The Cossacks by Leo Tolstoy
Translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude
A Tale of 1852
All is quiet in Moscow. The squeak of wheels is seldom heard in
the snow-covered street. There are no lights left in the windows and
the street lamps have been extinguished. Only the sound of bells,
borne over the city from the church towers, suggests the approach of
morning. The streets are deserted. At rare intervals a night-cabman's
sledge kneads up the snow and sand in the street as the driver makes
his way to another corner where he falls asleep while waiting for a
fare. An old woman passes by on her way to church, where a few wax
candles burn with a red light reflected on the gilt mountings of the
icons. Workmen are already getting up after the long winter night and
going to their work—but for the gentlefolk it is still evening.
From a window in Chevalier's Restaurant a light—illegal at that
hour—is still to be seen through a chink in the shutter. At the
entrance a carriage, a sledge, and a cabman's sledge, stand close
together with their backs to the curbstone. A three-horse sledge from
the post-station is there also. A yard-porter muffled up and pinched
with cold is sheltering behind the corner of the house.
'And what's the good of all this jawing?' thinks the footman who
sits in the hall weary and haggard. 'This always happens when I'm on
duty.' From the adjoining room are heard the voices of three young
men, sitting there at a table on which are wine and the remains of
supper. One, a rather plain, thin, neat little man, sits looking with
tired kindly eyes at his friend, who is about to start on a journey.
Another, a tall man, lies on a sofa beside a table on which are empty
bottles, and plays with his watch-key. A third, wearing a short,
fur-lined coat, is pacing up and down the room stopping now and then
to crack an almond between his strong, rather thick, but well-tended
fingers. He keeps smiling at something and his face and eyes are all
aglow. He speaks warmly and gesticulates, but evidently does not find
the words he wants and those that occur to him seem to him inadequate
to express what has risen to his heart.
'Now I can speak out fully,' said the traveller. 'I don't want to
defend myself, but I should like you at least to understand me as I
understand myself, and not look at the matter superficially. You say I
have treated her badly,' he continued, addressing the man with the
kindly eyes who was watching him.
'Yes, you are to blame,' said the latter, and his look seemed to
express still more kindliness and weariness.
'I know why you say that,' rejoined the one who was leaving. 'To
be loved is in your opinion as great a happiness as to love, and if a
man obtains it, it is enough for his whole life.'
'Yes, quite enough, my dear fellow, more than enough!' confirmed
the plain little man, opening and shutting his eyes.
'But why shouldn't the man love too?' said the traveller
thoughtfully, looking at his friend with something like pity. 'Why
shouldn't one love? Because love doesn't come ... No, to be beloved
is a misfortune. It is a misfortune to feel guilty because you do not
give something you cannot give. O my God!' he added, with a gesture of
his arm. 'If it all happened reasonably, and not all topsy-turvy—not
in our way but in a way of its own! Why, it's as if I had stolen that
love! You think so too, don't deny it. You must think so. But will you
believe it, of all the horrid and stupid things I have found time to
do in my life—and there are many—this is one I do not and cannot
repent of. Neither at the beginning nor afterwards did I lie to myself
or to her. It seemed to me that I had at last fallen in love, but then
I saw that it was an involuntary falsehood, and that that was not the
way to love, and I could not go on, but she did. Am I to blame that I
couldn't? What was I to do?'
'Well, it's ended now!' said his friend, lighting a cigar to
master his sleepiness. 'The fact is that you have not yet loved and
do not know what love is.'
The man in the fur-lined coat was going to speak again, and put
his hands to his head, but could not express what he wanted to say.
'Never loved! ... Yes, quite true, I never have! But after all, I
have within me a desire to love, and nothing could be stronger than
that desire! But then, again, does such love exist? There always
remains something incomplete. Ah well! What's the use of talking? I've
made an awful mess of life! But anyhow it's all over now; you are
quite right. And I feel that I am beginning a new life.'
'Which you will again make a mess of,' said the man who lay on the
sofa playing with his watch-key. But the traveller did not listen to
'I am sad and yet glad to go,' he continued. 'Why I am sad I don't
And the traveller went on talking about himself, without noticing
that this did not interest the others as much as it did him. A man is
never such an egotist as at moments of spiritual ecstasy. At such
times it seems to him that there is nothing on earth more splendid and
interesting than himself.
'Dmitri Andreich! The coachman won't wait any longer!' said a
young serf, entering the room in a sheepskin coat, with a scarf tied
round his head. 'The horses have been standing since twelve, and it's
now four o'clock!'
Dmitri Andreich looked at his serf, Vanyusha. The scarf round
Vanyusha's head, his felt boots and sleepy face, seemed to be calling
his master to a new life of labour, hardship, and activity.
'True enough! Good-bye!' said he, feeling for the unfastened hook
and eye on his coat.
In spite of advice to mollify the coachman by another tip, he put
on his cap and stood in the middle of the room. The friends kissed
once, then again, and after a pause, a third time. The man in the
fur-lined coat approached the table and emptied a champagne glass,
then took the plain little man's hand and blushed.
'Ah well, I will speak out all the same ... I must and will be
frank with you because I am fond of you ... Of course you love her—I
always thought so—don't you?'
'Yes,' answered his friend, smiling still more gently.
'Please sir, I have orders to put out the candles,' said the
sleepy attendant, who had been listening to the last part of the
conversation and wondering why gentlefolk always talk about one and
the same thing. 'To whom shall I make out the bill? To you, sir?' he
added, knowing whom to address and turning to the tall man.
'To me,' replied the tall man. 'How much?'
The tall man considered for a moment, but said nothing and put the
bill in his pocket.
The other two continued their talk.
'Good-bye, you are a capital fellow!' said the short plain man
with the mild eyes. Tears filled the eyes of both. They stepped into
'Oh, by the by,' said the traveller, turning with a blush to the
tall man, 'will you settle Chevalier's bill and write and let me
'All right, all right!' said the tall man, pulling on his gloves.
'How I envy you!' he added quite unexpectedly when they were out in
The traveller got into his sledge, wrapped his coat about him, and
said: 'Well then, come along!' He even moved a little to make room in
the sledge for the man who said he envied him—his voice trembled.
'Good-bye, Mitya! I hope that with God's help you...' said the
tall one. But his wish was that the other would go away quickly, and
so he could not finish the sentence.
They were silent a moment. Then someone again said, 'Good-bye,'
and a voice cried, 'Ready,' and the coachman touched up the horses.
'Hy, Elisar!' One of the friends called out, and the other
coachman and the sledge-drivers began moving, clicking their tongues
and pulling at the reins. Then the stiffened carriage- wheels rolled
squeaking over the frozen snow.
'A fine fellow, that Olenin!' said one of the friends. 'But what
an idea to go to the Caucasus—as a cadet, too! I wouldn't do it for
anything. ... Are you dining at the club to-morrow?'
The traveller felt warm, his fur coat seemed too hot. He sat on
the bottom of the sledge and unfastened his coat, and the three
shaggy post-horses dragged themselves out of one dark street into
another, past houses he had never before seen. It seemed to Olenin
that only travellers starting on a long journey went through those
streets. All was dark and silent and dull around him, but his soul
was full of memories, love, regrets, and a pleasant tearful feeling.
'I'm fond of them, very fond! ... First-rate fellows! ... Fine!'
he kept repeating, and felt ready to cry. But why he wanted to cry,
who were the first-rate fellows he was so fond of—was more than he
quite knew. Now and then he looked round at some house and wondered
why it was so curiously built; sometimes he began wondering why the
post-boy and Vanyusha, who were so different from himself, sat so
near, and together with him were being jerked about and swayed by the
tugs the side-horses gave at the frozen traces, and again he repeated:
'First rate ... very fond!' and once he even said: 'And how it seizes
one ... excellent!' and wondered what made him say it. 'Dear me, am I
drunk?' he asked himself. He had had a couple of bottles of wine, but
it was not the wine alone that was having this effect on Olenin. He
remembered all the words of friendship heartily, bashfully,
spontaneously (as he believed) addressed to him on his departure. He
remembered the clasp of hands, glances, the moments of silence, and
the sound of a voice saying, 'Good-bye, Mitya!' when he was already in
the sledge. He remembered his own deliberate frankness. And all this
had a touching significance for him. Not only friends and relatives,
not only people who had been indifferent to him, but even those who
did not like him, seemed to have agreed to become fonder of him, or to
forgive him, before his departure, as people do before confession or
death. 'Perhaps I shall not return from the Caucasus,' he thought. And
he felt that he loved his friends and some one besides. He was sorry
for himself. But it was not love for his friends that so stirred and
uplifted his heart that he could not repress the meaningless words
that seemed to rise of themselves to his lips; nor was it love for a
woman (he had never yet been in love) that had brought on this mood.
Love for himself, love full of hope—warm young love for all that was
good in his own soul (and at that moment it seemed to him that there
was nothing but good in it)—compelled him to weep and to mutter
Olenin was a youth who had never completed his university course,
never served anywhere (having only a nominal post in some government
office or other), who had squandered half his fortune and had reached
the age of twenty-four without having done anything or even chosen a
career. He was what in Moscow society is termed un jeune homme.
At the age of eighteen he was free—as only rich young Russians in
the 'forties who had lost their parents at an early age could be.
Neither physical nor moral fetters of any kind existed for him; he
could do as he liked, lacking nothing and bound by nothing. Neither
relatives, nor fatherland, nor religion, nor wants, existed for him.
He believed in nothing and admitted nothing. But although he believed
in nothing he was not a morose or blase young man, nor
self-opinionated, but on the contrary continually let himself be
carried away. He had come to the conclusion that there is no such
thing as love, yet his heart always overflowed in the presence of any
young and attractive woman. He had long been aware that honours and
position were nonsense, yet involuntarily he felt pleased when at a
ball Prince Sergius came up and spoke to him affably. But he yielded
to his impulses only in so far as they did not limit his freedom. As
soon as he had yielded to any influence and became conscious of its
leading on to labour and struggle, he instinctively hastened to free
himself from the feeling or activity into which he was being drawn and
to regain his freedom. In this way he experimented with society-life,
the civil service, farming, music—to which at one time he intended to
devote his life—and even with the love of women in which he did not
believe. He meditated on the use to which he should devote that power
of youth which is granted to man only once in a lifetime: that force
which gives a man the power of making himself, or even—as it seemed
to him—of making the universe, into anything he wishes: should it be
to art, to science, to love of woman, or to practical activities? It
is true that some people are devoid of this impulse, and on entering
life at once place their necks under the first yoke that offers itself
and honestly labour under it for the rest of their lives. But Olenin
was too strongly conscious of the presence of that all-powerful God of
Youth—of that capacity to be entirely transformed into an aspiration
or idea—the capacity to wish and to do—to throw oneself headlong
into a bottomless abyss without knowing why or wherefore. He bore this
consciousness within himself, was proud of it and, without knowing it,
was happy in that consciousness. Up to that time he had loved only
himself, and could not help loving himself, for he expected nothing
but good of himself and had not yet had time to be disillusioned. On
leaving Moscow he was in that happy state of mind in which a young
man, conscious of past mistakes, suddenly says to himself, 'That was
not the real thing.' All that had gone before was accidental and
unimportant. Till then he had not really tried to live, but now with
his departure from Moscow a new life was beginning—a life in which
there would be no mistakes, no remorse, and certainly nothing but
It is always the case on a long journey that till the first two or
three stages have been passed imagination continues to dwell on the
place left behind, but with the first morning on the road it leaps to
the end of the journey and there begins building castles in the air.
So it happened to Olenin.
After leaving the town behind, he gazed at the snowy fields and
felt glad to be alone in their midst. Wrapping himself in his fur
coat, he lay at the bottom of the sledge, became tranquil, and fell
into a doze. The parting with his friends had touched him deeply, and
memories of that last winter spent in Moscow and images of the past,
mingled with vague thoughts and regrets, rose unbidden in his
He remembered the friend who had seen him off and his relations
with the girl they had talked about. The girl was rich. "How could he
love her knowing that she loved me?" thought he, and evil suspicions
crossed his mind. "There is much dishonesty in men when one comes to
reflect." Then he was confronted by the question: "But really, how is
it I have never been in love? Every one tells me that I never have.
Can it be that I am a moral monstrosity?" And he began to recall all
his infatuations. He recalled his entry into society, and a friend's
sister with whom he spent several evenings at a table with a lamp on
it which lit up her slender fingers busy with needlework, and the
lower part of her pretty delicate face. He recalled their
conversations that dragged on like the game in which one passes on a
stick which one keeps alight as long as possible, and the general
awkwardness and restraint and his continual feeling of rebellion at
all that conventionality. Some voice had always whispered: "That's not
it, that's not it," and so it had proved. Then he remembered a ball
and the mazurka he danced with the beautiful D——. "How much in love
I was that night and how happy! And how hurt and vexed I was next
morning when I woke and felt myself still free! Why does not love come
and bind me hand and foot?" thought he. "No, there is no such thing as
love! That neighbour who used to tell me, as she told Dubrovin and the
Marshal, that she loved the stars, was not IT either." And now his
farming and work in the country recurred to his mind, and in those
recollections also there was nothing to dwell on with pleasure. "Will
they talk long of my departure?" came into his head; but who "they"
were he did not quite know. Next came a thought that made him wince
and mutter incoherently. It was the recollection of M. Cappele the
tailor, and the six hundred and seventy-eight rubles he still owed
him, and he recalled the words in which he had begged him to wait
another year, and the look of perplexity and resignation which had
appeared on the tailor's face. 'Oh, my God, my God!' he repeated,
wincing and trying to drive away the intolerable thought. 'All the
same and in spite of everything she loved me,' thought he of the girl
they had talked about at the farewell supper. 'Yes, had I married her
I should not now be owing anything, and as it is I am in debt to
Vasilyev.' Then he remembered the last night he had played with
Vasilyev at the club (just after leaving her), and he recalled his
humiliating requests for another game and the other's cold refusal. 'A
year's economizing and they will all be paid, and the devil take
them!'... But despite this assurance he again began calculating his
outstanding debts, their dates, and when he could hope to pay them
off. 'And I owe something to Morell as well as to Chevalier,' thought
he, recalling the night when he had run up so large a debt. It was at
a carousel at the gipsies arranged by some fellows from Petersburg:
Sashka B—-, an aide-de-camp to the Tsar, Prince D—-, and that
pompous old——. 'How is it those gentlemen are so self-satisfied?'
thought he, 'and by what right do they form a clique to which they
think others must be highly flattered to be admitted? Can it be
because they are on the Emperor's staff? Why, it's awful what fools
and scoundrels they consider other people to be! But I showed them
that I at any rate, on the contrary, do not at all want their
intimacy. All the same, I fancy Andrew, the steward, would be amazed
to know that I am on familiar terms with a man like Sashka B—-, a
colonel and an aide-de-camp to the Tsar! Yes, and no one drank more
than I did that evening, and I taught the gipsies a new song and
everyone listened to it. Though I have done many foolish things, all
the same I am a very good fellow,' thought he.
Morning found him at the third post-stage. He drank tea, and
himself helped Vanyusha to move his bundles and trunks and sat down
among them, sensible, erect, and precise, knowing where all his
belongings were, how much money he had and where it was, where he had
put his passport and the post-horse requisition and toll- gate papers,
and it all seemed to him so well arranged that he grew quite cheerful
and the long journey before him seemed an extended pleasure-trip.
All that morning and noon he was deep in calculations of how many
versts he had travelled, how many remained to the next stage, how
many to the next town, to the place where he would dine, to the place
where he would drink tea, and to Stavropol, and what fraction of the
whole journey was already accomplished. He also calculated how much
money he had with him, how much would be left over, how much would pay
off all his debts, and what proportion of his income he would spend
each month. Towards evening, after tea, he calculated that to
Stavropol there still remained seven- elevenths of the whole journey,
that his debts would require seven months' economy and one-eighth of
his whole fortune; and then, tranquillized, he wrapped himself up, lay
down in the sledge, and again dozed off. His imagination was now
turned to the future: to the Caucasus. All his dreams of the future
were mingled with pictures of Amalat-Beks, Circassian women,
mountains, precipices, terrible torrents, and perils. All these things
were vague and dim, but the love of fame and the danger of death
furnished the interest of that future. Now, with unprecedented courage
and a strength that amazed everyone, he slew and subdued an
innumerable host of hillsmen; now he was himself a hillsman and with
them was maintaining their independence against the Russians. As soon
as he pictured anything definite, familiar Moscow figures always
appeared on the scene. Sashka B—-fights with the Russians or the
hillsmen against him. Even the tailor Cappele in some strange way
takes part in the conqueror's triumph. Amid all this he remembered
his former humiliations, weaknesses, and mistakes, and the
recollection was not disagreeable. It was clear that there among the
mountains, waterfalls, fair Circassians, and dangers, such mistakes
could not recur. Having once made full confession to himself there was
an end of it all. One other vision, the sweetest of them all, mingled
with the young man's every thought of the future—the vision of a
And there, among the mountains, she appeared to his imagination as
a Circassian slave, a fine figure with a long plait of hair and deep
submissive eyes. He pictured a lonely hut in the mountains, and on the
threshold she stands awaiting him when, tired and covered with dust,
blood, and fame, he returns to her. He is conscious of her kisses, her
shoulders, her sweet voice, and her submissiveness. She is enchanting,
but uneducated, wild, and rough. In the long winter evenings he begins
her education. She is clever and gifted and quickly acquires all the
knowledge essential. Why not? She can quite easily learn foreign
languages, read the French masterpieces and understand them: Notre
Dame de Paris, for instance, is sure to please her. She can also speak
French. In a drawing-room she can show more innate dignity than a
lady of the highest society. She can sing, simply, powerfully, and
passionately.... 'Oh, what nonsense!' said he to himself. But here
they reached a post-station and he had to change into another sledge
and give some tips. But his fancy again began searching for the
'nonsense' he had relinquished, and again fair Circassians, glory, and
his return to Russia with an appointment as aide-de- camp and a lovely
wife rose before his imagination. 'But there's no such thing as love,'
said he to himself. 'Fame is all rubbish. But the six hundred and
seventy-eight rubles? ... And the conquered land that will bring me
more wealth than I need for a lifetime? It will not be right though to
keep all that wealth for myself. I shall have to distribute it. But to
whom? Well, six hundred and seventy-eight rubles to Cappele and then
we'll see.' ... Quite vague visions now cloud his mind, and only
Vanyusha's voice and the interrupted motion of the sledge break his
healthy youthful slumber. Scarcely conscious, he changes into another
sledge at the next stage and continues his journey.
Next morning everything goes on just the same: the same kind of
post-stations and tea-drinking, the same moving horses' cruppers, the
same short talks with Vanyusha, the same vague dreams and drowsiness,
and the same tired, healthy, youthful sleep at night.
The farther Olenin travelled from Central Russia the farther he
left his memories behind, and the nearer he drew to the Caucasus the
lighter his heart became. "I'll stay away for good and never return to
show myself in society," was a thought that sometimes occurred to him.
"These people whom I see here are NOT people. None of them know me and
none of them can ever enter the Moscow society I was in or find out
about my past. And no one in that society will ever know what I am
doing, living among these people." And quite a new feeling of freedom
from his whole past came over him among the rough beings he met on the
road whom he did not consider to be PEOPLE in the sense that his
Moscow acquaintances were. The rougher the people and the fewer the
signs of civilization the freer he felt. Stavropol, through which he
had to pass, irked him. The signboards, some of them even in French,
ladies in carriages, cabs in the marketplace, and a gentleman wearing
a fur cloak and tall hat who was walking along the boulevard and
staring at the passersby, quite upset him. "Perhaps these people know
some of my acquaintances," he thought; and the club, his tailor,
cards, society ... came back to his mind. But after Stavropol
everything was satisfactory—wild and also beautiful and warlike, and
Olenin felt happier and happier. All the Cossacks, post-boys, and
post-station masters seemed to him simple folk with whom he could jest
and converse simply, without having to consider to what class they
belonged. They all belonged to the human race which, without his
thinking about it, all appeared dear to Olenin, and they all treated
him in a friendly way.
Already in the province of the Don Cossacks his sledge had been
exchanged for a cart, and beyond Stavropol it became so warm that
Olenin travelled without wearing his fur coat. It was already
spring—an unexpected joyous spring for Olenin. At night he was no
longer allowed to leave the Cossack villages, and they said it was
dangerous to travel in the evening. Vanyusha began to be uneasy, and
they carried a loaded gun in the cart. Olenin became still happier. At
one of the post-stations the post-master told of a terrible murder
that had been committed recently on the high road. They began to meet
armed men. "So this is where it begins!" thought Olenin, and kept
expecting to see the snowy mountains of which mention was so often
made. Once, towards evening, the Nogay driver pointed with his whip to
the mountains shrouded in clouds. Olenin looked eagerly, but it was
dull and the mountains were almost hidden by the clouds. Olenin made
out something grey and white and fleecy, but try as he would he could
find nothing beautiful in the mountains of which he had so often read
and heard. The mountains and the clouds appeared to him quite alike,
and he thought the special beauty of the snow peaks, of which he had
so often been told, was as much an invention as Bach's music and the
love of women, in which he did not believe. So he gave up looking
forward to seeing the mountains. But early next morning, being
awakened in his cart by the freshness of the air, he glanced
carelessly to the right. The morning was perfectly clear. Suddenly he
saw, about twenty paces away as it seemed to him at first glance, pure
white gigantic masses with delicate contours, the distinct fantastic
outlines of their summits showing sharply against the far-off sky.
When he had realized the distance between himself and them and the sky
and the whole immensity of the mountains, and felt the infinitude of
all that beauty, he became afraid that it was but a phantasm or a
dream. He gave himself a shake to rouse himself, but the mountains
were still the same.
"What's that! What is it?" he said to the driver.
"Why, the mountains," answered the Nogay driver with indifference.
"And I too have been looking at them for a long while," said
Vanyusha. "Aren't they fine? They won't believe it at home."
The quick progress of the three-horsed cart along the smooth road
caused the mountains to appear to be running along the horizon, while
their rosy crests glittered in the light of the rising sun. At first
Olenin was only astonished at the sight, then gladdened by it; but
later on, gazing more and more intently at that snow- peaked chain
that seemed to rise not from among other black mountains, but straight
out of the plain, and to glide away into the distance, he began by
slow degrees to be penetrated by their beauty and at length to FEEL
the mountains. From that moment all he saw, all he thought, and all he
felt, acquired for him a new character, sternly majestic like the
mountains! All his Moscow reminiscences, shame, and repentance, and
his trivial dreams about the Caucasus, vanished and did not return.
'Now it has begun,' a solemn voice seemed to say to him. The road and
the Terek, just becoming visible in the distance, and the Cossack
villages and the people, all no longer appeared to him as a joke. He
looked at himself or Vanyusha, and again thought of the mountains. ...
Two Cossacks ride by, their guns in their cases swinging rhythmically
behind their backs, the white and bay legs of their horses mingling
confusedly ... and the mountains! Beyond the Terek rises the smoke
from a Tartar village... and the mountains! The sun has risen and
glitters on the Terek, now visible beyond the reeds ... and the
mountains! From the village comes a Tartar wagon, and women, beautiful
young women, pass by... and the mountains! 'Abreks canter about the
plain, and here am I driving along and do not fear them! I have a gun,
and strength, and youth... and the mountains!'
That whole part of the Terek line (about fifty miles) along which
lie the villages of the Grebensk Cossacks is uniform in character
both as to country and inhabitants. The Terek, which separates the
Cossacks from the mountaineers, still flows turbid and rapid though
already broad and smooth, always depositing greyish sand on its low
reedy right bank and washing away the steep, though not high, left
bank, with its roots of century-old oaks, its rotting plane trees, and
young brushwood. On the right bank lie the villages of pro-Russian,
though still somewhat restless, Tartars. Along the left bank, back
half a mile from the river and standing five or six miles apart from
one another, are Cossack villages. In olden times most of these
villages were situated on the banks of the river; but the Terek,
shifting northward from the mountains year by year, washed away those
banks, and now there remain only the ruins of the old villages and of
the gardens of pear and plum trees and poplars, all overgrown with
blackberry bushes and wild vines. No one lives there now, and one only
sees the tracks of the deer, the wolves, the hares, and the pheasants,
who have learned to love these places. From village to village runs a
road cut through the forest as a cannon-shot might fly. Along the
roads are cordons of Cossacks and watch-towers with sentinels in them.
Only a narrow strip about seven hundred yards wide of fertile wooded
soil belongs to the Cossacks. To the north of it begin the sand-
drifts of the Nogay or Mozdok steppes, which fetch far to the north
and run, Heaven knows where, into the Trukhmen, Astrakhan, and
Kirghiz-Kaisatsk steppes. To the south, beyond the Terek, are the
Great Chechnya river, the Kochkalov range, the Black Mountains, yet
another range, and at last the snowy mountains, which can just be seen
but have never yet been scaled. In this fertile wooded strip, rich in
vegetation, has dwelt as far back as memory runs the fine warlike and
prosperous Russian tribe belonging to the sect of Old Believers, and
called the Grebensk Cossacks.
Long long ago their Old Believer ancestors fled from Russia and
settled beyond the Terek among the Chechens on the Greben, the first
range of wooded mountains of Chechnya. Living among the Chechens the
Cossacks intermarried with them and adopted the manners and customs of
the hill tribes, though they still retained the Russian language in
all its purity, as well as their Old Faith. A tradition, still fresh
among them, declares that Tsar Ivan the Terrible came to the Terek,
sent for their Elders, and gave them the land on this side of the
river, exhorting them to remain friendly to Russia and promising not
to enforce his rule upon them nor oblige them to change their faith.
