fear. He struck out at random. He felt something slipping beneath his feet, and caught it with his hand – it was the net.
‘Grishka, where are you?’ he heard Aksinia’s tearful voice.
‘Why didn’t you answer my shout?’ he bawled angrily, crawling on hands and knees up the bank.
Squatting down on his heels, he tremblingly disentangled the net. The moon peeled out of a slash of broken cloud. There was a restrained mutter of thunder beyond the water-meadows. The earth gleamed with moisture. Washed clean by the rain, the sky was stern and clear.
As he disentangled the net Gregor stared at Aksinia. Her face was a chalky white, but her red, slightly upturned lips were smiling.
‘As I was knocked against the bank,’ she said, ‘I went out of my mind. I was frightened to death. I thought you were drowned.’
Their hands touched. Aksinia attempted to thrust hers into the sleeve of his shirt.
‘How warm it is up your arm,’ she said mournfully, ‘and I’m frozen.’
Someone came running along the bank. Gregor guessed it to be Dunia. He shouted to her:
‘Got the thread?’
‘Yes. What are you sitting here for? Father sent me for you to come at once to the point. We’ve caught a sackful of sterlet.’ Unconcealed triumph sounded in her voice.
With teeth chattering Aksinia sewed up the holes in the net. Then, to get warm, they ran at full speed to the point.
Pantaleimon was rolling a cigarette with scarred fingers swollen by the water; he danced and boasted:
‘The first time, eight fish; and the second time …’ he paused and silently pointed with his foot to the sack. Aksinia stared inquisitively: from it came the swishing sound of stirring fish.
‘Well, we’ll wade in once more up to our knees, and then home. In you go, Grishka; what are y
ou waiting for?’ his father asked.
Gregor stepped out with numbed legs. Aksinia was trembling so much that he felt her movement at the other end of the net.
‘Don’t shake!’
‘I’d be glad not to, but I can’t get my breath.’
‘Listen! Let’s crawl out, and damn the fish!’
At that moment a great carp bored through the net like a golden corkscrew. Gregor hurried and folded the net over it. Aksinia ran out on to the bank. The water splashed on the sands and ran back. A fish lay quivering in the net.
‘Back through the meadow?’ she asked.
‘The wood is nearer,’ Gregor replied.
Frowning, Aksinia wrung out her skirt, flung the sack over her shoulder and set off almost at a trot. Gregor picked up the net. They had covered some two hundred yards when Aksinia began to groan:
‘I’ve no strength left.’
‘Look, there’s a last year’s haycock. You might get warm inside it,’ he suggested.
‘Good! While I’m getting home I might die.’
Gregor turned back the top of the cock and dug out a hole. The long-lying hay smelt warm and rotten.
‘Crawl into the middle. It’s like a stove here,’ he told her.
She threw down the sack and buried herself up to the neck in hay. Shivering with cold, Gregor lay down at her side. A tender, agitating scent came from her damp hair. She lay with head thrown back, breathing regularly through her half-open mouth.
‘Your hair smells like henbane: you know, the white flower,’ Gregor whispered, bending towards her. She was silent. Her gaze was misty and distant, fixed on the waning, crescent moon.
Taking his hand out of his pocket, Gregor suddenly drew her head towards him. She tore herself away fiercely, and raised herself from the hay.
‘Let me go!’ she demanded.
‘Keep quiet!’
‘Let me go, or I’ll shout.’
‘Wait, Aksinia!’
‘Daddy Pantaleimon!’
‘Have you lost yourselves?’ Pantaleimon’s voice sounded quite close, from beyond a clump of hawthorn bush. Grinding his teeth, Gregor jumped out of the cock.
‘What are you shouting for? Are you lost?’ the old man questioned as he approached.