Even now the Cossack families claim relationship with the Chechens,
and the love of freedom, of leisure, of plunder and of war, still form
their chief characteristics. Only the harmful side of Russian
influence shows itself—by interference at elections, by confiscation
of church bells, and by the troops who are quartered in the country or
march through it. A Cossack is inclined to hate less the dzhigit
hillsman who maybe has killed his brother, than the soldier quartered
on him to defend his village, but who has defiled his hut with
tobacco-smoke. He respects his enemy the hillsman and despises the
soldier, who is in his eyes an alien and an oppressor. In reality,
from a Cossack's point of view a Russian peasant is a foreign, savage,
despicable creature, of whom he sees a sample in the hawkers who come
to the country and in the Ukrainian immigrants whom the Cossack
contemptuously calls 'woolbeaters'. For him, to be smartly dressed
means to be dressed like a Circassian. The best weapons are obtained
from the hillsmen and the best horses are bought, or stolen, from
them. A dashing young Cossack likes to show off his knowledge of
Tartar, and when carousing talks Tartar even to his fellow Cossack. In
spite of all these things this small Christian clan stranded in a tiny
comer of the earth, surrounded by half-savage Mohammedan tribes and by
soldiers, considers itself highly advanced, acknowledges none but
Cossacks as human beings, and despises everybody else. The Cossack
spends most of his time in the cordon, in action, or in hunting and
fishing. He hardly ever works at home. When he stays in the village it
is an exception to the general rule and then he is holiday-making. All
Cossacks make their own wine, and drunkenness is not so much a general
tendency as a rite, the non-fulfilment of which would be considered
apostasy. The Cossack looks upon a woman as an instrument for his
welfare; only the unmarried girls are allowed to amuse themselves. A
married woman has to work for her husband from youth to very old age:
his demands on her are the Oriental ones of submission and labour. In
consequence of this outlook women are strongly developed both
physically and mentally, and though they are—as everywhere in the
East—nominally in subjection, they possess far greater influence and
importance in family-life than Western women. Their exclusion from
public life and inurement to heavy male labour give the women all the
more power and importance in the household. A Cossack, who before
strangers considers it improper to speak affectionately or needlessly
to his wife, when alone with her is involuntarily conscious of her
superiority. His house and all his property, in fact the entire
homestead, has been acquired and is kept together solely by her labour
and care. Though firmly convinced that labour is degrading to a
Cossack and is only proper for a Nogay labourer or a woman, he is
vaguely aware of the fact that all he makes use of and calls his own
is the result of that toil, and that it is in the power of the woman
(his mother or his wife) whom he considers his slave, to deprive him
of all he possesses. Besides, the continuous performance of man's
heavy work and the responsibilities entrusted to her have endowed the
Grebensk women with a peculiarly independent masculine character and
have remarkably developed their physical powers, common sense,
resolution, and stability. The women are in most cases stronger, more
intelligent, more developed, and handsomer than the men. A striking
feature of a Grebensk woman's beauty is the combination of the purest
Circassian type of face with the broad and powerful build of Northern
women. Cossack women wear the Circassian dress— a Tartar smock,
beshmet, and soft slippers—but they tie their kerchiefs round their
heads in the Russian fashion. Smartness, cleanliness and elegance in
dress and in the arrangement of their huts, are with them a custom and
a necessity. In their relations with men the women, and especially the
unmarried girls, enjoy perfect freedom.
Novomlinsk village was considered the very heart of Grebensk
Cossackdom. In it more than elsewhere the customs of the old Grebensk
population have been preserved, and its women have from time
immemorial been renowned all over the Caucasus for their beauty. A
Cossack's livelihood is derived from vineyards, fruit- gardens, water
melon and pumpkin plantations, from fishing, hunting, maize and millet
growing, and from war plunder. Novomlinsk village lies about two and a
half miles away from the Terek, from which it is separated by a dense
forest. On one side of the road which runs through the village is the
river; on the other, green vineyards and orchards, beyond which are
seen the driftsands of the Nogay Steppe. The village is surrounded by
earth-banks and prickly bramble hedges, and is entered by tall gates
hung between posts and covered with little reed-thatched roofs. Beside
them on a wooden gun-carriage stands an unwieldy cannon captured by
the Cossacks at some time or other, and which has not been fired for a
hundred years. A uniformed Cossack sentinel with dagger and gun
sometimes stands, and sometimes does not stand, on guard beside the
gates, and sometimes presents arms to a passing officer and sometimes
does not. Below the roof of the gateway is written in black letters on
a white board: 'Houses 266: male inhabitants 897: female 1012.' The
Cossacks' houses are all raised on pillars two and a half feet from
the ground. They are carefully thatched with reeds and have large
carved gables. If not new they are at least all straight and clean,
with high porches of different shapes; and they are not built close
together but have ample space around them, and are all picturesquely
placed along broad streets and lanes. In front of the large bright
windows of many of the houses, beyond the kitchen gardens, dark green
poplars and acacias with their delicate pale verdure and scented white
blossoms overtop the houses, and beside them grow flaunting yellow
sunflowers, creepers, and grape vines. In the broad open square are
three shops where drapery, sunflower and pumpkin seeds, locust beans
and gingerbreads are sold; and surrounded by a tall fence, loftier and
larger than the other houses, stands the Regimental Commander's
dwelling with its casement windows, behind a row of tall poplars. Few
people are to be seen in the streets of the village on weekdays,
especially in summer. The young men are on duty in the cordons or on
military expeditions; the old ones are fishing or helping the women in
the orchards and gardens. Only the very old, the sick, and the
children, remain at home.
It was one of those wonderful evenings that occur only in the
Caucasus. The sun had sunk behind the mountains but it was still
light. The evening glow had spread over a third of the sky, and
against its brilliancy the dull white immensity of the mountains was
sharply defined. The air was rarefied, motionless, and full of sound.
The shadow of the mountains reached for several miles over the steppe.
The steppe, the opposite side of the river, and the roads, were all
deserted. If very occasionally mounted men appeared, the Cossacks in
the cordon and the Chechens in their aouls (villages) watched them
with surprised curiosity and tried to guess who those questionable men
could be. At nightfall people from fear of one another flock to their
dwellings, and only birds and beasts fearless of man prowl in those
deserted spaces. Talking merrily, the women who have been tying up the
vines hurry away from the gardens before sunset. The vineyards, like
all the surrounding district, are deserted, but the villages become
very animated at that time of the evening. From all sides, walking,
riding, or driving in their creaking carts, people move towards the
village. Girls with their smocks tucked up and twigs in their hands
run chatting merrily to the village gates to meet the cattle that are
crowding together in a cloud of dust and mosquitoes which they bring
with them from the steppe. The well-fed cows and buffaloes disperse at
a run all over the streets and Cossack women in coloured beshmets go
to and fro among them. You can hear their merry laughter and shrieks
mingling with the lowing of the cattle. There an armed and mounted
Cossack, on leave from the cordon, rides up to a hut and, leaning
towards the window, knocks. In answer to the knock the handsome head
of a young woman appears at the window and you can hear caressing,
laughing voices. There a tattered Nogay labourer, with prominent
cheekbones, brings a load of reeds from the steppes, turns his
creaking cart into the Cossack captain's broad and clean courtyard,
and lifts the yoke off the oxen that stand tossing their heads while
he and his master shout to one another in Tartar. Past a puddle that
reaches nearly across the street, a barefooted Cossack woman with a
bundle of firewood on her back makes her laborious way by clinging to
the fences, holding her smock high and exposing her white legs. A
Cossack returning from shooting calls out in jest: 'Lift it higher,
shameless thing!' and points his gun at her. The woman lets down her
smock and drops the wood. An old Cossack, returning home from fishing
with his trousers tucked up and his hairy grey chest uncovered, has a
net across his shoulder containing silvery fish that are still
struggling; and to take a short cut climbs over his neighbour's broken
fence and gives a tug to his coat which has caught on the fence. There
a woman is dragging a dry branch along and from round the corner comes
the sound of an axe. Cossack children, spinning their tops wherever
there is a smooth place in the street, are shrieking; women are
climbing over fences to avoid going round. From every chimney rises
the odorous kisyak smoke. From every homestead comes the sound of
increased bustle, precursor to the stillness of night.
Granny Ulitka, the wife of the Cossack cornet who is also teacher
in the regimental school, goes out to the gates of her yard like the
other women, and waits for the cattle which her daughter Maryanka is
driving along the street. Before she has had time fully to open the
wattle gate in the fence, an enormous buffalo cow surrounded by
mosquitoes rushes up bellowing and squeezes in. Several well-fed cows
slowly follow her, their large eyes gazing with recognition at their
mistress as they swish their sides with their tails. The beautiful and
shapely Maryanka enters at the gate and throwing away her switch
quickly slams the gate to and rushes with all the speed of her nimble
feet to separate and drive the cattle into their sheds. 'Take off your
slippers, you devil's wench!' shouts her mother, 'you've worn them
into holes!' Maryanka is not at all offended at being called a
'devil's wench', but accepting it as a term of endearment cheerfully
goes on with her task. Her face is covered with a kerchief tied round
her head. She is wearing a pink smock and a green beshmet. She
disappears inside the lean-to shed in the yard, following the big fat
cattle; and from the shed comes her voice as she speaks gently and
persuasively to the buffalo: 'Won't she stand still? What a creature!
Come now, come old dear!' Soon the girl and the old woman pass from
the shed to the dairy carrying two large pots of milk, the day's
yield. From the dairy chimney rises a thin cloud of kisyak smoke: the
milk is being used to make into clotted cream. The girl makes up the
fire while her mother goes to the gate. Twilight has fallen on the
village. The air is full of the smell of vegetables, cattle, and
scented kisyak smoke. From the gates and along the streets Cossack
women come running, carrying lighted rags. From the yards one hears
the snorting and quiet chewing of the cattle eased of their milk,
while in the street only the voices of women and children sound as
they call to one another. It is rare on a week-day to hear the drunken
voice of a man.
One of the Cossack wives, a tall, masculine old woman, approaches
Granny Ulitka from the homestead opposite and asks her for a light.
In her hand she holds a rag.
'Have you cleared up. Granny?'
'The girl is lighting the fire. Is it fire you want?' says Granny
Ulitka, proud of being able to oblige her neighbour.
Both women enter the hut, and coarse hands unused to dealing with
small articles tremblingly lift the lid of a matchbox, which is a
rarity in the Caucasus. The masculine-looking new-comer sits down on
the doorstep with the evident intention of having a chat.
'And is your man at the school. Mother?' she asked.
'He's always teaching the youngsters. Mother. But he writes that
he'll come home for the holidays,' said the cornet's wife.
'Yes, he's a clever man, one sees; it all comes useful.'
'Of course it does.'
'And my Lukashka is at the cordon; they won't let him come home,'
said the visitor, though the cornet's wife had known all this long
ago. She wanted to talk about her Lukashka whom she had lately fitted
out for service in the Cossack regiment, and whom she wished to marry
to the cornet's daughter, Maryanka.
'So he's at the cordon?'
'He is. Mother. He's not been home since last holidays. The other
day I sent him some shirts by Fomushkin. He says he's all right, and
that his superiors are satisfied. He says they are looking out for
abreks again. Lukashka is quite happy, he says.'
'Ah well, thank God,' said the cornet's wife.' "Snatcher" is
certainly the only word for him.' Lukashka was surnamed 'the
Snatcher' because of his bravery in snatching a boy from a watery
grave, and the cornet's wife alluded to this, wishing in her turn to
say something agreeable to Lukashka's mother.
'I thank God, Mother, that he's a good son! He's a fine fellow,
everyone praises him,' says Lukashka's mother. 'All I wish is to get
him married; then I could die in peace.'
'Well, aren't there plenty of young women in the village?'
answered the cornet's wife slyly as she carefully replaced the lid of
the matchbox with her horny hands.
'Plenty, Mother, plenty,' remarked Lukashka's mother, shaking her
head. 'There's your girl now, your Maryanka—that's the sort of girl!
You'd have to search through the whole place to find such another!'
The cornet's wife knows what Lukashka's mother is after, but though
she believes him to be a good Cossack she hangs back: first because
she is a cornet's wife and rich, while Lukashka is the son of a simple
Cossack and fatherless, secondly because she does not want to part
with her daughter yet, but chiefly because propriety demands it.
'Well, when Maryanka grows up she'll be marriageable too,' she
answers soberly and modestly.
'I'll send the matchmakers to you—I'll send them! Only let me get
the vineyard done and then we'll come and make our bows to you,' says
Lukashka's mother. 'And we'll make our bows to Elias Vasilich too.'
'Elias, indeed!' says the cornet's wife proudly. 'It's to me you
must speak! All in its own good time.'
Lukashka's mother sees by the stern face of the cornet's wife that
it is not the time to say anything more just now, so she lights her
rag with the match and says, rising: 'Don't refuse us, think of my
words. I'll go, it is time to light the fire.'
As she crosses the road swinging the burning rag, she meets
Maryanka, who bows.
'Ah, she's a regular queen, a splendid worker, that girl!' she
thinks, looking at the beautiful maiden. 'What need for her to grow
any more? It's time she was married and to a good home; married to
But Granny Ulitka had her own cares and she remained sitting on
the threshold thinking hard about something, till the girl called
The male population of the village spend their time on military
expeditions and in the cordon—or 'at their posts', as the Cossacks
say. Towards evening, that same Lukashka the Snatcher, about whom the
old women had been talking, was standing on a watch-tower of the
Nizhni-Prototsk post situated on the very banks of the Terek. Leaning
on the railing of the tower and screwing up his eyes, he looked now
far into the distance beyond the Terek, now down at his fellow
Cossacks, and occasionally he addressed the latter. The sun was
already approaching the snowy range that gleamed white above the
fleecy clouds. The clouds undulating at the base of the mountains grew
darker and darker. The clearness of evening was noticeable in the air.
A sense of freshness came from the woods, though round the post it was
still hot. The voices of the talking Cossacks vibrated more sonorously
than before. The moving mass of the Terek's rapid brown waters
contrasted more vividly with its motionless banks. The waters were
beginning to subside and here and there the wet sands gleamed drab on
the banks and in the shallows. The other side of the river, just
opposite the cordon, was deserted; only an immense waste of
low-growing reeds stretched far away to the very foot of the
mountains. On the low bank, a little to one side, could be seen the
flat-roofed clay houses and the funnel-shaped chimneys of a Chechen
village. The sharp eyes of the Cossack who stood on the watch-tower
followed, through the evening smoke of the pro-Russian village, the
tiny moving figures of the Chechen women visible in the distance in
their red and blue garments.
Although the Cossacks expected abreks to cross over and attack
them from the Tartar side at any moment, especially as it was May
when the woods by the Terek are so dense that it is difficult to pass
through them on foot and the river is shallow enough in places for a
horseman to ford it, and despite the fact that a couple of days before
a Cossack had arrived with a circular from the commander of the
regiment announcing that spies had reported the intention of a party
of some eight men to cross the Terek, and ordering special
vigilance—no special vigilance was being observed in the cordon. The
Cossacks, unarmed and with their horses unsaddled just as if they were
at home, spent their time some in fishing, some in drinking, and some
in hunting. Only the horse of the man on duty was saddled, and with
its feet hobbled was moving about by the brambles near the wood, and
only the sentinel had his Circassian coat on and carried a gun and
sword. The corporal, a tall thin Cossack with an exceptionally long
back and small hands and feet, was sitting on the earth-bank of a hut
with his beshmet unbuttoned. On his face was the lazy, bored
expression of a superior, and having shut his eyes he dropped his
head upon the palm first of one hand and then of the other. An
elderly Cossack with a broad greyish-black beard was lying in his
shirt, girdled with a black strap, close to the river and gazing
lazily at the waves of the Terek as they monotonously foamed and
swirled. Others, also overcome by the heat and half naked, were
rinsing clothes in the Terek, plaiting a fishing line, or humming
tunes as they lay on the hot sand of the river bank. One Cossack,
with a thin face much burnt by the sun, lay near the hut evidently
dead drunk, by a wall which though it had been in shadow some two
hours previously was now exposed to the sun's fierce slanting rays.
Lukashka, who stood on the watch-tower, was a tall handsome lad
about twenty years old and very like his mother. His face and whole
build, in spite of the angularity of youth, indicated great strength,
both physical and moral. Though he had only lately joined the Cossacks
at the front, it was evident from the expression of his face and the
calm assurance of his attitude that he had already acquired the
somewhat proud and warlike bearing peculiar to Cossacks and to men
generally who continually carry arms, and that he felt he was a
Cossack and fully knew his own value. His ample Circassian coat was
torn in some places, his cap was on the back of his head Chechen
fashion, and his leggings had slipped below his knees. His clothing
was not rich, but he wore it with that peculiar Cossack foppishness
which consists in imitating the Chechen brave. Everything on a real
brave is ample, ragged, and neglected, only his weapons are costly.
But these ragged clothes and these weapons are belted and worn with a
certain air and matched in a certain manner, neither of which can be
acquired by everybody and which at once strike the eye of a Cossack or
a hillsman. Lukashka had this resemblance to a brave. With his hands
folded under his sword, and his eyes nearly closed, he kept looking
at the distant Tartar village. Taken separately his features were not
beautiful, but anyone who saw his stately carriage and his dark-browed
intelligent face would involuntarily say, 'What a fine fellow!'
'Look at the women, what a lot of them are walking about in the
village,' said he in a sharp voice, languidly showing his brilliant
white teeth and not addressing anyone in particular.
Nazarka who was lying below immediately lifted his head and
'They must be going for water.'
'Supposing one scared them with a gun?' said Lukashka, laughing,
'Wouldn't they be frightened?'
'It wouldn't reach.'
'What! Mine would carry beyond. Just wait a bit, and when their
feast comes round I'll go and visit Girey Khan and drink buza there,'
said Lukashka, angrily swishing away the mosquitoes which attached
themselves to him.
A rustling in the thicket drew the Cossack's attention. A pied
mongrel half-setter, searching for a scent and violently wagging its
scantily furred tail, came running to the cordon. Lukashka recognized
the dog as one belonging to his neighbour, Uncle Eroshka, a hunter,
and saw, following it through the thicket, the approaching figure of
the hunter himself.
Uncle Eroshka was a gigantic Cossack with a broad, snow-white
beard and such broad shoulders and chest that in the wood, where
there was no one to compare him with, he did not look particularly
tall, so well proportioned were his powerful limbs. He wore a
tattered coat and, over the bands with which his legs were swathed,
sandals made of undressed deer's hide tied on with strings; while on
his head he had a rough little white cap. He carried over one shoulder
a screen to hide behind when shooting pheasants, and a bag containing
a hen for luring hawks, and a small falcon; over the other shoulder,
attached by a strap, was a wild cat he had killed; and stuck in his
belt behind were some little bags containing bullets, gunpowder, and
bread, a horse's tail to swish away the mosquitoes, a large dagger in
a torn scabbard smeared with old bloodstains, and two dead pheasants.
Having glanced at the cordon he stopped.
'Hy, Lyam!' he called to the dog in such a ringing bass that it
awoke an echo far away in the wood; and throwing over his shoulder
his big gun, of the kind the Cossacks call a 'flint', he raised his
'Had a good day, good people, eh?' he said, addressing the
Cossacks in the same strong and cheerful voice, quite without effort,
but as loudly as if he were shouting to someone on the other bank of
'Yes, yes. Uncle!' answered from all sides the voices of the young
'What have you seen? Tell us!' shouted Uncle Eroshka, wiping the
sweat from his broad red face with the sleeve of his coat.
'Ah, there's a vulture living in the plane tree here, Uncle. As
soon as night comes he begins hovering round,' said Nazarka, winking
and jerking his shoulder and leg.
'Come, come!' said the old man incredulously.
'Really, Uncle! You must keep watch,' replied Nazarka with a
The other Cossacks began laughing.
The wag had not seen any vulture at all, but it had long been the
custom of the young Cossacks in the cordon to tease and mislead Uncle
Eroshka every time he came to them.
'Eh, you fool, always lying!' exclaimed Lukashka from the tower to
Nazarka was immediately silenced.
'It must be watched. I'll watch,' answered the old man to the
great delight of all the Cossacks. 'But have you seen any boars?'
'Watching for boars, are you?' said the corporal, bending forward
and scratching his back with both hands, very pleased at the chance
of some distraction. 'It's abreks one has to hunt here and not boars!
You've not heard anything, Uncle, have you?' he added, needlessly
screwing up his eyes and showing his close-set white teeth.
'Abreks,' said the old man. 'No, I haven't. I say, have you any
chikhir? Let me have a drink, there's a good man. I'm really quite
done up. When the time comes I'll bring you some fresh meat, I really
will. Give me a drink!' he added.
'Well, and are you going to watch?' inquired the corporal, as
though he had not heard what the other said.
'I did mean to watch tonight,' replied Uncle Eroshka. 'Maybe, with
God's help, I shall kill something for the holiday. Then you shall
have a share, you shall indeed!'
'Uncle! Hallo, Uncle!' called out Lukashka sharply from above,
attracting everybody's attention. All the Cossacks looked up at him.
'Just go to the upper water-course, there's a fine herd of boars
there. I'm not inventing, really! The other day one of our Cossacks
shot one there. I'm telling you the truth,' added he, readjusting the
musket at his back and in a tone that showed he was not joking.
'Ah! Lukashka the Snatcher is here!' said the old man, looking up.
'Where has he been shooting?'
'Haven't you seen? I suppose you're too young!' said Lukashka.
'Close by the ditch,' he went on seriously with a shake of the head.
'We were just going along the ditch when all at once we heard
something crackling, but my gun was in its case. Elias fired suddenly
... But I'll show you the place, it's not far. You just wait a bit. I
know every one of their footpaths ... Daddy Mosev,' said he, turning
resolutely and almost commandingly to the corporal, 'it's time to
relieve guard!' and holding aloft his gun he began to descend from the
watch-tower without waiting for the order.
'Come down!' said the corporal, after Lukashka had started, and
glanced round. 'Is it your turn, Gurka? Then go ... True enough your
Lukashka has become very skilful,' he went on, addressing the old man.
'He keeps going about just like you, he doesn't stay at home. The
other day he killed a boar.'
The sun had already set and the shades of night were rapidly
spreading from the edge of the wood. The Cossacks finished their task
round the cordon and gathered in the hut for supper. Only the old man
still stayed under the plane tree watching for the vulture and pulling
the string tied to the falcon's leg, but though a vulture was really
perching on the plane tree it declined to swoop down on the lure.
Lukashka, singing one song after another, was leisurely placing nets
among the very thickest brambles to trap pheasants. In spite of his
tall stature and big hands every kind of work, both rough and
delicate, prospered under Lukashka's fingers.
'Hallo, Luke!' came Nazarka's shrill, sharp voice calling him from
the thicket close by. 'The Cossacks have gone in to supper.'
Nazarka, with a live pheasant under his arm, forced his way
through the brambles and emerged on the footpath.
'Oh!' said Lukashka, breaking off in his song, 'where did you get
that cock pheasant? I suppose it was in my trap?'
Nazarka was of the same age as Lukashka and had also only been at
the front since the previous spring.
He was plain, thin and puny, with a shrill voice that rang in
one's ears. They were neighbours and comrades. Lukashka was sitting
on the grass crosslegged like a Tartar, adjusting his nets.
'I don't know whose it was—yours, I expect.'
'Was it beyond the pit by the plane tree? Then it is mine! I set
the nets last night.'
Lukashka rose and examined the captured pheasant. After stroking
the dark burnished head of the bird, which rolled its eyes and
stretched out its neck in terror, Lukashka took the pheasant in his
'We'll have it in a pilau tonight. You go and kill and pluck it.'
'And shall we eat it ourselves or give it to the corporal?'
'He has plenty!'
'I don't like killing them,' said Nazarka.
'Give it here!'
Lukashka drew a little knife from under his dagger and gave it a
swift jerk. The bird fluttered, but before it could spread its wings
the bleeding head bent and quivered.
'That's how one should do it!' said Lukashka, throwing down the
pheasant. 'It will make a fat pilau.'
Nazarka shuddered as he looked at the bird.
'I say, Lukashka, that fiend will be sending us to the ambush
again tonight,' he said, taking up the bird. (He was alluding to the
corporal.) 'He has sent Fomushkin to get wine, and it ought to be his
turn. He always puts it on us.'
Lukashka went whistling along the cordon.
'Take the string with you,' he shouted.
'I'll give him a bit of my mind today, I really will,' continued
Nazarka. 'Let's say we won't go; we're tired out and there's an end
of it! No, really, you tell him, he'll listen to you. It's too bad!'
'Get along with you! What a thing to make a fuss about!' said
Lukashka, evidently thinking of something else. 'What bosh! If he
made us turn out of the village at night now, that would be annoying:
there one can have some fun, but here what is there? It's all one
whether we're in the cordon or in ambush. What a fellow you are!'
'And are you going to the village?'
'I'll go for the holidays.'
'Gurka says your Dunayka is carrying on with Fomushkin,' said
'Well, let her go to the devil,' said Lukashka, showing his
regular white teeth, though he did not laugh. 'As if I couldn't find
'Gurka says he went to her house. Her husband was out and there
was Fomushkin sitting and eating pie. Gurka stopped awhile and then
went away, and passing by the window he heard her say, "He's gone, the
fiend.... Why don't you eat your pie, my own? You needn't go home for
the night," she says. And Gurka under the window says to himself,
'You're making it up.'
'No, quite true, by Heaven!'
'Well, if she's found another let her go to the devil,' said
Lukashka, after a pause. 'There's no lack of girls and I was sick of
'Well, see what a devil you are!' said Nazarka. 'You should make
up to the cornet's girl, Maryanka. Why doesn't she walk out with any
Lukashka frowned. 'What of Maryanka? They're all alike,' said he.
'Well, you just try... '
'What do you think? Are girls so scarce in the village?'
And Lukashka recommenced whistling, and went along the cordon
pulling leaves and branches from the bushes as he went. Suddenly,
catching sight of a smooth sapling, he drew the knife from the handle
of his dagger and cut it down. 'What a ramrod it will make,' he said,
swinging the sapling till it whistled through the air.
The Cossacks were sitting round a low Tartar table on the earthen
floor of the clay-plastered outer room of the hut, when the question
of whose turn it was to lie in ambush was raised. 'Who is to go
tonight?' shouted one of the Cossacks through the open door to the
corporal in the next room.
'Who is to go?' the corporal shouted back. 'Uncle Burlak has been
and Fomushkin too,' said he, not quite confidently. 'You two had
better go, you and Nazarka,' he went on, addressing Lukashka. 'And
Ergushov must go too; surely he has slept it off?'
'You don't sleep it off yourself so why should he?' said Nazarka
in a subdued voice.
The Cossacks laughed.
Ergushov was the Cossack who had been lying drunk and asleep near
the hut. He had only that moment staggered into the room rubbing his
Lukashka had already risen and was getting his gun ready.
'Be quick and go! Finish your supper and go!' said the corporal;
and without waiting for an expression of consent he shut the door,
evidently not expecting the Cossack to obey. 'Of course,' thought he,
'if I hadn't been ordered to I wouldn't send anyone, but an officer
might turn up at any moment. As it is, they say eight abreks have
'Well, I suppose I must go,' remarked Ergushov, 'it's the
regulation. Can't be helped! The times are such. I say, we must go.'
Meanwhile Lukashka, holding a big piece of pheasant to his mouth
with both hands and glancing now at Nazarka, now at Ergushov, seemed
quite indifferent to what passed and only laughed at them both. Before
the Cossacks were ready to go into ambush. Uncle Eroshka, who had been
vainly waiting under the plane tree till night fell, entered the dark
'Well, lads,' his loud bass resounded through the low-roofed room
drowning all the other voices, 'I'm going with you. You'll watch for
Chechens and I for boars!'
It was quite dark when Uncle Eroshka and the three Cossacks, in
their cloaks and shouldering their guns, left the cordon and went
towards the place on the Terek where they were to lie in ambush.
Nazarka did not want to go at all, but Lukashka shouted at him and
they soon started. After they had gone a few steps in silence the
Cossacks turned aside from the ditch and went along a path almost
hidden by reeds till they reached the river. On its bank lay a thick
black log cast up by the water. The reeds around it had been recently
'Shall we lie here?' asked Nazarka.
'Why not?' answered Lukashka. 'Sit down here and I'll be back in a
minute. I'll only show Daddy where to go.'
'This is the best place; here we can see and not be seen,' said
Ergushov, 'so it's here we'll lie. It's a first-rate place!'
Nazarka and Ergushov spread out their cloaks and settled down
behind the log, while Lukashka went on with Uncle Eroshka.
'It's not far from here. Daddy,' said Lukashka, stepping softly in
front of the old man; 'I'll show you where they've been—I'm the only
one that knows. Daddy.'
'Show me! You're a fine fellow, a regular Snatcher!' replied the
old man, also whispering.
Having gone a few steps Lukashka stopped, stooped down over a
puddle, and whistled. 'That's where they come to drink, d'you see?'
He spoke in a scarcely audible voice, pointing to fresh hoof-prints.
'Christ bless you,' answered the old man. 'The boar will be in the
hollow beyond the ditch,' he added. Til watch, and you can go.'
Lukashka pulled his cloak up higher and walked back alone,
throwing swift glances now to the left at the wall of reeds, now to
the Terek rushing by below the bank. 'I daresay he's watching or
creeping along somewhere,' thought he of a possible Chechen hillsman.
Suddenly a loud rustling and a splash in the water made him start and
seize his musket. From under the bank a boar leapt up—his dark
outline showing for a moment against the glassy surface of the water
and then disappearing among the reeds. Lukashka pulled out his gun and
aimed, but before he could fire the boar had disappeared in the
thicket. Lukashka spat with vexation and went on. On approaching the
ambuscade he halted again and whistled softly. His whistle was
answered and he stepped up to his comrades.
Nazarka, all curled up, was already asleep. Ergushov sat with his
legs crossed and moved slightly to make room for Lukashka.
'How jolly it is to sit here! It's really a good place,' said he.
'Did you take him there?'
'Showed him where,' answered Lukashka, spreading out his cloak.
'But what a big boar I roused just now close to the water! I expect
it was the very one! You must have heard the crash?'
'I did hear a beast crashing through. I knew at once it was a
beast. I thought to myself: "Lukashka has roused a beast,"' Ergushov
said, wrapping himself up in his cloak. 'Now I'll go to sleep,' he
added. 'Wake me when the cocks crow. We must have discipline. I'll lie
down and have a nap, and then you will have a nap and I'll
watch—that's the way.'
'Luckily I don't want to sleep,' answered Lukashka.
The night was dark, warm, and still. Only on one side of the sky
the stars were shining, the other and greater part was overcast by
one huge cloud stretching from the mountaintops. The black cloud,
blending in the absence of any wind with the mountains, moved slowly
onwards, its curved edges sharply denned against the deep starry sky.
Only in front of him could the Cossack discern the Terek and the
distance beyond. Behind and on both sides he was surrounded by a wall
of reeds. Occasionally the reeds would sway and rustle against one
another apparently without cause. Seen from down below, against the
clear part of the sky, their waving tufts looked like the feathery
branches of trees. Close in front at his very feet was the bank, and
at its base the rushing torrent. A little farther on was the moving
mass of glassy brown water which eddied rhythmically along the bank
and round the shallows. Farther still, water, banks, and cloud all
merged together in impenetrable gloom. Along the surface of the water
floated black shadows, in which the experienced eyes of the Cossack
detected trees carried down by the current. Only very rarely
sheet-lightning, mirrored in the water as in a black glass, disclosed
the sloping bank opposite. The rhythmic sounds of night—the rustling
of the reeds, the snoring of the Cossacks, the hum of mosquitoes, and
the rushing water, were every now and then broken by a shot fired in
the distance, or by the gurgling of water when a piece of bank
slipped down, the splash of a big fish, or the crashing of an animal
breaking through the thick undergrowth in the wood. Once an owl flew
past along the Terek, flapping one wing against the other rhythmically
at every second beat. Just above the Cossack's head it turned towards
the wood and then, striking its wings no longer after every other flap
but at every flap, it flew to an old plane tree where it rustled about
for a long time before settling down among the branches. At every one
of these unexpected sounds the watching Cossack listened intently,
straining his hearing, and screwing up his eyes while he deliberately
felt for his musket.
The greater part of the night was past. The black cloud that had
moved westward revealed the clear starry sky from under its torn
edge, and the golden upturned crescent of the moon shone above the
mountains with a reddish light. The cold began to be penetrating.
Nazarka awoke, spoke a little, and fell asleep again. Lukashka
feeling bored got up, drew the knife from his dagger-handle and began
to fashion his stick into a ramrod. His head was full of the Chechens
who lived over there in the mountains, and of how their brave lads
came across and were not afraid of the Cossacks, and might even now be
crossing the river at some other spot. He thrust himself out of his
hiding-place and looked along the river but could see nothing. And as
he continued looking out at intervals upon the river and at the
opposite bank, now dimly distinguishable from the water in the faint
moonlight, he no longer thought about the Chechens but only of when it
would be time to wake his comrades, and of going home to the village.
In the village he imagined Dunayka, his 'little soul', as the Cossacks
call a man's mistress, and thought of her with vexation. Silvery
mists, a sign of coming morning, glittered white above the water, and
not far from him young eagles were whistling and flapping their wings.
At last the crowing of a cock reached him from the distant village,
followed by the long-sustained note of another, which was again
answered by yet other voices.
'Time to wake them,' thought Lukashka, who had finished his ramrod
and felt his eyes growing heavy. Turning to his comrades he managed
to make out which pair of legs belonged to whom, when it suddenly
seemed to him that he heard something splash on the other side of the
Terek. He turned again towards the horizon beyond the hills, where day
was breaking under the upturned crescent, glanced at the outline of
the opposite bank, at the Terek, and at the now distinctly visible
driftwood upon it. For one instant it seemed to him that he was moving
and that the Terek with the drifting wood remained stationary. Again
he peered out. One large black log with a branch particularly
attracted his attention. The tree was floating in a strange way right
down the middle of the stream, neither rocking nor whirling. It even
appeared not to be floating altogether with the current, but to be
crossing it in the direction of the shallows. Lukashka stretching out
his neck watched it intently. The tree floated to the shallows,
stopped, and shifted in a peculiar manner. Lukashka thought he saw an
arm stretched out from beneath the tree. 'Supposing I killed an abrek
all by myself!' he thought, and seized his gun with a swift,
unhurried movement, putting up his gun-rest, placing the gun upon it,
and holding it noiselessly in position. Cocking the trigger, with
bated breath he took aim, still peering out intently. 'I won't wake
them,' he thought. But his heart began beating so fast that he
remained motionless, listening. Suddenly the trunk gave a plunge and
again began to float across the stream towards our bank. 'Only not to
miss ...' thought he, and now by the faint light of the moon he caught
a glimpse of a Tartar's head in front of the floating wood. He aimed
straight at the head which appeared to be quite near—just at the end
of his rifle's barrel. He glanced cross. 'Right enough it is an abrek!
he thought joyfully, and suddenly rising to his knees he again took
aim. Having found the sight, barely visible at the end of the long
gun, he said: 'In the name of the Father and of the Son,' in the
Cossack way learnt in his childhood, and pulled the trigger. A flash
of lightning lit up for an instant the reeds and the water, and the
sharp, abrupt report of the shot was carried across the river,
changing into a prolonged roll somewhere in the far distance. The
piece of driftwood now floated not across, but with the current,
rocking and whirling.
'Stop, I say!' exclaimed Ergushov, seizing his musket and raising
himself behind the log near which he was lying.
'Shut up, you devil!' whispered Lukashka, grinding his teeth.
'Whom have you shot?' asked Nazarka. 'Who was it, Lukashka?'
Lukashka did not answer. He was reloading his gun and watching the
floating wood. A little way off it stopped on a sand-bank, and from
behind it something large that rocked in the water came into view.
'What did you shoot? Why don't you speak?' insisted the Cossacks.
'Abreks, I tell you!' said Lukashka.
'Don't humbug! Did the gun go off? ...'
'I've killed an abrek, that's what I fired at,' muttered Lukashka
in a voice choked by emotion, as he jumped to his feet. 'A man was
swimming...' he said, pointing to the sandbank. 'I killed him. Just
'Have done with your humbugging!' said Ergushov again, rubbing his
'Have done with what? Look there,' said Lukashka, seizing him by
the shoulders and pulling him with such force that Ergushov groaned.
He looked in the direction in which Lukashka pointed, and
discerning a body immediately changed his tone.
'O Lord! But I say, more will come! I tell you the truth,' said he
softly, and began examining his musket. 'That was a scout swimming
across: either the others are here already or are not far off on the
other side—I tell you for sure!' Lukashka was unfastening his belt
and taking off his Circassian coat.
'What are you up to, you idiot?' exclaimed Ergushov. 'Only show
yourself and you've lost all for nothing, I tell you true! If you've
killed him he won't escape. Let me have a little powder for my
musket-pan—you have some? Nazarka, you go back to the cordon and look
alive; but don't go along the bank or you'll be killed—I tell you
'Catch me going alone! Go yourself!' said Nazarka angrily.
Having taken off his coat, Lukashka went down to the bank.
'Don't go in, I tell you!' said Ergushov, putting some powder on
the pan. 'Look, he's not moving. I can see. It's nearly morning; wait
till they come from the cordon. You go, Nazarka. You're afraid! Don't
be afraid, I tell you.'
'Luke, I say, Lukashka! Tell us how you did it!' said Nazarka.
Lukashka changed his mind about going into the water just then.
'Go quick to the cordon and I will watch. Tell the Cossacks to send
out the patrol. If the ABREKS are on this side they must be caught,'
'That's what I say. They'll get off,' said Ergushov, rising.
'True, they must be caught!'
Ergushov and Nazarka rose and, crossing themselves, started off
for the cordon—not along the riverbank but breaking their way
through the brambles to reach a path in the wood.
'Now mind, Lukashka—they may cut you down here, so you'd best
keep a sharp look-out, I tell you!'
'Go along; I know,' muttered Lukashka; and having examined his gun
again he sat down behind the log.
He remained alone and sat gazing at the shallows and listening for
the Cossacks; but it was some distance to the cordon and he was
tormented by impatience. He kept thinking that the other ABREKS who
were with the one he had killed would escape. He was vexed with the
ABREKS who were going to escape just as he had been with the boar that
had escaped the evening before. He glanced round and at the opposite
bank, expecting every moment to see a man, and having arranged his
gun-rest he was ready to fire. The idea that he might himself be
killed never entered his head.
It was growing light. The Chechen's body which was gently rocking
in the shallow water was now clearly visible. Suddenly the reeds
rustled not far from Luke and he heard steps and saw the feathery
tops of the reeds moving. He set his gun at full cock and muttered:
'In the name of the Father and of the Son,' but when the cock clicked
the sound of steps ceased.
'Hallo, Cossacks! Don't kill your Daddy!' said a deep bass voice
calmly; and moving the reeds apart Daddy Eroshka came up close to
'I very nearly killed you, by God I did!' said Lukashka.
'What have you shot?' asked the old man.
His sonorous voice resounded through the wood and downward along
the river, suddenly dispelling the mysterious quiet of night around
the Cossack. It was as if everything had suddenly become lighter and
'There now. Uncle, you have not seen anything, but I've killed a
beast,' said Lukashka, uncocking his gun and getting up with
The old man was staring intently at the white back, now clearly
visible, against which the Terek rippled.
'He was swimming with a log on his back. I spied him out! ... Look
there. There! He's got blue trousers, and a gun I think.... Do you
see?' inquired Luke.
'How can one help seeing?' said the old man angrily, and a serious
and stern expression appeared on his face. 'You've killed a brave,' he
said, apparently with regret.
'Well, I sat here and suddenly saw something dark on the other
side. I spied him when he was still over there. It was as if a man
had come there and fallen in. Strange! And a piece of driftwood, a
good-sized piece, comes floating, not with the stream but across it;
and what do I see but a head appearing from under it! Strange! I
stretched out of the reeds but could see nothing; then I rose and he
must have heard, the beast, and crept out into the shallow and looked
about. "No, you don't!" I said, as soon as he landed and looked round,
"you won't get away!" Oh, there was something choking me! I got my gun
ready but did not stir, and looked out. He waited a little and then
swam out again; and when he came into the moonlight I could see his
whole back. "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy
Ghost"... and through the smoke I see him struggling. He moaned, or so
it seemed to me. "Ah," I thought, "the Lord be thanked, I've killed
him!" And when he drifted onto the sand-bank I could see him
distinctly: he tried to get up but couldn't. He struggled a bit and
then lay down. Everything could be seen. Look, he does not move—he
must be dead! The Cossacks have gone back to the cordon in case there
should be any more of them.'
'And so you got him!' said the old man. 'He is far away now, my
lad! ...' And again he shook his head sadly.
Just then the sound reached them of breaking bushes and the loud
voices of Cossacks approaching along the bank on horseback and on
foot. 'Are you bringing the skiff?' shouted Lukashka.
'You're a trump, Luke! Lug it to the bank!' shouted one of the
Without waiting for the skiff Lukashka began to undress, keeping
an eye all the while on his prey.
'Wait a bit, Nazarka is bringing the skiff,' shouted the corporal.
'You fool! Maybe he is alive and only pretending! Take your dagger
with you!' shouted another Cossack.
'Get along,' cried Luke, pulling off his trousers. He quickly
undressed and, crossing himself, jumped, plunging with a splash into
the river. Then with long strokes of his white arms, lifting his back
high out of the water and breathing deeply, he swam across the current
of the Terek towards the shallows. A crowd of Cossacks stood on the
bank talking loudly. Three horsemen rode off to patrol. The skiff
appeared round a bend. Lukashka stood up on the sandbank, leaned over
the body, and gave it a couple of shakes.
'Quite dead!' he shouted in a shrill voice.
The Chechen had been shot in the head. He had on a pair of blue
trousers, a shirt, and a Circassian coat, and a gun and dagger were
tied to his back. Above all these a large branch was tied, and it was
this which at first had misled Lukashka.
'What a carp you've landed!' cried one of the Cossacks who had
assembled in a circle, as the body, lifted out of the skiff, was laid
on the bank, pressing down the grass.
'How yellow he is!' said another.
'Where have our fellows gone to search? I expect the rest of them
are on the other bank. If this one had not been a scout he would not
have swum that way. Why else should he swim alone?' said a third.
'Must have been a smart one to offer himself before the others; a
regular brave!' said Lukashka mockingly, shivering as he wrung out
his clothes that had got wet on the bank.
'His beard is dyed and cropped.'
'And he has tied a bag with a coat in it to his back.'
'That would make it easier for him to swim,' said some one.
'I say, Lukashka,' said the corporal, who was holding the dagger
and gun taken from the dead man. 'Keep the dagger for yourself and
the coat too; but I'll give you three rubles for the gun. You see it
has a hole in it,' said he, blowing into the muzzle. 'I want it just
for a souvenir.'
Lukashka did not answer. Evidently this sort of begging vexed him
but he knew it could not be avoided.
'See, what a devil!' said he, frowning and throwing down the
Chechen's coat. 'If at least it were a good coat, but it's a mere
'It'll do to fetch firewood in,' said one of the Cossacks.
'Mosev, I'll go home,' said Lukashka, evidently forgetting his
vexation and wishing to get some advantage out of having to give a
present to his superior.
'All right, you may go!'
'Take the body beyond the cordon, lads,' said the corporal, still
examining the gun, 'and put a shelter over him from the sun. Perhaps
they'll send from the mountains to ransom it.'
'It isn't hot yet,' said someone.
'And supposing a jackal tears him? Would that be well?' remarked
'We'll set a watch; if they should come to ransom him it won't do
for him to have been torn.'
'Well, Lukashka, whatever you do you must stand a pail of vodka
for the lads,' said the corporal gaily.
'Of course! That's the custom,' chimed in the Cossacks. 'See what
luck God has sent you! Without ever having seen anything of the kind
before, you've killed a brave!'
'Buy the dagger and coat and don't be stingy, and I'll let you
have the trousers too,' said Lukashka. 'They're too tight for me; he
was a thin devil.'
One Cossack bought the coat for a ruble and another gave the price
of two pails of vodka for the dagger.
'Drink, lads! I'll stand you a pail!' said Luke. 'I'll bring it
myself from the village.'
'And cut up the trousers into kerchiefs for the girls!' said
The Cossacks burst out laughing.
'Have done laughing!' said the corporal. 'And take the body away.
Why have you put the nasty thing by the hut?'
'What are you standing there for? Haul him along, lads!' shouted
Lukashka in a commanding voice to the Cossacks, who reluctantly took
hold of the body, obeying him as though he were their chief. After
dragging the body along for a few steps the Cossacks let fall the
legs, which dropped with a lifeless jerk, and stepping apart they then
stood silent for a few moments. Nazarka came up and straightened the
head, which was turned to one side so that the round wound above the
temple and the whole of the dead man's face were visible. 'See what a
mark he has made right in the brain,' he said. 'He won't get lost. His
owners will always know him!' No one answered, and again the Angel of
Silence flew over the Cossacks.
The sun had risen high and its diverging beams were lighting up
the dewy grass. Near by, the Terek murmured in the awakened wood and,
greeting the morning, the pheasants called to one another. The
Cossacks stood still and silent around the dead man, gazing at him.
The brown body, with nothing on but the wet blue trousers held by a
girdle over the sunken stomach, was well shaped and handsome. The
muscular arms lay stretched straight out by his sides; the blue,
freshly shaven, round head with the clotted wound on one side of it
was thrown back. The smooth tanned forehead contrasted sharply with
the shaven part of the head. The open glassy eyes with lowered pupils
stared upwards, seeming to gaze past everything. Under the red trimmed
moustache the fine lips, drawn at the corners, seemed stiffened into a
smile of good- natured subtle raillery. The fingers of the small hands
covered with red hairs were bent inward, and the nails were dyed red.
Lukashka had not yet dressed. He was wet. His neck was redder and
his eyes brighter than usual, his broad jaws twitched, and from his
healthy body a hardly perceptible steam rose in the fresh morning air.
'He too was a man!' he muttered, evidently admiring the corpse.
'Yes, if you had fallen into his hands you would have had short
shrift,' said one of the Cossacks.
The Angel of Silence had taken wing. The Cossacks began bustling
about and talking. Two of them went to cut brushwood for a shelter,
others strolled towards the cordon. Luke and Nazarka ran to get ready
to go to the village.
Half an hour later they were both on their way homewards, talking
incessantly and almost running through the dense woods which
separated the Terek from the village.
'Mind, don't tell her I sent you, but just go and find out if her
husband is at home,' Luke was saying in his shrill voice.
'And I'll go round to Yamka too,' said the devoted Nazarka. 'We'll
have a spree, shall we?'
'When should we have one if not to-day?' replied Luke.
When they reached the village the two Cossacks drank, and lay down
to sleep till evening.
On the third day after the events above described, two companies
of a Caucasian infantry regiment arrived at the Cossack village of
Novomlinsk. The horses had been unharnessed and the companies' wagons
were standing in the square. The cooks had dug a pit, and with logs
gathered from various yards (where they had not been sufficiently
securely stored) were now cooking the food; the pay- sergeants were
settling accounts with the soldiers. The Service Corps men were
driving piles in the ground to which to tie the horses, and the
quartermasters were going about the streets just as if they were at
home, showing officers and men to their quarters. Here were green
ammunition boxes in a line, the company's carts, horses, and cauldrons
in which buckwheat porridge was being cooked. Here were the captain
and the lieutenant and the sergeant-major, Onisim Mikhaylovich, and
all this was in the Cossack village where it was reported that the
companies were ordered to take up their quarters: therefore they were
at home here. But why they were stationed there, who the Cossacks
were, and whether they wanted the troops to be there, and whether they
were Old Believers or not—was all quite immaterial. Having received
their pay and been dismissed, tired out and covered with dust, the
soldiers noisily and in disorder, like a swarm of bees about to
settle, spread over the squares and streets; quite regardless of the
Cossacks' ill will, chattering merrily and with their muskets
clinking, by twos and threes they entered the huts and hung up their
accoutrements, unpacked their bags, and bantered the women. At their
favourite spot, round the porridge-cauldrons, a large group of
soldiers assembled and with little pipes between their teeth they
gazed, now at the smoke which rose into the hot sky, becoming visible
when it thickened into white clouds as it rose, and now at the camp
fires which were quivering in the pure air like molten glass, and
bantered and made fun of the Cossack men and women because they do not
live at all like Russians. In all the yards one could see soldiers and
hear their laughter and the exasperated and shrill cries of Cossack
women defending their houses and refusing to give the soldiers water
or cooking utensils. Little boys and girls, clinging to their mothers
and to each other, followed all the movements of the troopers (never
before seen by them) with frightened curiosity, or ran after them at
a respectful distance. The old Cossacks came out silently and dismally
and sat on the earthen embankments of their huts, and watched the
soldiers' activity with an air of leaving it all to the will of God
without understanding what would come of it.
Olenin, who had joined the Caucasian Army as a cadet three months
before, was quartered in one of the best houses in the village, the
house of the cornet, Elias Vasilich—that is to say at Granny
'Goodness knows what it will be like, Dmitri Andreich,' said the
panting Vanyusha to Olenin, who, dressed in a Circassian coat and
mounted on a Kabarda horse which he had bought in Groznoe, was after
a five-hours' march gaily entering the yard of the quarters assigned
'Why, what's the matter?' he asked, caressing his horse and
looking merrily at the perspiring, dishevelled, and worried Vanyusha,
who had arrived with the baggage wagons and was unpacking.
Olenin looked quite a different man. In place of his clean-shaven
lips and chin he had a youthful moustache and a small beard. Instead
of a sallow complexion, the result of nights turned into day, his
cheeks, his forehead, and the skin behind his ears were now red with
healthy sunburn. In place of a clean new black suit he wore a dirty
white Circassian coat with a deeply pleated skirt, and he bore arms.
Instead of a freshly starched collar, his neck was tightly clasped by
the red band of his silk BESHMET. He wore Circassian dress but did not
wear it well, and anyone would have known him for a Russian and not a
Tartar brave. It was the thing— but not the real thing. But for all
that, his whole person breathed health, joy, and satisfaction.
'Yes, it seems funny to you,' said Vanyusha, 'but just try to talk
to these people yourself: they set themselves against one and there's
an end of it. You can't get as much as a word out of them.' Vanyusha
angrily threw down a pail on the threshold. 'Somehow they don't seem
'You should speak to the Chief of the Village!'
'But I don't know where he lives,' said Vanyusha in an offended
'Who has upset you so?' asked Olenin, looking round.
'The devil only knows. Faugh! There is no real master here. They
say he has gone to some kind of KRIGA, and the old woman is a real
devil. God preserve us!' answered Vanyusha, putting his hands to his
head. 'How we shall live here I don't know. They are worse than
Tartars, I do declare—though they consider themselves Christians! A
Tartar is bad enough, but all the same he is more noble. Gone to the
KRIGA indeed! What this KRIGA they have invented is, I don't know!'
concluded Vanyusha, and turned aside.
'It's not as it is in the serfs' quarters at home, eh?' chaffed
Olenin without dismounting.
'Please sir, may I have your horse?' said Vanyusha, evidently
perplexed by this new order of things but resigning himself to his
'So a Tartar is more noble, eh, Vanyusha?' repeated Olenin,
dismounting and slapping the saddle.
'Yes, you're laughing! You think it funny,' muttered Vanyusha
'Come, don't be angry, Vanyusha,' replied Olenin, still smiling.
'Wait a minute, I'll go and speak to the people of the house; you'll
see I shall arrange everything. You don't know what a jolly life we
shall have here. Only don't get upset.'
Vanyusha did not answer. Screwing up his eyes he looked
contemptuously after his master, and shook his head. Vanyusha
regarded Olenin as only his master, and Olenin regarded Vanyusha as
only his servant; and they would both have been much surprised if
anyone had told them that they were friends, as they really were
without knowing it themselves. Vanyusha had been taken into his
proprietor's house when he was only eleven and when Olenin was the
same age. When Olenin was fifteen he gave Vanyusha lessons for a time
and taught him to read French, of which the latter was inordinately
proud; and when in specially good spirits he still let off French
words, always laughing stupidly when he did so.
Olenin ran up the steps of the porch and pushed open the door of
the hut. Maryanka, wearing nothing but a pink smock, as all Cossack
women do in the house, jumped away from the door, frightened, and
pressing herself against the wall covered the lower part other face
with the broad sleeve of her Tartar smock. Having opened the door
wider, Olenin in the semi-darkness of the passage saw the whole tall,
shapely figure of the young Cossack girl. With the quick and eager
curiosity of youth he involuntarily noticed the firm maidenly form
revealed by the fine print smock, and the beautiful black eyes fixed
on him with childlike terror and wild curiosity. 'This is SHE,'
thought Olenin. 'But there will be many others like her' came at once
into his head, and he opened the inner door. Old Granny Ulitka, also
dressed only in a smock, was stooping with her back turned to him,
sweeping the floor.
'Good-day to you. Mother! I've come about my lodgings,' he began.
The Cossack woman, without unbending, turned her severe but still
handsome face towards him.
'What have you come here for? Want to mock at us, eh? I'll teach
you to mock; may the black plague seize you!' she shouted, looking
askance from under her frowning brow at the new-comer.
Olenin had at first imagined that the way-worn, gallant Caucasian
Army (of which he was a member) would be everywhere received
joyfully, and especially by the Cossacks, our comrades in the war;
and he therefore felt perplexed by this reception. Without losing
presence of mind however he tried to explain that he meant to pay for
his lodgings, but the old woman would not give him a hearing.
'What have you come for? Who wants a pest like you, with your
scraped face? You just wait a bit; when the master returns he'll show
you your place. I don't want your dirty money! A likely thing—just as
if we had never seen any! You'll stink the house out with your beastly
tobacco and want to put it right with money! Think we've never seen a
pest! May you be shot in your bowels and your heart!' shrieked the old
woman in a piercing voice, interrupting Olenin.
'It seems Vanyusha was right!' thought Olenin. "A Tartar would be
nobler",' and followed by Granny Ulitka's abuse he went out of the
hut. As he was leaving, Maryanka, still wearing only her pink smock,
but with her forehead covered down to her eyes by a white kerchief,
suddenly slipped out from the passage past him. Pattering rapidly down
the steps with her bare feet she ran from the porch, stopped, and
looking round hastily with laughing eyes at the young man, vanished
round the corner of the hut.
Her firm youthful step, the untamed look of the eyes glistening
from under the white kerchief, and the firm stately build of the
young beauty, struck Olenin even more powerfully than before. 'Yes,
it must be SHE,' he thought, and troubling his head still less about
the lodgings, he kept looking round at Maryanka as he approached
'There you see, the girl too is quite savage, just like a wild
filly!' said Vanyusha, who though still busy with the luggage wagon
had now cheered up a bit. 'LA FAME!' he added in a loud triumphant
voice and burst out laughing.
Towards evening the master of the house returned from his fishing,
and having learnt that the cadet would pay for the lodging, pacified
the old woman and satisfied Vanyusha's demands.
Everything was arranged in the new quarters. Their hosts moved
into the winter hut and let their summer hut to the cadet for three
rubles a month. Olenin had something to eat and went to sleep. Towards
evening he woke up, washed and made himself tidy, dined, and having
lit a cigarette sat down by the window that looked onto the street. It
was cooler. The slanting shadow of the hut with its ornamental gables
fell across the dusty road and even bent upwards at the base of the
wall of the house opposite. The steep reed-thatched roof of that house
shone in the rays of the setting sun. The air grew fresher. Everything
was peaceful in the village. The soldiers had settled down and become
quiet. The herds had not yet been driven home and the people had not
returned from their work.
Olenin's lodging was situated almost at the end of the village. At
rare intervals, from somewhere far beyond the Terek in those parts
whence Olenin had just come (the Chechen or the Kumytsk plain), came
muffled sounds of firing. Olenin was feeling very well contented after
three months of bivouac life. His newly washed face was fresh and his
powerful body clean (an unaccustomed sensation after the campaign) and
in all his rested limbs he was conscious of a feeling of tranquillity
and strength. His mind, too, felt fresh and clear. He thought of the
campaign and of past dangers. He remembered that he had faced them no
worse than other men, and that he was accepted as a comrade among
valiant Caucasians. His Moscow recollections were left behind Heaven
knows how far! The old life was wiped out and a quite new life had
begun in which there were as yet no mistakes. Here as a new man among
new men he could gain a new and good reputation. He was conscious of
a youthful and unreasoning joy of life. Looking now out of the window
at the boys spinning their tops in the shadow of the house, now round
his neat new lodging, he thought how pleasantly he would settle down
to this new Cossack village life. Now and then he glanced at the
mountains and the blue sky, and an appreciation of the solemn grandeur
of nature mingled with his reminiscences and dreams. His new life had
begun, not as he imagined it would when he left Moscow, but
unexpectedly well. 'The mountains, the mountains, the mountains!' they
permeated all his thoughts and feelings.
'He's kissed his dog and licked the jug! ... Daddy Eroshka has
kissed his dog!' suddenly the little Cossacks who had been spinning
their tops under the window shouted, looking towards the side street.
'He's drunk his bitch, and his dagger!' shouted the boys, crowding
together and stepping backwards.
These shouts were addressed to Daddy Eroshka, who with his gun on
his shoulder and some pheasants hanging at his girdle was returning
from his shooting expedition.
'I have done wrong, lads, I have!' he said, vigorously swinging
his arms and looking up at the windows on both sides of the street.
'I have drunk the bitch; it was wrong,' he repeated, evidently vexed
but pretending not to care.
Olenin was surprised by the boys' behavior towards the old hunter,
but was still more struck by the expressive, intelligent face and the
powerful build of the man whom they called Daddy Eroshka.
'Here Daddy, here Cossack!' he called. 'Come here!'
The old man looked into the window and stopped.
'Good evening, good man,' he said, lifting his little cap off his
'Good evening, good man,' replied Olenin. 'What is it the
youngsters are shouting at you?'
Daddy Eroshka came up to the window. 'Why, they're teasing the old
man. No matter, I like it. Let them joke about their old daddy,' he
said with those firm musical intonations with which old and venerable
people speak. 'Are you an army commander?' he added.
'No, I am a cadet. But where did you kill those pheasants?' asked
'I dispatched these three hens in the forest,' answered the old
man, turning his broad back towards the window to show the hen
pheasants which were hanging with their heads tucked into his belt
and staining his coat with blood. 'Haven't you seen any?' he asked.
'Take a brace if you like! Here you are,' and he handed two of the
pheasants in at the window. 'Are you a sportsman yourself?' he asked.
'I am. During the campaign I killed four myself.'
'Four? What a lot!' said the old man sarcastically. 'And are you a
drinker? Do you drink CHIKHIR?'
'Why not? I like a drink.'
'Ah, I see you are a trump! We shall be KUNAKS, you and I,' said
'Step in,' said Olenin. 'We'll have a drop of CHIKHIR.'
'I might as well,' said the old man, 'but take the pheasants.' The
old man's face showed that he liked the cadet. He had seen at once
that he could get free drinks from him, and that therefore it would
be all right to give him a brace of pheasants.
Soon Daddy Eroshka's figure appeared in the doorway of the hut,
and it was only then that Olenin became fully conscious of the
enormous size and sturdy build of this man, whose red-brown face with
its perfectly white broad beard was all furrowed by deep lines
produced by age and toil. For an old man, the muscles of his legs,
arms, and shoulders were quite exceptionally large and prominent.
There were deep scars on his head under the short- cropped hair. His
thick sinewy neck was covered with deep intersecting folds like a
bull's. His horny hands were bruised and scratched. He stepped lightly
and easily over the threshold, unslung his gun and placed it in a
corner, and casting a rapid glance round the room noted the value of
the goods and chattels deposited in the hut, and with out-turned toes
stepped softly, in his sandals of raw hide, into the middle of the
room. He brought with him a penetrating but not unpleasant smell of
CHIKHIR wine, vodka, gunpowder, and congealed blood.
Daddy Eroshka bowed down before the icons, smoothed his beard, and
approaching Olenin held out his thick brown hand. 'Koshkildy,' said
he; That is Tartar for "Good-day"—"Peace be unto you," it means in
'Koshkildy, I know,' answered Olenin, shaking hands.
'Eh, but you don't, you won't know the right order! Fool!' said
Daddy Eroshka, shaking his head reproachfully. 'If anyone says
"Koshkildy" to you, you must say "Allah rasi bo sun," that is, "God
save you." That's the way, my dear fellow, and not "Koshkildy." But
I'll teach you all about it. We had a fellow here, Elias Mosevich, one
of your Russians, he and I were kunaks. He was a trump, a drunkard, a
thief, a sportsman—and what a sportsman! I taught him everything.'
'And what will you teach me?' asked Olenin, who was becoming more
and more interested in the old man.
'I'll take you hunting and teach you to fish. I'll show you
Chechens and find a girl for you, if you like—even that! That's the
sort I am! I'm a wag!'—and the old man laughed. 'I'll sit down. I'm
tired. Karga?' he added inquiringly.
'And what does "Karga" mean?' asked Olenin.
'Why, that means "All right" in Georgian. But I say it just so. It
is a way I have, it's my favourite word. Karga, Karga. I say it just
so; in fun I mean. Well, lad, won't you order the chikhir? You've got
an orderly, haven't you? Hey, Ivan!' shouted the old man. 'All your
soldiers are Ivans. Is yours Ivan?'
'True enough, his name is Ivan—Vanyusha. Here Vanyusha! Please
get some chikhir from our landlady and bring it here.'
'Ivan or Vanyusha, that's all one. Why are all your soldiers
Ivans? Ivan, old fellow,' said the old man, 'you tell them to give
you some from the barrel they have begun. They have the best chikhir
in the village. But don't give more than thirty kopeks for the quart,
mind, because that witch would be only too glad.... Our people are
anathema people; stupid people,' Daddy Eroshka continued in a
confidential tone after Vanyusha had gone out. 'They do not look upon
you as on men, you are worse than a Tartar in their eyes. "Worldly
Russians" they say. But as for me, though you are a soldier you are
still a man, and have a soul in you. Isn't that right? Elias Mosevich
was a soldier, yet what a treasure of a man he was! Isn't that so, my
dear fellow? That's why our people don't like me; but I don't care!
I'm a merry fellow, and I like everybody. I'm Eroshka; yes, my dear
And the old Cossack patted the young man affectionately on the
Vanyusha, who meanwhile had finished his housekeeping arrangements
and had even been shaved by the company's barber and had pulled his
trousers out of his high boots as a sign that the company was
stationed in comfortable quarters, was in excellent spirits. He
looked attentively but not benevolently at Eroshka, as at a wild
beast he had never seen before, shook his head at the floor which the
old man had dirtied and, having taken two bottles from under a bench,
went to the landlady.
'Good evening, kind people,' he said, having made up his mind to
be very gentle. 'My master has sent me to get some chikhir. Will you
draw some for me, good folk?'
The old woman gave no answer. The girl, who was arranging the
kerchief on her head before a little Tartar mirror, looked round at
Vanyusha in silence.
'I'll pay money for it, honoured people,' said Vanyusha, jingling
the coppers in his pocket. 'Be kind to us and we, too will be kind to
you,' he added.
'How much?' asked the old woman abruptly. 'A quart.'
'Go, my own, draw some for them,' said Granny Ulitka to her
daughter. 'Take it from the cask that's begun, my precious.'
The girl took the keys and a decanter and went out of the hut with
'Tell me, who is that young woman?' asked Olenin, pointing to
Maryanka, who was passing the window. The old man winked and nudged
the young man with his elbow.
'Wait a bit,' said he and reached out of the window. 'Khm,' he
coughed, and bellowed, 'Maryanka dear. Hallo, Maryanka, my girlie,
won't you love me, darling? I'm a wag,' he added in a whisper to
Olenin. The girl, not turning her head and swinging her arms
regularly and vigorously, passed the window with the peculiarly smart
and bold gait of a Cossack woman and only turned her dark shaded eyes
slowly towards the old man.
'Love me and you'll be happy,' shouted Eroshka, winking, and he
looked questioningly at the cadet.
'I'm a fine fellow, I'm a wag!' he added. 'She's a regular queen,
that girl. Eh?'
'She is lovely,' said Olenin. 'Call her here!'
'No, no,' said the old man. 'For that one a match is being
arranged with Lukashka, Luke, a fine Cossack, a brave, who killed an
abrek the other day. I'll find you a better one. I'll find you one
that will be all dressed up in silk and silver. Once I've said it I'll
do it. I'll get you a regular beauty!'
'You, an old man—and say such things,' replied Olenin. 'Why, it's
'A sin? Where's the sin?' said the old man emphatically. 'A sin to
look at a nice girl? A sin to have some fun with her? Or is it a sin
to love her? Is that so in your parts? ... No, my dear fellow, it's
not a sin, it's salvation! God made you and God made the girl too. He
made it all; so it is no sin to look at a nice girl. That's what she
was made for; to be loved and to give joy. That's how I judge it, my
Having crossed the yard and entered a cool dark storeroom filled
with barrels, Maryanka went up to one of them and repeating the usual
prayer plunged a dipper into it. Vanyusha standing in the doorway
smiled as he looked at her. He thought it very funny that she had only
a smock on, close-fitting behind and tucked up in front, and still
funnier that she wore a necklace of silver coins. He thought this
quite un-Russian and that they would all laugh in the serfs' quarters
at home if they saw a girl like that. 'La fille comme c'est tres bien,
for a change,' he thought. 'I'll tell that to my master.'
'What are you standing in the light for, you devil!' the girl
suddenly shouted. 'Why don't you pass me the decanter!'
Having filled the decanter with cool red wine, Maryanka handed it
'Give the money to Mother,' she said, pushing away the hand in
which he held the money.
'Why are you so cross, little dear?' he said good-naturedly,
irresolutely shuffling with his feet while the girl was covering the
She began to laugh.
'And you! Are you kind?'
'We, my master and I, are very kind,' Vanyusha answered decidedly.
'We are so kind that wherever we have stayed our hosts were always
very grateful. It's because he's generous.'
The girl stood listening.
'And is your master married?' she asked.
'No. The master is young and unmarried, because noble gentlemen
can never marry young,' said Vanyusha didactically.
'A likely thing! See what a fed-up buffalo he is—and too young to
marry! Is he the chief of you all?' she asked.
'My master is a cadet; that means he's not yet an officer, but
he's more important than a general—he's an important man! Because
not only our colonel, but the Tsar himself, knows him,' proudly
explained Vanyusha. 'We are not like those other beggars in the line
regiment, and our papa himself was a Senator. He had more than a
thousand serfs, all his own, and they send us a thousand rubles at a
time. That's why everyone likes us. Another may be a captain but have
no money. What's the use of that?'
'Go away. I'll lock up,' said the girl, interrupting him.
Vanyusha brought Olenin the wine and announced that 'La fille
c'est tres joulie,' and, laughing stupidly, at once went out.
Meanwhile the tattoo had sounded in the village square. The people
had returned from their work. The herd lowed as in clouds of golden
dust it crowded at the village gate. The girls and the women hurried
through the streets and yards, turning in their cattle. The sun had
quite hidden itself behind the distant snowy peaks. One pale bluish
shadow spread over land and sky. Above the darkened gardens stars just
discernible were kindling, and the sounds were gradually hushed in the
village. The cattle having been attended to and left for the night,
the women came out and gathered at the corners of the streets and,
cracking sunflower seeds with their teeth, settled down on the earthen
embankments of the houses. Later on Maryanka, having finished milking
the buffalo and the other two cows, also joined one of these groups.
The group consisted of several women and girls and one old Cossack
They were talking about the abrek who had been killed.
The Cossack was narrating and the women questioning him.
'I expect he'll get a handsome reward,' said one of the women.
'Of course. It's said that they'll send him a cross.'
'Mosev did try to wrong him. Took the gun away from him, but the
authorities at Kizlyar heard of it.'
'A mean creature that Mosev is!'
'They say Lukashka has come home,' remarked one of the girls.
'He and Nazarka are merry-making at Yamka's.' (Yamka was an
unmarried, disreputable Cossack woman who kept an illicit pot-
house.) 'I heard say they had drunk half a pailful.'
'What luck that Snatcher has,' somebody remarked. 'A real
snatcher. But there's no denying he's a fine lad, smart enough for
anything, a right-minded lad! His father was just such another. Daddy
Kiryak was: he takes after his father. When he was killed the whole
village howled. Look, there they are,' added the speaker, pointing to
the Cossacks who were coming down the street towards them.
'And Ergushov has managed to come along with them too! The
Lukashka, Nazarka, and Ergushov, having emptied half a pail of
vodka, were coming towards the girls. The faces of all three, but
especially that of the old Cossack, were redder than usual. Ergushov
was reeling and kept laughing and nudging Nazarka in the ribs.
'Why are you not singing?' he shouted to the girls. 'Sing to our
merry-making, I tell you!'
They were welcomed with the words, 'Had a good day? Had a good
'Why sing? It's not a holiday,' said one of the women. 'You're
tight, so you go and sing.'
Ergushov roared with laughter and nudged Nazarka. 'You'd better
sing. And I'll begin too. I'm clever, I tell you.'
'Are you asleep, fair ones?' said Nazarka. 'We've come from the
cordon to drink your health. We've already drunk Lukashka's health.'
Lukashka, when he reached the group, slowly raised his cap and
stopped in front of the girls. His broad cheekbones and neck were
red. He stood and spoke softly and sedately, but in his tranquillity
and sedateness there was more of animation and strength than in all
Nazarka's loquacity and bustle. He reminded one of a playful colt that
with a snort and a flourish of its tail suddenly stops short and
stands as though nailed to the ground with all four feet. Lukashka
stood quietly in front of the girls, his eyes laughed, and he spoke
but little as he glanced now at his drunken companions and now at the
girls. When Maryanka joined the group he raised his cap with a firm
deliberate movement, moved out of her way and then stepped in front of
her with one foot a little forward and with his thumbs in his belt,
fingering his dagger. Maryanka answered his greeting with a leisurely
bow of her head, settled down on the earth-bank, and took some seeds
out of the bosom of her smock. Lukashka, keeping his eyes fixed on
Maryanka, slowly cracked seeds and spat out the shells. All were quiet
when Maryanka joined the group.
'Have you come for long?' asked a woman, breaking the silence.
'Till to-morrow morning,' quietly replied Lukashka.
'Well, God grant you get something good,' said the Cossack; 'I'm
glad of it, as I've just been saying.'
'And I say so too,' put in the tipsy Ergushov, laughing. 'What a
lot of visitors have come,' he added, pointing to a soldier who was
passing by. 'The soldiers' vodka is good—I like it.'
'They've sent three of the devils to us,' said one of the women.
'Grandad went to the village Elders, but they say nothing can be
'Ah, ha! Have you met with trouble?' said Ergushov.
'I expect they have smoked you out with their tobacco?' asked
another woman. 'Smoke as much as you like in the yard, I say, but we
won't allow it inside the hut. Not if the Elder himself comes, I won't
allow it. Besides, they may rob you. He's not quartered any of them on
himself, no fear, that devil's son of an Elder.'
'You don't like it?' Ergushov began again.
'And I've also heard say that the girls will have to make the
soldiers' beds and offer them chikhir and honey,' said Nazarka,
putting one foot forward and tilting his cap like Lukashka.
Ergushov burst into a roar of laughter, and seizing the girl
nearest to him, he embraced her. 'I tell you true.'
'Now then, you black pitch!' squealed the girl, 'I'll tell your
'Tell her,' shouted he. 'That's quite right what Nazarka says; a
circular has been sent round. He can read, you know. Quite true!' And
he began embracing the next girl.
'What are you up to, you beast?' squealed the rosy, round-faced
Ustenka, laughing and lifting her arm to hit him.
The Cossack stepped aside and nearly fell.
'There, they say girls have no strength, and you nearly killed
'Get away, you black pitch, what devil has brought you from the
cordon?' said Ustenka, and turning away from him she again burst out
laughing. 'You were asleep and missed the abrek, didn't you? Suppose
he had done for you it would have been all the better.'
'You'd have howled, I expect,' said Nazarka, laughing.
'Howled! A likely thing.'
'Just look, she doesn't care. She'd howl, Nazarka, eh? Would she?'
Lukishka all this time had stood silently looking at Maryanka. His
gaze evidently confused the girl.
'Well, Maryanka! I hear they've quartered one of the chiefs on
you?' he said, drawing nearer.
Maryanka, as was her wont, waited before she replied, and slowly
raising her eyes looked at the Cossack. Lukashka's eyes were laughing
as if something special, apart from what was said, was taking place
between himself and the girl.
'Yes, it's all right for them as they have two huts,' replied an
old woman on Maryanka's behalf, 'but at Fomushkin's now they also
have one of the chiefs quartered on them and they say one whole
corner is packed full with his things, and the family have no room
left. Was such a thing ever heard of as that they should turn a whole
horde loose in the village?' she said. 'And what the plague are they
going to do here?'
'I've heard say they'll build a bridge across the Terek,' said one
of the girls.
'And I've been told that they will dig a pit to put the girls in
because they don't love the lads,' said Nazarka, approaching Ustenka;
and he again made a whimsical gesture which set everybody laughing,
and Ergushov, passing by Maryanka, who was next in turn, began to
embrace an old woman.
'Why don't you hug Maryanka? You should do it to each in turn,'
'No, my old one is sweeter,' shouted the Cossack, kissing the
struggling old woman.
'You'll throttle me,' she screamed, laughing.
The tramp of regular footsteps at the other end of the street
interrupted their laughter. Three soldiers in their cloaks, with
their muskets on their shoulders, were marching in step to relieve
guard by the ammunition wagon.
The corporal, an old cavalry man, looked angrily at the Cossacks
and led his men straight along the road where Lukashka and Nazarka
were standing, so that they should have to get out of the way.
Nazarka moved, but Lukashka only screwed up his eyes and turned his
broad back without moving from his place.
'People are standing here, so you go round,' he muttered, half
turning his head and tossing it contemptuously in the direction of
The soldiers passed by in silence, keeping step regularly along
the dusty road.
Maryanka began laughing and all the other girls chimed in.
'What swells!' said Nazarka, 'Just like long-skirted choristers,'
and he walked a few steps down the road imitating the soldiers.
Again everyone broke into peals of laughter.
Lukashka came slowly up to Maryanka.
'And where have you put up the chief?' he asked.
Maryanka thought for a moment.
'We've let him have the new hut,' she said.
'And is he old or young,' asked Lukashka, sitting down beside her.
'Do you think I've asked?' answered the girl. 'I went to get him
some chikhir and saw him sitting at the window with Daddy Eroshka.
Red-headed he seemed. They've brought a whole cartload of things.'
And she dropped her eyes.
'Oh, how glad I am that I got leave from the cordon!' said
Lukashka, moving closer to the girl and looking straight in her eyes
all the time.
'And have you come for long?' asked Maryanka, smiling slightly.
'Till the morning. Give me some sunflower seeds,' he said, holding
out his hand.
Maryanka now smiled outright and unfastened the neckband of her
'Don't take them all,' she said.
'Really I felt so dull all the time without you, I swear I did,'
he said in a calm, restrained whisper, helping himself to some seeds
out of the bosom of the girl's smock, and stooping still closer over
her he continued with laughing eyes to talk to her in low tones.
'I won't come, I tell you,' Maryanka suddenly said aloud, leaning
away from him.
'No really ... what I wanted to say to you, ...' whispered
Lukashka. 'By the Heavens! Do come!'
Maryanka shook her head, but did so with a smile.
'Nursey Maryanka! Hallo Nursey! Mammy is calling! Supper time!'
shouted Maryanka's little brother, running towards the group.
'I'm coming,' replied the girl. 'Go, my dear, go alone—I'll come
in a minute.'
Lukashka rose and raised his cap.
'I expect I had better go home too, that will be best,' he said,
trying to appear unconcerned but hardly able to repress a smile, and
he disappeared behind the corner of the house.
Meanwhile night had entirely enveloped the village. Bright stars
were scattered over the dark sky. The streets became dark and empty.
Nazarka remained with the women on the earth-bank and their laughter
was still heard, but Lukashka, having slowly moved away from the
girls, crouched down like a cat and then suddenly started running
lightly, holding his dagger to steady it: not homeward, however, but
towards the cornet's house. Having passed two streets he turned into a
lane and lifting the skirt of his coat sat down on the ground in the
shadow of a fence. 'A regular cornet's daughter!' he thought about
Maryanka. 'Won't even have a lark—the devil! But just wait a bit.'
The approaching footsteps of a woman attracted his attention. He
began listening, and laughed all by himself. Maryanka with bowed
head, striking the pales of the fences with a switch, was walking
with rapid regular strides straight towards him. Lukashka rose.
Maryanka started and stopped.
'What an accursed devil! You frightened me! So you have not gone
home?' she said, and laughed aloud.
Lukashka put one arm round her and with the other hand raised her
face. 'What I wanted to tell you, by Heaven!' his voice trembled and
'What are you talking of, at night time!' answered Maryanka.
'Mother is waiting for me, and you'd better go to your sweetheart.'
And freeing herself from his arms she ran away a few steps. When
she had reached the wattle fence of her home she stopped and turned
to the Cossack who was running beside her and still trying to persuade
her to stay a while with him.
'Well, what do you want to say, midnight-gadabout?' and she again
'Don't laugh at me, Maryanka! By the Heaven! Well, what if I have
a sweetheart? May the devil take her! Only say the word and now I'll
love you—I'll do anything you wish. Here they are!' and he jingled
the money in his pocket. 'Now we can live splendidly. Others have
pleasures, and I? I get no pleasure from you, Maryanka dear!'
The girl did not answer. She stood before him breaking her switch
into little bits with a rapid movement other fingers.
Lukashka suddenly clenched his teeth and fists.
'And why keep waiting and waiting? Don't I love you, darling? You
can do what you like with me,' said he suddenly, frowning angrily and
seizing both her hands.
The calm expression of Maryanka's face and voice did not change.
'Don't bluster, Lukashka, but listen to me,' she answered, not
pulling away her hands but holding the Cossack at arm's length. 'It's
true I am a girl, but you listen to me! It does not depend on me, but
if you love me I'll tell you this. Let go my hands, I'll tell you
without.—I'll marry you, but you'll never get any nonsense from me,'
said Maryanka without turning her face.
'What, you'll marry me? Marriage does not depend on us. Love me
yourself, Maryanka dear,' said Lukashka, from sullen and furious
becoming again gentle, submissive, and tender, and smiling as he
looked closely into her eyes.
Maryanka clung to him and kissed him firmly on the lips.
'Brother dear!' she whispered, pressing him convulsively to her.
Then, suddenly tearing herself away, she ran into the gate of her
house without looking round.
In spite of the Cossack's entreaties to wait another minute to
hear what he had to say, Maryanka did not stop.
'Go,' she cried, 'you'll be seen! I do believe that devil, our
lodger, is walking about the yard.'
'Cornet's daughter,' thought Lukashka. 'She will marry me.
Marriage is all very well, but you just love me!'
He found Nazarka at Yamka's house, and after having a spree with
him went to Dunayka's house, where, in spite of her not being
faithful to him, he spent the night.
It was quite true that Olenin had been walking about the yard when
Maryanka entered the gate, and had heard her say, 'That devil, our
lodger, is walking about.' He had spent that evening with Daddy
Eroshka in the porch of his new lodging. He had had a table, a
samovar, wine, and a candle brought out, and over a cup of tea and a
cigar he listened to the tales the old man told seated on the
threshold at his feet. Though the air was still, the candle dripped
and flickered: now lighting up the post of the porch, now the table
and crockery, now the cropped white head of the old man. Moths circled
round the flame and, shedding the dust of their wings, fluttered on
the table and in the glasses, flew into the candle flame, and
disappeared in the black space beyond. Olenin and Eroshka had emptied
five bottles of chikhir. Eroshka filled the glasses every time,
offering one to Olenin, drinking his health, and talking untiringly.
He told of Cossack life in the old days: of his rather, 'The Broad',
who alone had carried on his back a boar's carcass weighing three
hundredweight, and drank two pails of chikhir at one sitting. He told
of his own days and his chum Girchik, with whom during the plague he
used to smuggle felt cloaks across the Terek. He told how one morning
he had killed two deer, and about his 'little soul' who used to run to
him at the cordon at night. He told all this so eloquently and
picturesquely that Olenin did not notice how time passed. 'Ah yes, my
dear fellow, you did not know me in my golden days; then I'd have
shown you things. Today it's "Eroshka licks the jug", but then Eroshka
was famous in the whole regiment. Whose was the finest horse? Who had
a Gurda sword? To whom should one go to get a drink? With whom go on
the spree? Who should be sent to the mountains to kill Ahmet Khan?
Why, always Eroshka! Whom did the girls love? Always Eroshka had to
answer for it. Because I was a real brave: a drinker, a thief (I used
to seize herds of horses in the mountains), a singer; I was a master
of every art! There are no Cossacks like that nowadays. It's
disgusting to look at them. When they're that high [Eroshka held his
hand three feet from the ground] they put on idiotic boots and keep
looking at them—that's all the pleasure they know. Or they'll drink
themselves foolish, not like men but all wrong. And who was I? I was
Eroshka, the thief; they knew me not only in this village but up in
the mountains. Tartar princes, my kunaks, used to come to see me! I
used to be everybody's kunak. If he was a Tartar—with a Tartar; an
Armenian—with an Armenian; a soldier—with a soldier; an
officer—with an officer! I didn't care as long as he was a drinker.
He says you should cleanse yourself from intercourse with the world,
not drink with soldiers, not eat with a Tartar.'
'Who says all that?' asked Olenin.
'Why, our teacher! But listen to a Mullah or a Tartar Cadi. He
says, "You unbelieving Giaours, why do you eat pig?" That shows that
everyone has his own law. But I think it's all one. God has made
everything for the joy of man. There is no sin in any of it. Take
example from an animal. It lives in the Tartar's reeds or in ours.
Wherever it happens to go, there is its home! Whatever God gives it,
that it eats! But our people say we have to lick red-hot plates in
hell for that. And I think it's all a fraud,' he added after a pause.
'What is a fraud?' asked Olenin.
'Why, what the preachers say. We had an army captain in Chervlena
who was my kunak: a fine fellow just like me. He was killed in
Chechnya. Well, he used to say that the preachers invent all that out
of their own heads. "When you die the grass will grow on your grave
and that's all!"' The old man laughed. 'He was a desperate fellow.'
'And how old are you?' asked Olenin.
'The Lord only knows! I must be about seventy. When a Tsaritsa
reigned in Russia I was no longer very small. So you can reckon it
out. I must be seventy.'
'Yes you must, but you are still a fine fellow.'
'Well, thank Heaven I am healthy, quite healthy, except that a
woman, a witch, has harmed me....'
'Oh, just harmed me.'
'And so when you die the grass will grow?' repeated Olenin.
Eroshka evidently did not wish to express his thought clearly. He
was silent for a while.
'And what did you think? Drink!' he shouted suddenly, smiling and
handing Olenin some wine.
'Well, what was I saying?' he continued, trying to remember. 'Yes,
that's the sort of man I am. I am a hunter. There is no hunter to
equal me in the whole army. I will find and show you any animal and
any bird, and what and where. I know it all! I have dogs, and two
guns, and nets, and a screen and a hawk. I have everything, thank the
Lord! If you are not bragging but are a real sportsman, I'll show you
everything. Do you know what a man I am? When I have found a track—I
know the animal. I know where he will lie down and where he'll drink
or wallow. I make myself a perch and sit there all night watching.
What's the good of staying at home? One only gets into mischief, gets
drunk. And here women come and chatter, and boys shout at me—enough
to drive one mad. It's a different matter when you go out at
nightfall, choose yourself a place, press down the reeds and sit there
and stay waiting, like a jolly fellow. One knows everything that goes
on in the woods. One looks up at the sky: the stars move, you look at
them and find out from them how the time goes. One looks round—the
wood is rustling; one goes on waiting, now there comes a crackling—a
boar comes to rub himself; one listens to hear the young eaglets
screech and then the cocks give voice in the village, or the geese.
When you hear the geese you know it is not yet midnight. And I know
all about it! Or when a gun is fired somewhere far away, thoughts come
to me. One thinks, who is that firing? Is it another Cossack like
myself who has been watching for some animal? And has he killed it? Or
only wounded it so that now the poor thing goes through the reeds
smearing them with its blood all for nothing? I don't like that! Oh,
how I dislike it! Why injure a beast? You fool, you fool! Or one
thinks, "Maybe an abrek has killed some silly little Cossack." All
this passes through one's mind. And once as I sat watching by the
river I saw a cradle floating down. It was sound except for one corner
which was broken off. Thoughts did come that time! I thought some of
your soldiers, the devils, must have got into a Tartar village and
seized the Chechen women, and one of the devils has killed the little
one: taken it by its legs, and hit its head against a wall. Don't they
do such things? Ah! Men have no souls! And thoughts came to me that
filled me with pity. I thought: they've thrown away the cradle and
driven the wife out, and her brave has taken his gun and come across
to our side to rob us. One watches and thinks. And when one hears a
litter breaking through the thicket, something begins to knock inside
one. Dear one, come this way! "They'll scent me," one thinks; and one
sits and does not stir while one's heart goes dun! dun! dun! and
simply lifts you. Once this spring a fine litter came near me, I saw
something black. "In the name of the Father and of the Son," and I was
just about to fire when she grunts to her pigs: "Danger, children,"
she says, "there's a man here," and off they all ran, breaking through
the bushes. And she had been so close I could almost have bitten her.'
'How could a sow tell her brood that a man was there?' asked
'What do you think? You think the beast's a fool? No, he is wiser
than a man though you do call him a pig! He knows everything. Take
this for instance. A man will pass along your track and not notice
it; but a pig as soon as it gets onto your track turns and runs at
once: that shows there is wisdom in him, since he scents your smell
and you don't. And there is this to be said too: you wish to kill it
and it wishes to go about the woods alive. You have one law and it has
another. It is a pig, but it is no worse than you— it too is God's
creature. Ah, dear! Man is foolish, foolish, foolish!' The old man
repeated this several times and then, letting his head drop, he sat
Olenin also became thoughtful, and descending from the porch with
his hands behind his back began pacing up and down the yard.
Eroshka, rousing himself, raised his head and began gazing
intently at the moths circling round the flickering flame of the
candle and burning themselves in it.
'Fool, fool!' he said. 'Where are you flying to? Fool, fool!' He
rose and with his thick fingers began to drive away the moths.
'You'll burn, little fool! Fly this way, there's plenty of room.'
He spoke tenderly, trying to catch them delicately by their wings
with his thick ringers and then letting them fly again. 'You are
killing yourself and I am sorry for you!'
He sat a long time chattering and sipping out of the bottle.
Olenin paced up and down the yard. Suddenly he was struck by the
sound of whispering outside the gate. Involuntarily holding his
breath, he heard a woman's laughter, a man's voice, and the sound of
a kiss. Intentionally rustling the grass under his feet he crossed to
the opposite side of the yard, but after a while the wattle fence
creaked. A Cossack in a dark Circassian coat and a white sheepskin cap
passed along the other side of the fence (it was Luke), and a tall
woman with a white kerchief on her head went past Olenin. 'You and I
have nothing to do with one another' was what Maryanka's firm step
gave him to understand. He followed her with his eyes to the porch of
the hut, and he even saw her through the window take off her kerchief
and sit down. And suddenly a feeling of lonely depression and some
vague longings and hopes, and envy of someone or other, overcame the
young man's soul.
The last lights had been put out in the huts. The last sounds had
died away in the village. The wattle fences and the cattle gleaming
white in the yards, the roofs of the houses and the stately poplars,
all seemed to be sleeping the labourers' healthy peaceful sleep. Only
the incessant ringing voices of frogs from the damp distance reached
the young man. In the east the stars were growing fewer and fewer and
seemed to be melting in the increasing light, but overhead they were
denser and deeper than before. The old man was dozing with his head on
his hand. A cock crowed in the yard opposite, but Olenin still paced
up and down thinking of something. The sound of a song sung by several
voices reached him and he stepped up to the fence and listened. The
voices of several young Cossacks carolled a merry song, and one voice
was distinguishable among them all by its firm strength.
'Do you know who is singing there?' said the old man, rousing
himself. 'It is the Brave, Lukashka. He has killed a Chechen and now
he rejoices. And what is there to rejoice at? ... The fool, the fool!'
'And have you ever killed people?' asked Olenin.
'You devil!' shouted the old man. 'What are you asking? One must
not talk so. It is a serious thing to destroy a human being ... Ah, a
very serious thing! Good-bye, my dear fellow. I've eaten my fill and
am drunk,' he said rising. 'Shall I come to-morrow to go shooting?'
'Mind, get up early; if you oversleep you will be fined!'
'Never fear, I'll be up before you,' answered Olenin.
The old man left. The song ceased, but one could hear footsteps
and merry talk. A little later the singing broke out again but
farther away, and Eroshka's loud voice chimed in with the other.
'What people, what a life!' thought Olenin with a sigh as he returned
alone to his hut.
Daddy Eroshka was a superannuated and solitary Cossack: twenty
years ago his wife had gone over to the Orthodox Church and run away
from him and married a Russian sergeant-major, and he had no children.
He was not bragging when he spoke of himself as having been the
boldest dare-devil in the village when he was young. Everybody in the
regiment knew of his old-time prowess. The death of more than one
Russian, as well as Chechen, lay on his conscience. He used to go
plundering in the mountains, and robbed the Russians too; and he had
twice been in prison. The greater part of his life was spent in the
forests, hunting. There he lived for days on a crust of bread and
drank nothing but water. But on the other hand, when he was in the
village he made merry from morning to night. After leaving Olenin he
slept for a couple of hours and awoke before it was light. He lay on
his bed thinking of the man he had become acquainted with the evening
before. Olenin's 'simplicity' (simplicity in the sense of not grudging
him a drink) pleased him very much, and so did Olenin himself. He
wondered why the Russians were all 'simple' and so rich, and why they
were educated, and yet knew nothing. He pondered on these questions
and also considered what he might get out of Olenin.
Daddy Eroshka's hut was of a good size and not old, but the
absence of a woman was very noticeable in it. Contrary to the usual
cleanliness of the Cossacks, the whole of this hut was filthy and
exceedingly untidy. A blood-stained coat had been thrown on the table,
half a dough-cake lay beside a plucked and mangled crow with which to
feed the hawk. Sandals of raw hide, a gun, a dagger, a little bag, wet
clothes, and sundry rags lay scattered on the benches. In a comer
stood a tub with stinking water, in which another pair of sandals were
being steeped, and near by was a gun and a hunting-screen. On the
floor a net had been thrown down and several dead pheasants lay there,
while a hen tied by its leg was walking about near the table pecking
among the dirt. In the unheated oven stood a broken pot with some kind
of milky liquid. On the top of the oven a falcon was screeching and
trying to break the cord by which it was tied, and a moulting hawk
sat quietly on the edge of the oven, looking askance at the hen and
occasionally bowing its head to right and left. Daddy Eroshka himself,
in his shirt, lay on his back on a short bed rigged up between the
wall and the oven, with his strong legs raised and his feet on the
oven. He was picking with his thick fingers at the scratches left on
his hands by the hawk, which he was accustomed to carry without
wearing gloves. The whole room, especially near the old man, was
filled with that strong but not unpleasant mixture of smells that he
always carried about with him.
'Uyde-ma, Daddy?' (Is Daddy in?) came through the window in a
sharp voice, which he at once recognized as Lukashka's.
'Uyde, Uyde, Uyde. I am in!' shouted the old man. 'Come in,
neighbour Mark, Luke Mark. Come to see Daddy? On your way to the
At the sound of his master's shout the hawk flapped his wings and
pulled at his cord.
The old man was fond of Lukashka, who was the only man he excepted
from his general contempt for the younger generation of Cossacks.
Besides that, Lukashka and his mother, as near neighbours, often gave
the old man wine, clotted cream, and other home produce which Eroshka
did not possess. Daddy Eroshka, who all his life had allowed himself
to get carried away, always explained his infatuations from a
practical point of view. 'Well, why not?' he used to say to himself.
'I'll give them some fresh meat, or a bird, and they won't forget
Daddy: they'll sometimes bring a cake or a piece of pie.'
'Good morning. Mark! I am glad to see you,' shouted the old man
cheerfully, and quickly putting down his bare feet he jumped off his
bed and walked a step or two along the creaking floor, looked down at
his out-turned toes, and suddenly, amused by the appearance of his
feet, smiled, stamped with his bare heel on the ground, stamped again,
and then performed a funny dance-step. 'That's clever, eh?' he asked,
his small eyes glistening. Lukashka smiled faintly. 'Going back to the
cordon?' asked the old man.
'I have brought the chikhir I promised you when we were at the
'May Christ save you!' said the old man, and he took up the
extremely wide trousers that were lying on the floor, and his
beshmet, put them on, fastened a strap round his waist, poured some
water from an earthenware pot over his hands, wiped them on the old
trousers, smoothed his beard with a bit of comb, and stopped in front
of Lukashka. 'Ready,' he said.
Lukashka fetched a cup, wiped it and filled it with wine, and then
handed it to the old man.
'Your health! To the Father and the Son!' said the old man,
accepting the wine with solemnity. 'May you have what you desire, may
you always be a hero, and obtain a cross.'
Lukashka also drank a little after repeating a prayer, and then
put the wine on the table. The old man rose and brought out some
dried fish which he laid on the threshold, where he beat it with a
stick to make it tender; then, having put it with his horny hands on
a blue plate (his only one), he placed it on the table.
'I have all I want. I have victuals, thank God!' he said proudly.
'Well, and what of Mosev?' he added.
Lukashka, evidently wishing to know the old man's opinion, told
him how the officer had taken the gun from him.
'Never mind the gun,' said the old man. 'If you don't give the gun
you will get no reward.'
'But they say. Daddy, it's little reward a fellow gets when he is
not yet a mounted Cossack; and the gun is a fine one, a Crimean,
worth eighty rubles.'
'Eh, let it go! I had a dispute like that with an officer, he
wanted my horse. "Give it me and you'll be made a cornet," says he. I
wouldn't, and I got nothing!'
'Yes, Daddy, but you see I have to buy a horse; and they say you
can't get one the other side of the river under fifty rubles, and
mother has not yet sold our wine.'
'Eh, we didn't bother,' said the old man; 'when Daddy Eroshka was
your age he already stole herds of horses from the Nogay folk and
drove them across the Terek. Sometimes we'd give a fine horse for a
quart of vodka or a cloak.'
'Why so cheap?' asked Lukashka.
'You're a fool, a fool, Mark,' said the old man contemptuously.
'Why, that's what one steals for, so as not to be stingy! As for you,
I suppose you haven't so much as seen how one drives off a herd of
horses? Why don't you speak?'
'What's one to say. Daddy?' replied Lukashka. 'It seems we are not
the same sort of men as you were.'
'You're a fool. Mark, a fool! "Not the same sort of men!"'
retorted the old man, mimicking the Cossack lad. 'I was not that sort
of Cossack at your age.'
'How's that?' asked Lukashka.
The old man shook his head contemptuously.
'Daddy Eroshka was simple; he did not grudge anything! That's why
I was kunak with all Chechnya. A kunak would come to visit me and I'd
make him drunk with vodka and make him happy and put him to sleep with
me, and when I went to see him I'd take him a present— a dagger!
That's the way it is done, and not as you do nowadays: the only
amusement lads have now is to crack seeds and spit out the shells!'
the old man finished contemptuously, imitating the present-day
Cossacks cracking seeds and spitting out the shells.
'Yes, I know,' said Lukashka; 'that's so!'
'If you wish to be a fellow of the right sort, be a brave and not
a peasant! Because even a peasant can buy a horse—pay the money and
take the horse.'
They were silent for a while.
'Well, of course it's dull both in the village and the cordon,
Daddy: but there's nowhere one can go for a bit of sport. All our
fellows are so timid. Take Nazarka. The other day when we went to the
Tartar village, Girey Khan asked us to come to Nogay to take some
horses, but no one went, and how was I to go alone?'
'And what of Daddy? Do you think I am quite dried up? ... No, I'm
not dried up. Let me have a horse and I'll be off to Nogay at once.'
'What's the good of talking nonsense!' said Luke. 'You'd better
tell me what to do about Girey Khan. He says, "Only bring horses to
the Terek, and then even if you bring a whole stud I'll find a place
for them." You see he's also a shaven-headed Tartar—how's one to
'You may trust Girey Khan, all his kin were good people. His
father too was a faithful kunak. But listen to Daddy and I won't
teach you wrong: make him take an oath, then it will be all right.
And if you go with him, have your pistol ready all the same,
especially when it comes to dividing up the horses. I was nearly
killed that way once by a Chechen. I wanted ten rubles from him for a
horse. Trusting is all right, but don't go to sleep without a gun.'
Lukashka listened attentively to the old man.
'I say. Daddy, have you any stone-break grass?' he asked after a
'No, I haven't any, but I'll teach you how to get it. You're a
good lad and won't forget the old man.... Shall I tell you?'
'Tell me, Daddy.'
'You know a tortoise? She's a devil, the tortoise is!'
'Of course I know!'
'Find her nest and fence it round so that she can't get in. Well,
she'll come, go round it, and then will go off to find the stone-
break grass and will bring some along and destroy the fence. Anyhow
next morning come in good time, and where the fence is broken there
you'll find the stone-break grass lying. Take it wherever you like. No
lock and no bar will be able to stop you.'
'Have you tried it yourself. Daddy?'
'As for trying, I have not tried it, but I was told of it by good
people. I used only one charm: that was to repeat the Pilgrim rhyme
when mounting my horse; and no one ever killed me!'
'What is the Pilgrim rhyme. Daddy?'
'What, don't you know it? Oh, what people! You're right to ask
Daddy. Well, listen, and repeat after me:
'Hail! Ye, living in Sion, This is your King, Our steeds we shall
sit on, Sophonius is weeping. Zacharias is speaking, Father Pilgrim,
Mankind ever loving.'
'Kind ever loving,' the old man repeated. 'Do you know it now? Try
'Come, Daddy, was it that that hindered their killing you? Maybe
it just happened so!'
'You've grown too clever! You learn it all, and say it. It will do
you no harm. Well, suppose you have sung "Pilgrim", it's all right,'
and the old man himself began laughing. 'But just one thing, Luke,
don't you go to Nogay!'
'Times have changed. You are not the same men. You've become
rubbishy Cossacks! And see how many Russians have come down on us!
You'd get to prison. Really, give it up! Just as if you could! Now
Girchik and I, we used...'
And the old man was about to begin one of his endless tales, but
Lukashka glanced at the window and interrupted him.
'It is quite light. Daddy. It's time to be off. Look us up some
'May Christ save you! I'll go to the officer; I promised to take
him out shooting. He seems a good fellow.'
From Eroshka's hut Lukashka went home. As he returned, the dewy
mists were rising from the ground and enveloped the village. In
various places the cattle, though out of sight, could be heard
beginning to stir. The cocks called to one another with increasing
frequency and insistence. The air was becoming more transparent, and
the villagers were getting up. Not till he was close to it could
Lukishka discern the fence of his yard, all wet with dew, the porch of
the hut, and the open shed. From the misty yard he heard the sound of
an axe chopping wood. Lukashka entered the hut. His mother was up, and
stood at the oven throwing wood into it. His little sister was still
lying in bed asleep.
'Well, Lukashka, had enough holiday-making?' asked his mother
softly. 'Where did you spend the night?'
'I was in the village,' replied her son reluctantly, reaching for
his musket, which he drew from its cover and examined carefully.
His mother swayed her head.
Lukashka poured a little gunpowder onto the pan, took out a little
bag from which he drew some empty cartridge cases which he began
filling, carefully plugging each one with a ball wrapped in a rag.
Then, having tested the loaded cartridges with his teeth and examined
them, he put down the bag.
'I say, Mother, I told you the bags wanted mending; have they been
done?' he asked.
'Oh yes, our dumb girl was mending something last night. Why, is
it time for you to be going back to the cordon? I haven't seen
anything of you!'
'Yes, as soon as I have got ready I shall have to go,' answered
Lukashka, tying up the gunpowder. 'And where is our dumb one?
'Chopping wood, I expect. She kept fretting for you. "I shall not
see him at all!" she said. She puts her hand to her face like this,
and clicks her tongue and presses her hands to her heart as much as to
say—"sorry." Shall I call her in? She understood all about the
'Call her,' said Lukashka. 'And I had some tallow there; bring it:
I must grease my sword.'
The old woman went out, and a few minutes later Lukashka's dumb
sister came up the creaking steps and entered the hut. She was six
years older than her brother and would have been extremely like him
had it not been for the dull and coarsely changeable expression
(common to all deaf and dumb people) of her face. She wore a coarse
smock all patched; her feet were bare and muddy, and on her head she
had an old blue kerchief. Her neck, arms, and face were sinewy like a
peasant's. Her clothing and her whole appearance indicated that she
always did the hard work of a man. She brought in a heap of logs which
she threw down by the oven. Then she went up to her brother, and with
a joyful smile which made her whole face pucker up, touched him on the
shoulder and began making rapid signs to him with her hands, her face,
and whole body.
'That's right, that's right, Stepka is a trump!' answered the
brother, nodding. 'She's fetched everything and mended everything,
she's a trump! Here, take this for it!' He brought out two pieces of
gingerbread from his pocket and gave them to her.
The dumb woman's face flushed with pleasure, and she began making
a weird noise for joy. Having seized the gingerbread she began to
gesticulate still more rapidly, frequently pointing in one direction
and passing her thick finger over her eyebrows and her face. Lukashka
understood her and kept nodding, while he smiled slightly. She was
telling him to give the girls dainties, and that the girls liked him,
and that one girl, Maryanka—the best of them all—loved him. She
indicated Maryanka by rapidly pointing in the direction of Maryanka's
home and to her own eyebrows and face, and by smacking her lips and
swaying her head. 'Loves' she expressed by pressing her hands to her
breast, kissing her hand, and pretending to embrace someone. Their
mother returned to the hut, and seeing what her dumb daughter was
saying, smiled and shook her head. Her daughter showed her the
gingerbread and again made the noise which expressed joy.
'I told Ulitka the other day that I'd send a matchmaker to them,'
said the mother. 'She took my words well.'
Lukashka looked silently at his mother.
'But how about selling the wine, mother? I need a horse.'
'I'll cart it when I have time. I must get the barrels ready,'
said the mother, evidently not wishing her son to meddle in domestic
matters. 'When you go out you'll find a bag in the passage. I borrowed
from the neighbours and got something for you to take back to the
cordon; or shall I put it in your saddle-bag?'
'All right,' answered Lukashka. 'And if Girey Khan should come
across the river send him to me at the cordon, for I shan't get leave
again for a long time now; I have some business with him.'
He began to get ready to start.
'I will send him on,' said the old women. 'It seems you have been
spreeing at Yamka's all the time. I went out in the night to see the
cattle, and I think it was your voice I heard singing songs.'
Lukashka did not reply, but went out into the passage, threw the
bags over his shoulder, tucked up the skirts of his coat, took his
musket, and then stopped for a moment on the threshold.
'Good-bye, mother!' he said as he closed the gate behind him.
'Send me a small barrel with Nazarka. I promised it to the lads, and
he'll call for it.'
'May Christ keep you, Lukashka. God be with you! I'll send you
some, some from the new barrel,' said the old woman, going to the
fence: 'But listen,' she added, leaning over the fence.
The Cossack stopped.
'You've been making merry here; well, that's all right. Why should
not a young man amuse himself? God has sent you luck and that's good.
But now look out and mind, my son. Don't you go and get into mischief.
Above all, satisfy your superiors: one has to! And I will sell the
wine and find money for a horse and will arrange a match with the girl
'All right, all right!' answered her son, frowning.
His deaf sister shouted to attract his attention. She pointed to
her head and the palm of her hand, to indicate the shaved head of a
Chechen. Then she frowned, and pretending to aim with a gun, she
shrieked and began rapidly humming and shaking her head. This meant
that Lukashka should kill another Chechen.
Lukashka understood. He smiled, and shifting the gun at his back
under his cloak stepped lightly and rapidly, and soon disappeared in
the thick mist.
The old woman, having stood a little while at the gate, returned
silently to the hut and immediately began working.
Lukasha returned to the cordon and at the same time Daddy Eroshka
whistled to his dogs and, climbing over his wattle fence, went to
Olenin's lodging, passing by the back of the houses (he disliked
meeting women before going out hunting or shooting). He found Olenin
still asleep, and even Vanyusha, though awake, was still in bed and
looking round the room considering whether it was not time to get up,
when Daddy Eroshka, gun on shoulder and in full hunter's trappings,
opened the door.
'A cudgel!' he shouted in his deep voice. 'An alarm! The Chechens
are upon us! Ivan! get the samovar ready for your master, and get up
yourself—quick,' cried the old man. 'That's our way, my good man! Why
even the girls are already up! Look out of the window. See, she's
going for water and you're still sleeping!'
Olenin awoke and jumped up, feeling fresh and lighthearted at the
sight of the old man and at the sound of his voice.
'Quick, Vanyusha, quick!' he cried.
'Is that the way you go hunting?' said the old man. 'Others are
having their breakfast and you are asleep! Lyam! Here!' he called to
his dog. 'Is your gun ready?' he shouted, as loud as if a whole crowd
were in the hut.
'Well, it's true I'm guilty, but it can't be helped! The powder,
Vanyusha, and the wads!' said Olenin.
'A fine!' shouted the old man.
'Du tay voulay vou?' asked Vanyusha, grinning.
'You're not one of us—your gabble is not like our speech, you
devil!' the old man shouted at Vanyusha, showing the stumps of his
'A first offence must be forgiven,' said Olenin playfully, drawing
on his high boots.
'The first offence shall be forgiven,' answered Eroshka, 'but if
you oversleep another time you'll be fined a pail of chikhir. When it
gets warmer you won't find the deer.'
'And even if we do find him he is wiser than we are,' said Olenin,
repeating the words spoken by the old man the evening before, 'and
you can't deceive him!'
'Yes, laugh away! You kill one first, and then you may talk. Now
then, hurry up! Look, there's the master himself coming to see you,'
added Eroshka, looking out of the window. 'Just see how he's got
himself up. He's put on a new coat so that you should see that he's an
officer. Ah, these people, these people!'
Sure enough Vanyusha came in and announced that the master of the
house wished to see Olenin.
'L'arjan!' he remarked profoundly, to forewarn his master of the
meaning of this visitation. Following him, the master of the house in
a new Circassian coat with an officer's stripes on the shoulders and
with polished boots (quite exceptional among Cossacks) entered the
room, swaying from side to side, and congratulated his lodger on his
The cornet, Elias Vasilich, was an educated Cossack. He had been
to Russia proper, was a regimental schoolteacher, and above all he
was noble. He wished to appear noble, but one could not help feeling
beneath his grotesque pretence of polish, his affectation, his
self-confidence, and his absurd way of speaking, he was just the same
as Daddy Eroshka. This could also be clearly seen by his sunburnt face
and his hands and his red nose. Olenin asked him to sit down.
'Good morning. Father Elias Vasilich,' said Eroshka, rising with
(or so it seemed to Olenin) an ironically low bow.
'Good morning. Daddy. So you're here already,' said the cornet,
with a careless nod.
The cornet was a man of about forty, with a grey pointed beard,
skinny and lean, but handsome and very fresh-looking for his age.
Having come to see Olenin he was evidently afraid of being taken for
an ordinary Cossack, and wanted to let Olenin feel his importance from
'That's our Egyptian Nimrod,' he remarked, addressing Olenin and
pointing to the old man with a self-satisfied smile. 'A mighty hunter
before the Lord! He's our foremost man on every hand. You've already
been pleased to get acquainted with him.'
Daddy Eroshka gazed at his feet in their shoes of wet raw hide and
shook his head thoughtfully at the cornet's ability and learning, and
muttered to himself: 'Gyptian Nimvrod! What things he invents!'
'Yes, you see we mean to go hunting,' answered Olenin.
'Yes, sir, exactly,' said the cornet, 'but I have a small business
'What do you want?'
'Seeing that you are a gentleman,' began the cornet, 'and as I may
understand myself to be in the rank of an officer too, and therefore
we may always progressively negotiate, as gentlemen do.' (He stopped
and looked with a smile at Olenin and at the old man.) 'But if you
have the desire with my consent, then, as my wife is a foolish woman
of our class, she could not quite comprehend your words of yesterday's
date. Therefore my quarters might be let for six rubles to the
Regimental Adjutant, without the stables; but I can always avert that
from myself free of charge. But, as you desire, therefore I, being
myself of an officer's rank, can come to an agreement with you in
everything personally, as an inhabitant of this district, not
according to our customs, but can maintain the conditions in every
'Speaks clearly!' muttered the old man.
The cornet continued in the same strain for a long time. At last,
not without difficulty, Olenin gathered that the cornet wished to let
his rooms to him, Olenin, for six rubles a month. The latter gladly
agreed to this, and offered his visitor a glass of tea. The cornet
'According to our silly custom we consider it a sort of sin to
drink out of a "worldly" tumbler,' he said. 'Though, of course, with
my education I may understand, but my wife from her human weakness...'
'Well then, will you have some tea?'
'If you will permit me, I will bring my own particular glass,'
answered the cornet, and stepped out into the porch.
'Bring me my glass!' he cried.
In a few minutes the door opened and a young sunburnt arm in a
print sleeve thrust itself in, holding a tumbler in the hand. The
cornet went up, took it, and whispered something to his daughter.
Olenin poured tea for the cornet into the latter's own 'particular'
glass, and for Eroshka into a 'worldly' glass.
'However, I do not desire to detain you,' said the cornet,
scalding his lips and emptying his tumbler. 'I too have a great
liking for fishing, and I am here, so to say, only on leave of
absence for recreation from my duties. I too have the desire to tempt
fortune and see whether some Gifts of the Terek may not fall to my
share. I hope you too will come and see us and have a drink of our
wine, according to the custom of our village,' he added.
The cornet bowed, shook hands with Olenin, and went out. While
Olenin was getting ready, he heard the cornet giving orders to his
family in an authoritative and sensible tone, and a few minutes later
he saw him pass by the window in a tattered coat with his trousers
rolled up to his knees and a fishing net over his shoulder.
'A rascal!' said Daddy Eroshka, emptying his 'worldly' tumbler.
'And will you really pay him six rubles? Was such a thing ever heard
of? They would let you the best hut in the village for two rubles.
What a beast! Why, I'd let you have mine for three!'
'No, I'll remain here,' said Olenin.
'Six rubles! ... Clearly it's a fool's money. Eh, eh, eh! answered
the old man. 'Let's have some chikhir, Ivan!'
Having had a snack and a drink of vodka to prepare themselves for
the road, Olenin and the old man went out together before eight
At the gate they came up against a wagon to which a pair of oxen
were harnessed. With a white kerchief tied round her head down to her
eyes, a coat over her smock, and wearing high boots, Maryanka with a
long switch in her hand was dragging the oxen by a cord tied to their
'Mammy,' said the old man, pretending that he was going to seize
Maryanka nourished her switch at him and glanced merrily at them
both with her beautiful eyes.
Olenin felt still more light-hearted.
'Now then, come on, come on,' he said, throwing his gun on his
shoulder and conscious of the girl's eyes upon him.
'Gee up!' sounded Maryanka's voice behind them, followed by the
creak of the moving wagon.
As long as their road lay through the pastures at the back of the
village Eroshka went on talking. He could not forget the cornet and
kept on abusing him.
'Why are you so angry with him?' asked Olenin.
'He's stingy. I don't like it,' answered the old man. 'He'll leave
it all behind when he dies! Then who's he saving up for? He's built
two houses, and he's got a second garden from his brother by a
law-suit. And in the matter of papers what a dog he is! They come to
him from other villages to fill up documents. As he writes it out,
exactly so it happens. He gets it quite exact. But who is he saving
for? He's only got one boy and the girl; when she's married who'll be
'Well then, he's saving up for her dowry,' said Olenin.
'What dowry? The girl is sought after, she's a fine girl. But he's
such a devil that he must yet marry her to a rich fellow. He wants to
get a big price for her. There's Luke, a Cossack, a neighbour and a
nephew of mine, a fine lad. It's he who killed the Chechen— he has
been wooing her for a long time, but he hasn't let him have her. He's
given one excuse, and another, and a third. "The girl's too young," he
says. But I know what he is thinking. He wants to keep them bowing to
him. He's been acting shamefully about that girl. Still, they will get
her for Lukashka, because he is the best Cossack in the village, a
brave, who has killed an abrek and will be rewarded with a cross.'
'But how about this? When I was walking up and down the yard last
night, I saw my landlord's daughter and some Cossack kissing,' said
'You're pretending!' cried the old man, stopping.
'On my word,' said Olenin.
'Women are the devil,' said Eroshka pondering. 'But what Cossack
'I couldn't see.'
'Well, what sort of a cap had he, a white one?'
'And a red coat? About your height?'
'No, a bit taller.'
'It's he!' and Eroshka burst out laughing. 'It's himself, it's
Mark. He is Luke, but I call him Mark for a joke. His very self! I
love him. I was just such a one myself. What's the good of minding
them? My sweetheart used to sleep with her mother and her sister-
in-law, but I managed to get in. She used to sleep upstairs; that
witch her mother was a regular demon; it's awful how she hated me.
Well, I used to come with a chum, Girchik his name was. We'd come
under her window and I'd climb on his shoulders, push up the window
and begin groping about. She used to sleep just there on a bench. Once
I woke her up and she nearly called out. She hadn't recognized me.
"Who is there?" she said, and I could not answer. Her mother was even
beginning to stir, but I took off my cap and shoved it over her mouth;
and she at once knew it by a seam in it, and ran out to me. I used not
to want anything then. She'd bring along clotted cream and grapes and
everything,' added Eroshka (who always explained things practically),
'and she wasn't the only one. It was a life!'
'And what now?'
'Now we'll follow the dog, get a pheasant to settle on a tree, and
then you may fire.'
'Would you have made up to Maryanka?'
'Attend to the dogs. I'll tell you tonight,' said the old man,
pointing to his favourite dog, Lyam.
After a pause they continued talking, while they went about a
hundred paces. Then the old man stopped again and pointed to a twig
that lay across the path.
'What do you think of that?' he said. 'You think it's nothing?
It's bad that this stick is lying so.'
'Why is it bad?'
'Ah, you don't know anything. Just listen to me. When a stick lies
like that don't you step across it, but go round it or throw it off
the path this way, and say "Father and Son and Holy Ghost," and then
go on with God's blessing. Nothing will happen to you. That's what the
old men used to teach me.'
'Come, what rubbish!' said Olenin. 'You'd better tell me more
about Maryanka. Does she carry on with Lukashka?'
'Hush ... be quiet now!' the old man again interrupted in a
whisper: 'just listen, we'll go round through the forest.'
And the old man, stepping quietly in his soft shoes, led the way
by a narrow path leading into the dense, wild, overgrown forest. Now
and again with a frown he turned to look at Olenin, who rustled and
clattered with his heavy boots and, carrying his gun carelessly,
several times caught the twigs of trees that grew across the path.
'Don't make a noise. Step softly, soldier!' the old man whispered
There was a feeling in the air that the sun had risen. The mist
was dissolving but it still enveloped the tops of the trees. The
forest looked terribly high. At every step the aspect changed: what
had appeared like a tree proved to be a bush, and a reed looked like a
The mist had partly lifted, showing the wet reed thatches, and was
now turning into dew that moistened the road and the grass beside the
fence. Smoke rose everywhere in clouds from the chimneys. The people
were going out of the village, some to their work, some to the river,
and some to the cordon. The hunters walked together along the damp,
grass-grown path. The dogs, wagging their tails and looking at their
masters, ran on both sides of them. Myriads of gnats hovered in the
air and pursued the hunters, covering their backs, eyes, and hands.
The air was fragrant with the grass and with the dampness of the
forest. Olenin continually looked round at the ox-cart in which
Maryanka sat urging on the oxen with a long switch.
It was calm. The sounds from the village, audible at first, now no
longer reached the sportsmen. Only the brambles cracked as the dogs
ran under them, and now and then birds called to one another. Olenin
knew that danger lurked in the forest, that abreks always hid in such
places. But he knew too that in the forest, for a man on foot, a gun
is a great protection. Not that he was afraid, but he felt that
another in his place might be; and looking into the damp misty forest
and listening to the rare and faint sounds with strained attention, he
changed his hold on his gun and experienced a pleasant feeling that
was new to him. Daddy Eroshka went in front, stopping and carefully
scanning every puddle where an animal had left a double track, and
pointing it out to Olenin. He hardly spoke at all and only
occasionally made remarks in a whisper. The track they were following
had once been made by wagons, but the grass had long overgrown it. The
elm and plane- tree forest on both sides of them was so dense and
overgrown with creepers that it was impossible to see anything through
it. Nearly every tree was enveloped from top to bottom with wild grape
vines, and dark bramble bushes covered the ground thickly. Every
little glade was overgrown with blackberry bushes and grey feathery
reeds. In places, large hoof-prints and small funnel-shaped
pheasant-trails led from the path into the thicket. The vigour of the
growth of this forest, untrampled by cattle, struck Olenin at every
turn, for he had never seen anything like it. This forest, the danger,
the old man and his mysterious whispering, Maryanka with her virile
upright bearing, and the mountains—all this seemed to him like a
'A pheasant has settled,' whispered the old man, looking round and
pulling his cap over his face—'Cover your mug! A pheasant!' he waved
his arm angrily at Olenin and pushed forward almost on all fours. 'He
don't like a man's mug.'
Olenin was still behind him when the old man stopped and began
examining a tree. A cock-pheasant on the tree clucked at the dog that
was barking at it, and Olenin saw the pheasant; but at that moment a
report, as of a cannon, came from Eroshka's enormous gun, the bird
fluttered up and, losing some feathers, fell to the ground. Coming up
to the old man Olenin disturbed another, and raising his gun he aimed
and fired. The pheasant flew swiftly up and then, catching at the
branches as he fell, dropped like a stone to the ground.
'Good man!' the old man (who could not hit a flying bird) shouted,
Having picked up the pheasants they went on. Olenin, excited by
the exercise and the praise, kept addressing remarks to the old man.
'Stop! Come this way,' the old man interrupted. 'I noticed the
track of deer here yesterday.'
After they had turned into the thicket and gone some three hundred
paces they scrambled through into a glade overgrown with reeds and
partly under water. Olenin failed to keep up with the old huntsman
and presently Daddy Eroshka, some twenty paces in front, stooped
down, nodding and beckoning with his arm. On coming up with him
Olenin saw a man's footprint to which the old man was pointing.
'Yes, well?' said Olenin, trying to speak as calmly as he could.
'A man's footstep!'
Involuntarily a thought of Cooper's Pathfinder and of abreks
flashed through Olenin's mind, but noticing the mysterious manner
with which the old man moved on, he hesitated to question him and
remained in doubt whether this mysteriousness was caused by fear of
danger or by the sport.
'No, it's my own footprint,' the old man said quietly, and pointed
to some grass under which the track of an animal was just
The old man went on; and Olenin kept up with him.
Descending to lower ground some twenty paces farther on they came
upon a spreading pear-tree, under which, on the black earth, lay the
fresh dung of some animal.
The spot, all covered over with wild vines, was like a cosy
arbour, dark and cool.
'He's been here this morning,' said the old man with a sigh; 'the
lair is still damp, quite fresh.'
Suddenly they heard a terrible crash in the forest some ten paces
from where they stood. They both started and seized their guns, but
they could see nothing and only heard the branches breaking. The
rhythmical rapid thud of galloping was heard for a moment and then
changed into a hollow rumble which resounded farther and farther off,
re-echoing in wider and wider circles through the forest. Olenin felt
as though something had snapped in his heart. He peered carefully but
vainly into the green thicket and then turned to the old man. Daddy
Eroshka with his gun pressed to his breast stood motionless; his cap
was thrust backwards, his eyes gleamed with an unwonted glow, and his
open mouth, with its worn yellow teeth, seemed to have stiffened in
'A homed stag!' he muttered, and throwing down his gun in despair
he began pulling at his grey beard, 'Here it stood. We should have
come round by the path.... Fool! fool!' and he gave his beard an
angry tug. Fool! Pig!' he repeated, pulling painfully at his own
beard. Through the forest something seemed to fly away in the mist,
and ever farther and farther off was heard the sound of the flight of
It was already dusk when, hungry, tired, but full of vigour,
Olenin returned with the old man. Dinner was ready. He ate and drank
with the old man till he felt warm and merry. Olenin then went out
into the porch. Again, to the west, the mountains rose before his
eyes. Again the old man told his endless stories of hunting, of
abreks, of sweethearts, and of all that free and reckless life. Again
the fair Maryanka went in and out and across the yard, her beautiful
powerful form outlined by her smock.
The next day Olenin went alone to the spot where he and the old
man startled the stag. Instead of passing round through the gate he
climbed over the prickly hedge, as everybody else did, and before he
had had time to pull out the thorns that had caught in his coat, his
dog, which had run on in front, started two pheasants. He had hardly
stepped among the briers when the pheasants began to rise at every
step (the old man had not shown him that place the day before as he
meant to keep it for shooting from behind the screen). Olenin fired
twelve times and killed five pheasants, but clambering after them
through the briers he got so fatigued that he was drenched with
perspiration. He called off his dog, uncocked his gun, put in a bullet
above the small shot, and brushing away the mosquitoes with the wide
sleeve of his Circassian coat he went slowly to the spot where they
had been the day before. It was however impossible to keep back the
dog, who found trails on the very path, and Olenin killed two more
pheasants, so that after being detained by this it was getting
towards noon before he began to find the place he was looking for.
The day was perfectly clear, calm, and hot. The morning moisture
had dried up even in the forest, and myriads of mosquitoes literally
covered his face, his back, and his arms. His dog had turned from
black to grey, its back being covered with mosquitoes, and so had
Olenin's coat through which the insects thrust their stings. Olenin
was ready to run away from them and it seemed to him that it was
impossible to live in this country in the summer. He was about to go
home, but remembering that other people managed to endure such pain he
resolved to bear it and gave himself up to be devoured. And strange to
say, by noontime the feeling became actually pleasant. He even felt
that without this mosquito-filled atmosphere around him, and that
mosquito-paste mingled with perspiration which his hand smeared over
his face, and that unceasing irritation all over his body, the forest
would lose for him some of its character and charm. These myriads of
insects were so well suited to that monstrously lavish wild
vegetation, these multitudes of birds and beasts which filled the
forest, this dark foliage, this hot scented air, these runlets filled
with turbid water which everywhere soaked through from the Terek and
gurgled here and there under the overhanging leaves, that the very
thing which had at first seemed to him dreadful and intolerable now
seemed pleasant. After going round the place where yesterday they had
found the animal and not finding anything, he felt inclined to rest.
The sun stood right above the forest and poured its perpendicular rays
down on his back and head whenever he came out into a glade or onto
the road. The seven heavy pheasants dragged painfully at his waist.
Having found the traces of yesterday's stag he crept under a bush into
the thicket just where the stag had lain, and lay down in its lair. He
examined the dark foliage around him, the place marked by the stag's
perspiration and yesterday's dung, the imprint of the stag's knees,
the bit of black earth it had kicked up, and his own footprints of the
day before. He felt cool and comfortable and did not think of or wish
for anything. And suddenly he was overcome by such a strange feeling
of causeless joy and of love for everything, that from an old habit of
his childhood he began crossing himself and thanking someone.
Suddenly, with extraordinary clearness, he thought: 'Here am I, Dmitri
Olenin, a being quite distinct from every other being, now lying all
alone Heaven only knows where—where a stag used to live—an old stag,
a beautiful stag who perhaps had never seen a man, and in a place
where no human being has ever sat or thought these thoughts. Here I
sit, and around me stand old and young trees, one of them festooned
with wild grape vines, and pheasants are fluttering, driving one
another about and perhaps scenting their murdered brothers.' He felt
his pheasants, examined them, and wiped the warm blood off his hand
onto his coat. 'Perhaps the jackals scent them and with dissatisfied
faces go off in another direction: above me, flying in among the
leaves which to them seem enormous islands, mosquitoes hang in the air
and buzz: one, two, three, four, a hundred, a thousand, a million
mosquitoes, and all of them buzz something or other and each one of
them is separate from all else and is just such a separate Dmitri
Olenin as I am myself.' He vividly imagined what the mosquitoes
buzzed: 'This way, this way, lads! Here's some one we can eat!' They
buzzed and stuck to him. And it was clear to him that he was not a
Russian nobleman, a member of Moscow society, the friend and relation
of so-and-so and so-and-so, but just such a mosquito, or pheasant, or
deer, as those that were now living all around him. 'Just as they,
just as Daddy Eroshka, I shall live awhile and die, and as he says
"grass will grow and nothing more".
'But what though the grass does grow?' he continued thinking.
'Still I must live and be happy, because happiness is all I desire.
Never mind what I am—an animal like all the rest, above whom the
grass will grow and nothing more; or a frame in which a bit of the one
God has been set,—still I must live in the very best way. How then
must I live to be happy, and why was I not happy before?' And he began
to recall his former life and he felt disgusted with himself. He
appeared to himself to have been terribly exacting and selfish, though
he now saw that all the while he really needed nothing for himself.
And he looked round at the foliage with the light shining through it,
at the setting sun and the clear sky, and he felt just as happy as
before. 'Why am I happy, and what used I to live for?' thought he.
'How much I exacted for myself; how I schemed and did not manage to
gain anything but shame and sorrow! and, there now, I require nothing
to be happy;' and suddenly a new light seemed to reveal itself to
him. 'Happiness is this!' he said to himself. 'Happiness lies in
living for others. That is evident. The desire for happiness is
innate in every man; therefore it is legitimate. When trying to
satisfy it selfishly—that is, by seeking for oneself riches, fame,
comforts, or love—it may happen that circumstances arise which make
it impossible to satisfy these desires. It follows that it is these
desires that are illegitimate, but not the need for happiness. But
what desires can always be satisfied despite external circumstances?
What are they? Love, self-sacrifice.' He was so glad and excited when
he had discovered this, as it seemed to him, new truth, that he jumped
up and began impatiently seeking some one to sacrifice himself for, to
do good to and to love. 'Since one wants nothing for oneself,' he kept
thinking, 'why not live for others?' He took up his gun with the
intention of returning home quickly to think this out and to find an
opportunity of doing good. He made his way out of the thicket. When
he had come out into the glade he looked around him; the sun was no
longer visible above the tree-tops. It had grown cooler and the place
seemed to him quite strange and not like the country round the
village. Everything seemed changed—the weather and the character of
the forest; the sky was wrapped in clouds, the wind was rustling in
the tree-tops, and all around nothing was visible but reeds and dying
broken-down trees. He called to his dog who had run away to follow
some animal, and his voice came back as in a desert. And suddenly he
was seized with a terrible sense of weirdness. He grew frightened. He
remembered the abreks and the murders he had been told about, and he
expected every moment that an abrek would spring from behind every
bush and he would have to defend his life and die, or be a coward. He
thought of God and of the future life as for long he had not thought
about them. And all around was that same gloomy stern wild nature.
'And is it worth while living for oneself,' thought he, 'when at any
moment you may die, and die without having done any good, and so that
no one will know of it?' He went in the direction where he fancied the
village lay. Of his shooting he had no further thought; but he felt
tired to death and peered round at every bush and tree with particular
attention and almost with terror, expecting every moment to be called
to account for his life. After having wandered about for a
considerable time he came upon a ditch down which was flowing cold
sandy water from the Terek, and, not to go astray any longer, he
decided to follow it. He went on without knowing where the ditch
would lead him. Suddenly the reeds behind him crackled. He shuddered
and seized his gun, and then felt ashamed of himself: the over-excited
dog, panting hard, had thrown itself into the cold water of the ditch
and was lapping it!
He too had a drink, and then followed the dog in the direction it
wished to go, thinking it would lead him to the village. But despite
the dog's company everything around him seemed still more dreary. The
forest grew darker and the wind grew stronger and stronger in the tops
of the broken old trees. Some large birds circled screeching round
their nests in those trees. The vegetation grew poorer and he came
oftener and oftener upon rustling reeds and bare sandy spaces covered
with animal footprints. To the howling of the wind was added another
kind of cheerless monotonous roar. Altogether his spirits became
gloomy. Putting his hand behind him he felt his pheasants, and found
one missing. It had broken off and was lost, and only the bleeding
head and beak remained sticking in his belt. He felt more frightened
than he had ever done before. He began to pray to God, and feared
above all that he might die without having done anything good or kind;
and he so wanted to live, and to live so as to perform a feat of
Suddenly it was as though the sun had shone into his soul. He
heard Russian being spoken, and also heard the rapid smooth flow of
the Terek, and a few steps farther in front of him saw the brown
moving surface of the river, with the dim-coloured wet sand of its
banks and shallows, the distant steppe, the cordon watch- tower
outlined above the water, a saddled and hobbled horse among the
brambles, and then the mountains opening out before him. The red sun
appeared for an instant from under a cloud and its last rays glittered
brightly along the river over the reeds, on the watch-tower, and on a
group of Cossacks, among whom Lukashka's vigorous figure attracted
Olenin's involuntary attention.
Olenin felt that he was again, without any apparent cause,
perfectly happy. He had come upon the Nizhni-Prototsk post on the
Terek, opposite a pro-Russian Tartar village on the other side of the
river. He accosted the Cossacks, but not finding as yet any excuse for
doing anyone a kindness, he entered the hut; nor in the hut did he
find any such opportunity. The Cossacks received him coldly. On
entering the mud hut he lit a cigarette. The Cossacks paid little
attention to him, first because he was smoking a cigarette, and
secondly because they had something else to divert them that evening.
Some hostile Chechens, relatives of the abrek who had been killed, had
come from the hills with a scout to ransom the body; and the Cossacks
were waiting for their Commanding Officer's arrival from the village.
The dead man's brother, tall and well shaped with a short cropped
beard which was dyed red, despite his very tattered coat and cap was
calm and majestic as a king. His face was very like that of the dead
abrek. He did not deign to look at anyone, and never once glanced at
the dead body, but sitting on his heels in the shade he spat as he
smoked his short pipe, and occasionally uttered some few guttural
sounds of command, which were respectfully listened to by his
companion. He was evidently a brave who had met Russians more than
once before in quite other circumstances, and nothing about them
could astonish or even interest him. Olenin was about to approach the
dead body and had begun to look at it when the brother, looking up at
him from under his brows with calm contempt, said something sharply
and angrily. The scout hastened to cover the dead man's face with his
coat. Olenin was struck by the dignified and stem expression of the
brave's face. He began to speak to him, asking from what village he
came, but the Chechen, scarcely giving him a glance, spat
contemptuously and turned away. Olenin was so surprised at the Chechen
not being interested in him that he could only put it down to the
man's stupidity or ignorance of Russian; so he turned to the scout,
who also acted as interpreter. The scout was as ragged as the other,
but instead of being red-haired he was black-haired, restless, with
extremely white gleaming teeth and sparkling black eyes. The scout
willingly entered into conversation and asked for a cigarette.
'There were five brothers,' began the scout in his broken Russian.
'This is the third brother the Russians have killed, only two are
left. He is a brave, a great brave!' he said, pointing to the
Chechen. 'When they killed Ahmet Khan (the dead brave) this one was
sitting on the opposite bank among the reeds. He saw it all. Saw him
laid in the skiff and brought to the bank. He sat there till the night
and wished to kill the old man, but the others would not let him.'
Lukashka went up to the speaker, and sat down. 'Of what village?'
'From there in the hills,' replied the scout, pointing to the
misty bluish gorge beyond the Terek. 'Do you know Suuk-su? It is
about eight miles beyond that.'
'Do you know Girey Khan in Suuk-su?' asked Lukashka, evidently
proud of the acquaintance. 'He is my kunak.'
'He is my neighbour,' answered the scout.
'He's a trump!' and Lukashka, evidently much interested, began
talking to the scout in Tartar.
Presently a Cossack captain, with the head of the village, arrived
on horseback with a suite of two Cossacks. The captain—one of the
new type of Cossack officers—wished the Cossacks 'Good health,' but
no one shouted in reply, 'Hail! Good health to your honour,' as is
customary in the Russian Army, and only a few replied with a bow.
Some, and among them Lukashka, rose and stood erect. The corporal
replied that all was well at the outposts. All this seemed ridiculous:
it was as if these Cossacks were playing at being soldiers. But these
formalities soon gave place to ordinary ways of behaviour, and the
captain, who was a smart Cossack just like the others, began speaking
fluently in Tartar to the interpreter. They filled in some document,
gave it to the scout, and received from him some money. Then they
approached the body.
'Which of you is Luke Gavrilov?' asked the captain.
Lukishka took off his cap and came forward.
'I have reported your exploit to the Commander. I don't know what
will come of it. I have recommended you for a cross; you're too young
to be made a sergeant. Can you read?'
'But what a fine fellow to look at!' said the captain, again
playing the commander. 'Put on your cap. Which of the Gavrilovs does
he come of? ... the Broad, eh?'
'His nephew,' replied the corporal.
'I know, I know. Well, lend a hand, help them,' he said, turning
to the Cossacks.
Lukashka's face shone with joy and seemed handsomer than usual. He
moved away from the corporal, and having put on his cap sat down
When the body had been carried to the skiff the brother Chechen
descended to the bank. The Cossacks involuntarily stepped aside to
let him pass. He jumped into the boat and pushed off from the bank
with his powerful leg, and now, as Olenin noticed, for the first time
threw a rapid glance at all the Cossacks and then abruptly asked his
companion a question. The latter answered something and pointed to
Lukashka. The Chechen looked at him and, turning slowly away, gazed at
the opposite bank. That look expressed not hatred but cold contempt.
He again made some remark.
'What is he saying?' Olenin asked of the fidgety scout.
'Yours kill ours, ours slay yours. It's always the same,' replied
the scout, evidently inventing, and he smiled, showing his white
teeth, as he jumped into the skiff.
The dead man's brother sat motionless, gazing at the opposite
bank. He was so full of hatred and contempt that there was nothing on
this side of the river that moved his curiosity. The scout, standing
up at one end of the skiff and dipping his paddle now on one side now
on the other, steered skilfully while talking incessantly. The skiff
became smaller and smaller as it moved obliquely across the stream,
the voices became scarcely audible, and at last, still within sight,
they landed on the opposite bank where their horses stood waiting.
There they lifted out the corpse and (though the horse shied) laid it
across one of the saddles, mounted, and rode at a foot-pace along the
road past a Tartar village from which a crowd came out to look at
them. The Cossacks on the Russian side of the river were highly
satisfied and jovial. Laughter and jokes were heard on all sides. The
captain and the head of the village entered the mud hut to regale
themselves. Lukashka, vainly striving to impart a sedate expression to
his merry face, sat down with his elbows on his knees beside Olenin
and whittled away at a stick.
'Why do you smoke?' he said with assumed curiosity. 'Is it good?'
He evidently spoke because he noticed Olenin felt ill at ease and
isolated among the Cossacks.
'It's just a habit,' answered Olenin. 'Why?'
'H'm, if one of us were to smoke there would be a row! Look there
now, the mountains are not far off,' continued Lukashka, 'yet you
can't get there! How will you get back alone? It's getting dark. I'll
take you, if you like. You ask the corporal to give me leave.'
'What a fine fellow!' thought Olenin, looking at the Cossack's
bright face. He remembered Maryanka and the kiss he had heard by the
gate, and he was sorry for Lukashka and his want of culture. 'What
confusion it is,' he thought. 'A man kills another and is happy and
satisfied with himself as if he had done something excellent. Can it
be that nothing tells him that it is not a reason for any rejoicing,
and that happiness lies not in killing, but in sacrificing oneself?'
'Well, you had better not meet him again now, mate!' said one of
the Cossacks who had seen the skiff off, addressing Lukashka. 'Did
you hear him asking about you?'
Lukashka raised his head.
'My godson?' said Lukashka, meaning by that word the dead Chechen.
'Your godson won't rise, but the red one is the godson's brother!'
'Let him thank God that he got off whole himself,' replied
'What are you glad about?' asked Olenin. 'Supposing your brother
had been killed; would you be glad?'
The Cossack looked at Olenin with laughing eyes. He seemed to have
understood all that Olenin wished to say to him, but to be above such
'Well, that happens too! Don't our fellows get killed sometimes?'
The Captain and the head of the village rode away, and Olenin, to
please Lukashka as well as to avoid going back alone through the dark
forest, asked the corporal to give Lukashka leave, and the corporal
did so. Olenin thought that Lukashka wanted to see Maryanka and he was
also glad of the companionship of such a pleasant-looking and sociable
Cossack. Lukashka and Maryanka he involuntarily united in his mind,
and he found pleasure in thinking about them. 'He loves Maryanka,'
thought Olenin, 'and I could love her,' and a new and powerful emotion
of tenderness overcame him as they walked homewards together through
the dark forest. Lukashka too felt happy; something akin to love made
itself felt between these two very different young men. Every time
they glanced at one another they wanted to laugh.
'By which gate do you enter?' asked Olenin.
'By the middle one. But I'll see you as far as the marsh. After
that you have nothing to fear.'
'Do you think I am afraid? Go back, and thank you. I can get on
'It's all right! What have I to do? And how can you help being
afraid? Even we are afraid,' said Lukashka to set Olenin's self-
esteem at rest, and he laughed too.
'Then come in with me. We'll have a talk and a drink and in the
morning you can go back.'
'Couldn't I find a place to spend the night?' laughed Lukashka.
'But the corporal asked me to go back.'
'I heard you singing last night, and also saw you.'
'Every one...' and Luke swayed his head.
'Is it true you are getting married?' asked Olenin.
'Mother wants me to marry. But I have not got a horse yet.'
'Aren't you in the regular service?'
'Oh dear no! I've only just joined, and have not got a horse yet,
and don't know how to get one. That's why the marriage does not come
'And what would a horse cost?'
'We were bargaining for one beyond the river the other day and
they would not take sixty rubles for it, though it is a Nogay horse.'
'Will you come and be my drabant?' (A drabant was a kind of
orderly attached to an officer when campaigning.) 'I'll get it
arranged and will give you a horse,' said Olenin suddenly. 'Really
now, I have two and I don't want both.'
'How—don't want it?' Lukashka said, laughing. 'Why should you
make me a present? We'll get on by ourselves by God's help.'
'No, really! Or don't you want to be a drabant?' said Olenin, glad
that it had entered his head to give a horse to Lukashka, though,
without knowing why, he felt uncomfortable and confused and did not
know what to say when he tried to speak.
Lukashka was the first to break the silence.
'Have you a house of your own in Russia?' he asked.
Olenin could not refrain from replying that he had not only one,
but several houses.
'A good house? Bigger than ours?' asked Lukashka good-naturedly.
'Much bigger; ten times as big and three storeys high,' replied
'And have you horses such as ours?'
'I have a hundred horses, worth three or four hundred rubles each,
but they are not like yours. They are trotters, you know.... But
still, I like the horses here best.'
'Well, and did you come here of your own free will, or were you
sent?' said Lukashka, laughing at him. 'Look! that's where you lost
your way,' he added, 'you should have turned to the right.'
'I came by my own wish,' replied Olenin. 'I wanted to see your
parts and to join some expeditions.'
'I would go on an expedition any day,' said Lukashka. 'D'you hear
the jackals howling?' he added, listening.
'I say, don't you feel any horror at having killed a man?' asked
'What's there to be frightened about? But I should like to join an
expedition,' Lukashka repeated. 'How I want to! How I want to!'
'Perhaps we may be going together. Our company is going before the
holidays, and your "hundred" too.'
'And what did you want to come here for? You've a house and horses
and serfs. In your place I'd do nothing but make merry! And what is
'I am a cadet, but have been recommended for a commission.'
'Well, if you're not bragging about your home, if I were you I'd
never have left it! Yes, I'd never have gone away anywhere. Do you
find it pleasant living among us?'
'Yes, very pleasant,' answered Olenin.
It had grown quite dark before, talking in this way, they
approached the village. They were still surrounded by the deep gloom
of the forest. The wind howled through the tree-tops. The jackals
suddenly seemed to be crying close beside them, howling, chuckling,
and sobbing; but ahead of them in the village the sounds of women's
voices and the barking of dogs could already be heard; the outlines of
the huts were clearly to be seen; lights gleamed and the air was
filled with the peculiar smell of kisyak smoke. Olenin felt keenly,
that night especially, that here in this village was his home, his
family, all his happiness, and that he never had and never would live
so happily anywhere as he did in this Cossack village. He was so fond
of everybody and especially of Lukashka that night. On reaching home,
to Lukashka's great surprise, Olenin with his own hands led out of the
shed a horse he had bought in Groznoe—it was not the one he usually
rode but another—not a bad horse though no longer young, and gave it
'Why should you give me a present?' said Lukashka, 'I have not yet
done anything for you.'
'Really it is nothing,' answered Olenin. 'Take it, and you will
give me a present, and we'll go on an expedition against the enemy
Lukashka became confused.
'But what d'you mean by it? As if a horse were of little value,'
he said without looking at the horse.
'Take it, take it! If you don't you will offend me. Vanyusha! Take
the grey horse to his house.'
Lukashka took hold of the halter.
'Well then, thank you! This is something unexpected, undreamt of.'
Olenin was as happy as a boy of twelve.
'Tie it up here. It's a good horse. I bought it in Groznoe; it
gallops splendidly! Vanyusha, bring us some chikhir. Come into the
The wine was brought. Lukashka sat down and took the wine-bowl.
'God willing I'll find a way to repay you,' he said, finishing his
wine. 'How are you called?'
'Well, 'Mitry Andreich, God bless you. We will be kunaks. Now you
must come to see us. Though we are not rich people still we can treat
a kunak, and I will tell mother in case you need anything— clotted
cream or grapes—and if you come to the cordon I'm your servant to go
hunting or to go across the river, anywhere you like! There now, only
the other day, what a boar I killed, and I divided it among the
Cossacks, but if I had only known, I'd have given it to you.' 'That's
all right, thank you! But don't harness the horse, it has never been
'Why harness the horse? And there is something else I'll tell you
if you like,' said Lukashka, bending his head. 'I have a kunak, Girey
Khan. He asked me to lie in ambush by the road where they come down
from the mountains. Shall we go together? I'll not betray you. I'll be
'Yes, we'll go; we'll go some day.'
Lukashka seemed quite to have quieted down and to have understood
Olenin's attitude towards him. His calmness and the ease of his
behaviour surprised Olenin, and he did not even quite like it. They
talked long, and it was late when Lukashka, not tipsy (he never was
tipsy) but having drunk a good deal, left Olenin after shaking hands.
Olenin looked out of the window to see what he would do. Lukashka
went out, hanging his head. Then, having led the horse out of the
gate, he suddenly shook his head, threw the reins of the halter over
its head, sprang onto its back like a cat, gave a wild shout, and
galloped down the street. Olenin expected that Lukishka would go to
share his joy with Maryanka, but though he did not do so Olenin still
felt his soul more at ease than ever before in his life. He was as
delighted as a boy, and could not refrain from telling Vanyusha not
only that he had given Lukashka the horse, but also why he had done
it, as well as his new theory of happiness. Vanyusha did not approve
of his theory, and announced that 'l'argent il n'y a pas!' and that
therefore it was all nonsense.
Lukashka rode home, jumped off the horse, and handed it over to
his mother, telling her to let it out with the communal Cossack herd.
He himself had to return to the cordon that same night. His deaf
sister undertook to take the horse, and explained by signs that when
she saw the man who had given the horse, she would bow down at his
feet. The old woman only shook her head at her son's story, and
decided in her own mind that he had stolen it. She therefore told the
deaf girl to take it to the herd before daybreak.
Lukashka went back alone to the cordon pondering over Olenin's
action. Though he did not consider the horse a good one, yet it was
worth at least forty rubles and Lukashka was very glad to have the
present. But why it had been given him he could not at all understand,
and therefore he did not experience the least feeling of gratitude. On
the contrary, vague suspicions that the cadet had some evil intentions
filled his mind. What those intentions were he could not decide, but
neither could he admit the idea that a stranger would give him a horse
worth forty rubles for nothing, just out of kindness; it seemed
impossible. Had he been drunk one might understand it! He might have
wished to show off. But the cadet had been sober, and therefore must
have wished to bribe him to do something wrong. 'Eh, humbug!' thought
Lukashka. 'Haven't I got the horse and we'll see later on. I'm not a
fool myself and we shall see who'll get the better of the other,' he
thought, feeling the necessity of being on his guard, and therefore
arousing in himself unfriendly feelings towards Olenin. He told no one
how he had got the horse. To some he said he had bought it, to others
he replied evasively. However, the truth soon got about in the
village, and Lukashka's mother and Maryanka, as well as Elias
Vasilich and other Cossacks, when they heard of Olenin's unnecessary
gift, were perplexed, and began to be on their guard against the
cadet. But despite their fears his action aroused in them a great
respect for his simplicity and wealth.
'Have you heard,' said one, 'that the cadet quartered on Elias
Vasilich has thrown a fifty-ruble horse at Lukashka? He's rich! ...'
'Yes, I heard of it,' replied another profoundly, 'he must have
done him some great service. We shall see what will come of this
cadet. Eh! what luck that Snatcher has!'
'Those cadets are crafty, awfully crafty,' said a third. 'See if
he don't go setting fire to a building, or doing something!'
Olenin's life went on with monotonous regularity. He had little
intercourse with the commanding officers or with his equals. The
position of a rich cadet in the Caucasus was peculiarly advantageous
in this respect. He was not sent out to work, or for training. As a
reward for going on an expedition he was recommended for a commission,
and meanwhile he was left in peace. The officers regarded him as an
aristocrat and behaved towards him with dignity. Cardplaying and the
officers' carousals accompanied by the soldier-singers, of which he
had had experience when he was with the detachment, did not seem to
him attractive, and he also avoided the society and life of the
officers in the village. The life of officers stationed in a Cossack
village has long had its own definite form. Just as every cadet or
officer when in a fort regularly drinks porter, plays cards, and
discusses the rewards given for taking part in the expeditions, so in
the Cossack villages he regularly drinks chikhir with his hosts,
treats the girls to sweet-meats and honey, dangles after the Cossack
women, and falls in love, and occasionally marries there. Olenin
always took his own path and had an unconscious objection to the
beaten tracks. And here, too, he did not follow the ruts of a
Caucasian officer's life.
It came quite naturally to him to wake up at daybreak. After
drinking tea and admiring from his porch the mountains, the morning,
and Maryanka, he would put on a tattered ox-hide coat, sandals of
soaked raw hide, buckle on a dagger, take a gun, put cigarettes and
some lunch in a little bag, call his dog, and soon after five o'clock
would start for the forest beyond the village. Towards seven in the
evening he would return tired and hungry with five or six pheasants
hanging from his belt (sometimes with some other animal) and with his
bag of food and cigarettes untouched. If the thoughts in his head had
lain like the lunch and cigarettes in the bag, one might have seen
that during all those fourteen hours not a single thought had moved in
it. He returned morally fresh, strong, and perfectly happy, and he
could not tell what he had been thinking about all the time. Were they
ideas, memories, or dreams that had been flitting through his mind?
They were frequently all three. He would rouse himself and ask what he
had been thinking about; and would see himself as a Cossack working in
a vineyard with his Cossack wife, or an abrek in the mountains, or a
boar running away from himself. And all the time he kept peering and
watching for a pheasant, a boar, or a deer.
In the evening Daddy Eroshka would be sure to be sitting with him.
Vanyusha would bring a jug of chikhir, and they would converse
quietly, drink, and separate to go quite contentedly to bed. The next
day he would again go shooting, again be healthily weary, again they
would sit conversing and drink their fill, and again be happy.
Sometimes on a holiday or day of rest Olenin spent the whole day at
home. Then his chief occupation was watching Maryanka, whose every
movement, without realizing it himself, he followed greedily from his
window or his porch. He regarded Maryanka and loved her (so he
thought) just as he loved the beauty of the mountains and the sky, and
he had no thought of entering into any relations with her. It seemed
to him that between him and her such relations as there were between
her and the Cossack Lukashka could not exist, and still less such as
often existed between rich officers and other Cossack girls. It seemed
to him that if he tried to do as his fellow officers did, he would
exchange his complete enjoyment of contemplation for an abyss of
suffering, disillusionment, and remorse. Besides, he had already
achieved a triumph of self-sacrifice in connexion with her which had
given him great pleasure, and above all he was in a way afraid of
Maryanka and would not for anything have ventured to utter a word of
love to her lightly.
Once during the summer, when Olenin had not gone out shooting but
was sitting at home, quite unexpectedly a Moscow acquaintance, a very
young man whom he had met in society, came in.
'Ah, mon cher, my dear fellow, how glad I was when I heard that
you were here!' he began in his Moscow French, and he went on
intermingling French words in his remarks. 'They said, "Olenin". What
Olenin? and I was so pleased.... Fancy fate bringing us together here!
Well, and how are you? How? Why?' and Prince Beletski told his whole
story: how he had temporarily entered the regiment, how the.
Commander-in-Chief had offered to take him as an adjutant, and how he
would take up the post after this campaign although personally he felt
quite indifferent about it.
'Living here in this hole one must at least make a career—get a
cross—or a rank—be transferred to the Guards. That is quite
indispensable, not for myself but for the sake of my relations and
friends. The prince received me very well; he is a very decent
fellow,' said Beletski, and went on unceasingly. 'I have been
recommended for the St. Anna Cross for the expedition. Now I shall
stay here a bit until we start on the campaign. It's capital here.
What women! Well, and how are you getting on? I was told by our
captain, Startsev you know, a kind-hearted stupid creature.... Well,
he said you were living like an awful savage, seeing no one! I quite
understand you don't want to be mixed up with the set of officers we
have here. I am so glad now you and I will be able to see something of
one another. I have put up at the Cossack corporal's house. There is
such a girl there. Ustenka! I tell you she's just charming.'
And more and more French and Russian words came pouring forth from
that world which Olenin thought he had left for ever. The general
opinion about Beletski was that he was a nice, good-natured fellow.
Perhaps he really was; but in spite of his pretty, good- natured face,
Olenin thought him extremely unpleasant. He seemed just to exhale that
filthiness which Olenin had forsworn. What vexed him most was that he
could not—had not the strength— abruptly to repulse this man who
came from that world: as if that old world he used to belong to had an
irresistible claim on him. Olenin felt angry with Beletski and with
himself, yet against his wish he introduced French phrases into his
own conversation, was interested in the Commander-in-Chief and in
their Moscow acquaintances, and because in this Cossack village he and
Beletski both spoke French, he spoke contemptuously of their fellow
officers and of the Cossacks, and was friendly with Beletski,
promising to visit him and inviting him to drop in to see him. Olenin
however did not himself go to see Beletski. Vanyusha for his part
approved of Beletski, remarking that he was a real gentleman.
Beletski at once adopted the customary life of a rich officer in a
Cossack village. Before Olenin's eyes, in one month he came to be
like an old resident of the village; he made the old men drunk,
arranged evening parties, and himself went to parties arranged by the
girls—bragged of his conquests, and even got so far that, for some
unknown reason, the women and girls began calling him grandad, and the
Cossacks, to whom a man who loved wine and women was clearly
understandable, got used to him and even liked him better than they
did Olenin, who was a puzzle to them.
It was five in the morning. Vanyusha was in the porch heating the
samovar, and using the leg of a long boot instead of bellows. Olenin
had already ridden off to bathe in the Terek. (He had recently
invented a new amusement: to swim his horse in the river.) His
landlady was in her outhouse, and the dense smoke of the kindling fire
rose from the chimney. The girl was milking the buffalo cow in the
shed. 'Can't keep quiet, the damned thing!' came her impatient voice,
followed by the rhythmical sound of milking.
From the street in front of the house horses' hoofs were heard
clattering briskly, and Olenin, riding bareback on a handsome
dark-grey horse which was still wet and shining, rode up to the gate.
Maryanka's handsome head, tied round with a red kerchief, appeared
from the shed and again disappeared. Olenin was wearing a red silk
shirt, a white Circassian coat girdled with a strap which carried a
dagger, and a tall cap. He sat his well-fed wet horse with a slightly
conscious elegance and, holding his gun at his back, stooped to open
the gate. His hair was still wet, and his face shone with youth and
health. He thought himself handsome, agile, and like a brave; but he
was mistaken. To any experienced Caucasian he was still only a
soldier. When he noticed that the girl had put out her head he stooped
with particular rested on the ground without altering their shape; how
her strong arms with the sleeves rolled up, exerting the muscles, used
the spade almost as if in anger, and how her deep dark eyes sometimes
glanced at him. Though the delicate brows frowned, yet her eyes
expressed pleasure and a knowledge of her own beauty.
'I say, Olenin, have you been up long?' said Beletski as he
entered the yard dressed in the coat of a Caucasian officer.
'Ah, Beletski,' replied Olenin, holding out his hand. 'How is it
you are out so early?'
'I had to. I was driven out; we are having a ball tonight.
Maryanka, of course you'll come to Ustenka's?' he added, turning to
Olenin felt surprised that Beletski could address this woman so
easily. But Maryanka, as though she had not heard him, bent her head,
and throwing the spade across her shoulder went with her firm
masculine tread towards the outhouse.
'She's shy, the wench is shy,' Beletski called after her. 'Shy of
you,' he added as, smiling gaily, he ran up the steps of the porch.
'How is it you are having a ball and have been driven out?'
'It's at Ustenka's, at my landlady's, that the ball is, and you
two are invited. A ball consists of a pie and a gathering of girls.'
'What should we do there?'
Beletski smiled knowingly and winked, jerking his head in the
direction of the outhouse into which Maryanka had disappeared.
Olenin shrugged his shoulders and blushed.
'Well, really you are a strange fellow!' said he.
'Come now, don't pretend'
Olenin frowned, and Beletski noticing this smiled insinuatingly.
'Oh, come, what do you mean?' he said, 'living in the same house—
and such a fine girl, a splendid girl, a perfect beauty'
'Wonderfully beautiful! I never saw such a woman before,' replied
'Well then?' said Beletski, quite unable to understand the
'It may be strange,' replied Olenin, 'but why should I not say
what is true? Since I have lived here women don't seem to exist for
me. And it is so good, really! Now what can there be in common between
us and women like these? Eroshka—that's a different matter! He and I
have a passion in common—sport.'
'There now! In common! And what have I in common with Amalia
Ivanovna? It's the same thing! You may say they're not very clean-
-that's another matter... A la guerre, comme a la guerre! ...'
'But I have never known any Amalia Ivanovas, and have never known
how to behave with women of that sort,' replied Olenin. 'One cannot
respect them, but these I do respect.'
'Well go on respecting them! Who wants to prevent you?'
Olenin did not reply. He evidently wanted to complete. what he had
begun to say. It was very near his heart.
'I know I am an exception...' He was visibly confused. 'But my
life has so shaped itself that I not only see no necessity to
renounce my rules, but I could not live here, let alone live as
happily as I am doing, were I to live as you do. Therefore I look for
something quite different from what you look for.'
Beletski raised his eyebrows incredulously. 'Anyhow, come to me
this evening; Maryanka will be there and I will make you acquainted.
Do come, please! If you feel dull you can go away. Will you come?'
'I would come, but to speak frankly I am afraid of being'
seriously carried away.'
'Oh, oh, oh!' shouted Beletski. 'Only come, and I'll see that you
aren't. Will you? On your word?'
'I would come, but really I don't understand what we shall do;
what part we shall play!'
'Please, I beg of you. You will come?'
'Yes, perhaps I'll come,' said Olenin.
'Really now! Charming women such as one sees nowhere else, and to
live like a monk! What an idea! Why spoil your life and not make use
of what is at hand? Have you heard that our company is ordered to
'Hardly. I was told the 8th Company would be sent there,' said
'No. I have had a letter from the adjutant there. He writes that
the Prince himself will take part in the campaign. I am very glad I
shall see something of him. I'm beginning to get tired of this place.'
'I hear we shall start on a raid soon.'
'I have not heard of it; but I have heard that Krinovitsin has
received the Order of St. Anna for a raid. He expected a
lieutenancy,' said Beletski laughing. 'He was let in! He has set off
It was growing dusk and Olenin began thinking about the party. The
invitation he had received worried him. He felt inclined to go, but
what might take place there seemed strange, absurd, and even rather
alarming. He knew that neither Cossack men nor older women, nor anyone
besides the girls, were to be there. What was going to happen? How was
he to behave? What would they talk about? What connexion was there
between him and those wild Cossack girls? Beletski had told him of
such curious, cynical, and yet rigid relations. It seemed strange to
think that he would be there in the same hut with Maryanka and perhaps
might have to talk to her. It seemed to him impossible when he
remembered her majestic bearing. But Beletski spoke of it as if it
were all perfectly simple. 'Is it possible that Beletski will treat
Maryanka in the same way? That is interesting,' thought he. 'No,
better not go. It's all so horrid, so vulgar, and above all—it leads
to nothing!' But again he was worried by the question of what would
take place; and besides he felt as if bound by a promise. He went out
without having made up his mind one way or the other, but he walked as
far as Beletski's, and went in there.
The hut in which Beletski lived was like Olenin's. It was raised
nearly five feet from the ground on wooden piles, and had two rooms.
In the first (which Olenin entered by the steep flight of steps)
feather beds, rugs, blankets, and cushions were tastefully and
handsomely arranged, Cossack fashion, along the main wall. On the side
wall hung brass basins and weapons, while on the floor, under a bench,
lay watermelons and pumpkins. In the second room there was a big brick
oven, a table, and sectarian icons. It was here that Beletski was
quartered, with his camp-bed and his pack and trunks. His weapons hung
on the wall with a little rug behind them, and on the table were his
toilet appliances and some portraits. A silk dressing-gown had been
thrown on the bench. Beletski himself, clean and good-looking, lay on
the bed in his underclothing, reading Les Trois Mousquetaires.
He jumped up.
'There, you see how I have arranged things. Fine! Well, it's good
that you have come. They are working furiously. Do you know what the
pie is made of? Dough with a stuffing of pork and grapes. But that's
not the point. You just look at the commotion out there!'
And really, on looking out of the window they saw an unusual
bustle going on in the hut. Girls ran in and out, now for one thing
and now for another.
'Will it soon be ready?' cried Beletski.
'Very soon! Why? Is Grandad hungry?' and from the hut came the
sound of ringing laughter.
Ustenka, plump, small, rosy, and pretty, with her sleeves turned
up, ran into Beletski's hut to fetch some plates.
'Get away or I shall smash the plates!' she squeaked, escaping
from Beletski. 'You'd better come and help,' she shouted to Olenin,
laughing. 'And don't forget to get some refreshments for the girls.'
('Refreshments' meaning spicebread and sweets.)
'And has Maryanka come?'
'Of course! She brought some dough.'
'Do you know,' said Beletski, 'if one were to dress Ustenka up and
clean and polish her up a bit, she'd be better than all our beauties.
Have you ever seen that Cossack woman who married a colonel; she was
charming! Borsheva? What dignity! Where do they get it...'
'I have not seen Borsheva, but I think nothing could be better
than the costume they wear here.'
'Ah, I'm first-rate at fitting into any kind of life,' said
Beletski with a sigh of pleasure. 'I'll go and see what they are up
He threw his dressing-gown over his shoulders and ran out,
shouting, 'And you look after the "refreshments".'
Olenin sent Beletski's orderly to buy spice-bread and honey; but
it suddenly seemed to him so disgusting to give money (as if he were
bribing someone) that he gave no definite reply to the orderly's
question: 'How much spice-bread with peppermint, and how much with
'Just as you please.'
'Shall I spend all the money,' asked the old soldier impressively.
'The peppermint is dearer. It's sixteen kopeks.'
'Yes, yes, spend it all,' answered Olenin and sat down by the
window, surprised that his heart was thumping as if he were preparing
himself for something serious and wicked.
He heard screaming and shrieking in the girls' hut when Beletski
went there, and a few moments later saw how he jumped out and ran
down the steps, accompanied by shrieks, bustle, and laughter.
'Turned out,' he said.
A little later Ustenka entered and solemnly invited her visitors
to come in: announcing that all was ready.
When they came into the room they saw that everything was really
ready. Ustenka was rearranging the cushions along the wall. On the
table, which was covered by a disproportionately small cloth, was a
decanter of chikhir and some dried fish. The room smelt of dough and
grapes. Some half dozen girls in smart tunics, with their heads not
covered as usual with kerchiefs, were huddled together in a corner
behind the oven, whispering, giggling, and spluttering with laughter.
'I humbly beg you to do honour to my patron saint,' said Ustenka,
inviting her guests to the table.
Olenin noticed Maryanka among the group of girls, who without
exception were all handsome, and he felt vexed and hurt that he met
her in such vulgar and awkward circumstances. He felt stupid and
awkward, and made up his mind to do what Beletski did. Beletski
stepped to the table somewhat solemnly yet with confidence and ease,
drank a glass of wine to Ustenka's health, and invited the others to
do the same. Ustenka announced that girls don't drink. 'We might with
a little honey,' exclaimed a voice from among the group of girls. The
orderly, who had just returned with the honey and spice-cakes, was
called in. He looked askance (whether with envy or with contempt) at
the gentlemen, who in his opinion were on the spree; and carefully and
conscientiously handed over to them a piece of honeycomb and the
cakes wrapped up in a piece of greyish paper, and began explaining
circumstantially all about the price and the change, but Beletski
sent him away. Having mixed honey with wine in the glasses, and
having lavishly scattered the three pounds of spice-cakes on the
table, Beletski dragged the girls from their comers by force, made
them sit down at the table, and began distributing the cakes among
them. Olenin involuntarily noticed how Maryanka's sunburnt but small
hand closed on two round peppermint nuts and one brown one, and that
she did not know what to do with them. The conversation was halting
and constrained, in spite of Ustenka's and Beletski's free and easy
manner and their wish to enliven the company. Olenin faltered, and
tried to think of something to say, feeling that he was exciting
curiosity and perhaps provoking ridicule and infecting the others with
his shyness. He blushed, and it seemed to him that Maryanka in
particular was feeling uncomfortable. 'Most likely they are expecting
us to give them some money,' thought he. 'How are we to do it? And how
can we manage quickest to give it and get away?'
'How is it you don't know your own lodger?' said Beletski,
'How is one to know him if he never comes to see us?' answered
Maryanka, with a look at Olenin.
Olenin felt frightened, he did not know of what. He flushed and,
hardly knowing what he was saying, remarked: 'I'm afraid of your
mother. She gave me such a scolding the first time I went in.'
Maryanka burst out laughing. 'And so you were frightened?' she
said, and glanced at him and turned away.
It was the first time Olenin had seen the whole of her beautiful
face. Till then he had seen her with her kerchief covering her to the
eyes. It was not for nothing that she was reckoned the beauty of the
village. Ustenka was a pretty girl, small, plump, rosy, with merry
brown eyes, and red lips which were perpetually smiling and
chattering. Maryanka on the contrary was certainly not pretty but
beautiful. Her features might have been considered too masculine and
almost harsh had it not been for her tall stately figure, her powerful
chest and shoulders, and especially the severe yet tender expression
of her long dark eyes which were darkly shadowed beneath their black
brows, and for the gentle expression of her mouth and smile. She
rarely smiled, but her smile was always striking. She seemed to
radiate virginal strength and health. All the girls were good-looking,
but they themselves and Beletski, and the orderly when he brought in
the spice-cakes, all involuntarily gazed at Maryanka, and anyone
addressing the girls was sure to address her. She seemed a proud and
happy queen among them.
Beletski, trying to keep up the spirit of the party, chattered
incessantly, made the girls hand round chikhir, fooled about with
them, and kept making improper remarks in French about Maryanka's
beauty to Olenin, calling her 'yours' (la votre), and advising him to
behave as he did himself. Olenin felt more and more uncomfortable. He
was devising an excuse to get out and run away when Beletski announced
that Ustenka, whose saint's day it was, must offer chikhir to
everybody with a kiss. She consented on condition that they should put
money on her plate, as is the custom at weddings.
'What fiend brought me to this disgusting feast?' thought Olenin,
rising to go away.
'Where are you off to?'
'I'll fetch some tobacco,' he said, meaning to escape, but
Beletski seized his hand.
'I have some money,' he said to him in French.
'One can't go away, one has to pay here,' thought Olenin bitterly,
vexed at his own awkwardness. 'Can't I really behave like Beletski? I
ought not to have come, but once I am here I must not spoil their fun.
I must drink like a Cossack,' and taking the wooden bowl (holding
about eight tumblers) he almost filled it with chikhir and drank it
almost all. The girls looked at him, surprised and almost frightened,
as he drank. It seemed to them strange and not right. Ustenka brought
them another glass each, and kissed them both. 'There girls, now we'll
have some fun,' she said, clinking on the plate the four rubles the
men had put there.
Olenin no longer felt awkward, but became talkative.
'Now, Maryanka, it's your turn to offer us wine and a kiss,' said
Beletski, seizing her hand.
'Yes, I'll give you such a kiss!' she said playfully, preparing to
strike at him.
'One can kiss Grandad without payment,' said another girl.
'There's a sensible girl,' said Beletski, kissing the struggling
girl. 'No, you must offer it,' he insisted, addressing Maryanka.
'Offer a glass to your lodger.'
And taking her by the hand he led her to the bench and sat her
down beside Olenin.
'What a beauty,' he said, turning her head to see it in profile.
Maryanka did not resist but proudly smiling turned her long eyes
'A beautiful girl,' repeated Beletski.
'Yes, see what a beauty I am,' Maryanka's look seemed to endorse.
Without considering what he was doing Olenin embraced Maryanka and
was going to kiss her, but she suddenly extricated herself, upsetting
Beletski and pushing the top off the table, and sprang away towards
the oven. There was much shouting and laughter. Then Beletski
whispered something to the girls and suddenly they all ran out into
the passage and locked the door behind them.
'Why did you kiss Beletski and won't kiss me?' asked Olenin.
'Oh, just so. I don't want to, that's all!' she answered, pouting
and frowning. 'He's Grandad,' she added with a smile. She went to the
door and began to bang at it. 'Why have you locked the door, you
'Well, let them be there and us here,' said Olenin, drawing closer
She frowned, and sternly pushed him away with her hand. And again
she appeared so majestically handsome to Olenin that he came to his
senses and felt ashamed of what he was doing. He went to the door and
began pulling at it himself.
'Beletski! Open the door! What a stupid joke!'
Maryanka again gave a bright happy laugh. 'Ah, you're afraid of
me?' she said.
'Yes, you know you're as cross as your mother.'
'Spend more of your time with Eroshka; that will make the girls
love you!' And she smiled, looking straight and close into his eyes.
He did not know what to reply. 'And if I were to come to see you—
' he let fall.
'That would be a different matter,' she replied, tossing her head.
At that moment Beletski pushed the door open, and Maryanka sprang
away from Olenin and in doing so her thigh struck his leg.
'It's all nonsense what I have been thinking about—love and self-
sacrifice and Lukashka. Happiness is the one thing. He who is happy
is right,' flashed through Olenin's mind, and with a strength
unexpected to himself he seized and kissed the beautiful Maryanka on
her temple and her cheek. Maryanka was not angry, but only burst into
a loud laugh and ran out to the other girls.
That was the end of the party. Ustenka's mother, returned from her
work, gave all the girls a scolding, and turned them all out.
'Yes,' thought Olenin, as he walked home. 'I need only slacken the
reins a bit and I might fall desperately in love with this Cossack
girl.' He went to bed with these thoughts, but expected it all to
blow over and that he would continue to live as before.
But the old life did not return. His relations to Maryanka were
changed. The wall that had separated them was broken down. Olenin now
greeted her every time they met.
The master of the house having returned to collect the rent, on
hearing of Olenin's wealth and generosity invited him to his hut. The
old woman received him kindly, and from the day of the party onwards
Olenin often went in of an evening and sat with them till late at
night. He seemed to be living in the village just as he used to, but
within him everything had changed. He spent his days in the forest,
and towards eight o'clock, when it began to grow dusk, he would go to
see his hosts, alone or with Daddy Eroshka. They grew so used to him
that they were surprised when he stayed away. He paid well for his
wine and was a quiet fellow. Vanyusha would bring him his tea and he
would sit down in a comer near the oven. The old woman did not mind
him but went on with her work, and over their tea or their chikhir
they talked about Cossack affairs, about the neighbours, or about
Russia: Olenin relating and the others inquiring. Sometimes he brought
a book and read to himself. Maryanka crouched like a wild goat with
her feet drawn up under her, sometimes on the top of the oven,
sometimes in a dark comer. She did not take part in the conversations,
but Olenin saw her eyes and face and heard her moving or cracking
sunflower seeds, and he felt that she listened with her whole being
when he spoke, and was aware of his presence while he silently read to
himself. Sometimes he thought her eyes were fixed on him, and meeting
their radiance he involuntarily became silent and gazed at her. Then
she would instantly hide her face and he would pretend to be deep in
conversation with the old woman, while he listened all the time to her
breathing and to her every movement and waited for her to look at him
again. In the presence of others she was generally bright and friendly
with him, but when they were alone together she was shy and rough.
Sometimes he came in before Maryanka had returned home. Suddenly he
would hear her firm footsteps and catch a glimmer of her blue cotton
smock at the open door. Then she would step into the middle of the
hut, catch sight of him, and her eyes would give a scarcely
perceptible kindly smile, and he would feel happy and frightened.
He neither sought for nor wished for anything from her, but every
day her presence became more and more necessary to him.
Olenin had entered into the life of the Cossack village so fully
that his past seemed quite foreign to him. As to the future,
especially a future outside the world in which he was now living, it
did not interest him at all. When he received letters from home, from
relatives and friends, he was offended by the evident distress with
which they regarded him as a lost man, while he in his village
considered those as lost who did not live as he was living. He felt
sure he would never repent of having broken away from his former
surroundings and of having settled down in this village to such a
solitary and original life. When out on expeditions, and when
quartered at one of the forts, he felt happy too; but it was here,
from under Daddy Eroshka's wing, from the forest and from his hut at
the end of the village, and especially when he thought of Maryanka and
Lukashka, that he seemed to see the falseness of his former life. That
falseness used to rouse his indignation even before, but now it seemed
inexpressibly vile and ridiculous. Here he felt freer and freer every
day and more and more of a man. The Caucasus now appeared entirely
different to what his imagination had painted it. He had found nothing
at all like his dreams, nor like the descriptions of the Caucasus he
had heard and read. 'There are none of all those chestnut steeds,
precipices, Amalet Beks, heroes or villains,' thought he. 'The people
live as nature lives: they die, are born, unite, and more are
born—they fight, eat and drink, rejoice and die, without any
restrictions but those that nature imposes on sun and grass, on
animal and tree. They have no other laws.' Therefore these people,
compared to himself, appeared to him beautiful, strong, and free, and
the sight of them made him feel ashamed and sorry for himself. Often
it seriously occurred to him to throw up everything, to get registered
as a Cossack, to buy a hut and cattle and marry a Cossack woman (only
not Maryanka, whom he conceded to Lukashka), and to live with Daddy
Eroshka and go shooting and fishing with him, and go with the Cossacks
on their expeditions. 'Why ever don't I do it? What am I waiting for?'
he asked himself, and he egged himself on and shamed himself. 'Am I
afraid of doing what I hold to be reasonable and right? Is the wish to
be a simple Cossack, to live close to nature, not to injure anyone but
even to do good to others, more stupid than my former dreams, such as
those of becoming a minister of state or a colonel?' but a voice
seemed to say that he should wait, and not take any decision. He was
held back by a dim consciousness that he could not live altogether
like Eroshka and Lukashka because he had a different idea of
happiness—he was held back by the thought that happiness lies in
self-sacrifice. What he had done for Lukashka continued to give him
joy. He kept looking for occasions to sacrifice himself for others,
but did not meet with them. Sometimes he forgot this newly discovered
recipe for happiness and considered himself capable of identifying his
life with Daddy Eroshka's, but then he quickly bethought himself and
promptly clutched at the idea of conscious self-sacrifice, and from
that basis looked calmly and proudly at all men and at their
Just before the vintage Lukashka came on horseback to see Olenin.
He looked more dashing than ever. 'Well? Are you getting married?'
asked Olenin, greeting him merrily.
Lukashka gave no direct reply.
'There, I've exchanged your horse across the river. This is a
horse! A Kabarda horse from the Lov stud. I know horses.'
They examined the new horse and made him caracole about the yard.
The horse really was an exceptionally fine one, a broad and long
gelding, with glossy coat, thick silky tail, and the soft fine mane
and crest of a thoroughbred. He was so well fed that 'you might go to
sleep on his back' as Lukashka expressed it. His hoofs, eyes, teeth,
were exquisitely shaped and sharply outlined, as one only finds them
in very pure-bred horses. Olenin could not help admiring the horse, he
had not yet met with such a beauty in the Caucasus.
'And how it goes!' said Lukashka, patting its neck. 'What a step!
And so clever—he simply runs after his master.'
'Did you have to add much to make the exchange?' asked Olenin.
'I did not count it,' answered Lukashka with a smile. 'I got him
from a kunak.'
'A wonderfully beautiful horse! What would you take for it?' asked
'I have been offered a hundred and fifty rubles for it, but I'll
give it you for nothing,' said Lukashka, merrily. 'Only say the word
and it's yours. I'll unsaddle it and you may take it. Only give me
some sort of a horse for my duties.'
'No, on no account.'
'Well then, here is a dagger I've brought you,' said Lukashka,
unfastening his girdle and taking out one of the two daggers which
hung from it. 'I got it from across the river.'
'Oh, thank you!'
'And mother has promised to bring you some grapes herself.'
'That's quite unnecessary. We'll balance up some day. You see I
don't offer you any money for the dagger!'
'How could you? We are kunaks. It's just the same as when Girey
Khan across the river took me into his home and said,
"Choose what you like!" So I took this sword. It's our custom.'
They went into the hut and had a drink.
'Are you staying here awhile?' asked Olenin.
'No, I have come to say good-bye. They are sending me from the
cordon to a company beyond the Terek. I am going to-night with my
'And when is the wedding to be?'
'I shall be coming back for the betrothal, and then I shall return
to the company again,' Lukashka replied reluctantly.
'What, and see nothing of your betrothed?'
'Just so—what is the good of looking at her? When you go on
campaign ask in our company for Lukashka the Broad. But what a lot of
boars there are in our parts! I've killed two. I'll take you.' 'Well,
good-bye! Christ save you.'
Lukashka mounted his horse, and without calling on Maryanka, rode
caracoling down the street, where Nazarka was already awaiting him.
'I say, shan't we call round?' asked Nazarka, winking in the
direction of Yamka's house.
'That's a good one!' said Lukashka. 'Here, take my horse to her
and if I don't come soon give him some hay. I shall reach the company
by the morning anyway.'
'Hasn't the cadet given you anything more?'
'I am thankful to have paid him back with a dagger—he was going
to ask for the horse,' said Lukashka, dismounting and handing over
the horse to Nazarka.
He darted into the yard past Olenin's very window, and came up to
the window of the cornet's hut. It was already quite dark. Maryanka,
wearing only her smock, was combing her hair preparing for bed.
'It's I—' whispered the Cossack.
Maryanka's look was severely indifferent, but her face suddenly
brightened up when she heard her name. She opened the window and
leant out, frightened and joyous.
'What—what do you want?' she said.
'Open!' uttered Lukashka. 'Let me in for a minute. I am so sick of
waiting! It's awful!'
He took hold of her head through the window and kissed her.
'Really, do open!'
'Why do you talk nonsense? I've told you I won't! Have you come
He did not answer but went on kissing her, and she did not ask
'There, through the window one can't even hug you properly,' said
'Maryanka dear!' came the voice of her mother, 'who is that with
Lukashka took off his cap, which might have been seen, and
crouched down by the window.
'Go, be quick!' whispered Maryanka.
'Lukashka called round,' she answered; 'he was asking for Daddy.'
'Well then send him here!'
'He's gone; said he was in a hurry.'
In fact, Lukashka, stooping, as with big strides he passed under
the windows, ran out through the yard and towards Yamka's house
unseen by anyone but Olenin. After drinking two bowls of chikhir he
and Nazarka rode away to the outpost. The night was warm, dark, and
calm. They rode in silence, only the footfall of their horses was
heard. Lukashka started a song about the Cossack, Mingal, but stopped
before he had finished the first verse, and after a pause, turning to
'I say, she wouldn't let me in!'
'Oh?' rejoined Nazarka. 'I knew she wouldn't. D'you know what
Yamka told me? The cadet has begun going to their house. Daddy
Eroshka brags that he got a gun from the cadet for getting him
'He lies, the old devil!' said Lukashka, angrily. 'She's not such
a girl. If he does not look out I'll wallop that old devil's sides,'
and he began his favourite song:
'From the village of Izmaylov,
From the master's favourite garden,
Once escaped a keen-eyed falcon.
Soon after him a huntsman came a-riding,
And he beckoned to the falcon that had strayed,
But the bright-eyed bird thus answered:
"In gold cage you could not keep me,
On your hand you could not hold me,
So now I fly to blue seas far away.
There a white swan I will kill,
Of sweet swan-flesh have my fill."'
The bethrothal was taking place in the cornet's hut. Lukashka had
returned to the village, but had not been to see Olenin, and Olenin
had not gone to the betrothal though he had been invited. He was sad
as he had never been since he settled in this Cossack village. He had
seen Lukashka earlier in the evening and was worried by the question
why Lukashka was so cold towards him. Olenin shut himself up in his
hut and began writing in his diary as follows:
'Many things have I pondered over lately and much have I changed,'
wrote he, 'and I have come back to the copybook maxim: The one way to
be happy is to love, to love self-denyingly, to love everybody and
everything; to spread a web of love on all sides and to take all who
come into it. In this way I caught Vanyusha, Daddy Eroshka, Lukashka,
As Olenin was finishing this sentence Daddy Eroshka entered the
Eroshka was in the happiest frame of mind. A few evenings before
this, Olenin had gone to see him and had found him with a proud and
happy face deftly skinning the carcass of a boar with a small knife in
the yard. The dogs (Lyam his pet among them) were lying close by
watching what he was doing and gently wagging their tails. The little
boys were respectfully looking at him through the fence and not even
teasing him as was their wont. His women neighbours, who were as a
rule not too gracious towards him, greeted him and brought him, one a
jug of chikhir, another some clotted cream, and a third a little
flour. The next day Eroshka sat in his store-room all covered with
blood, and distributed pounds of boar-flesh, taking in payment money
from some and wine from others. His face clearly expressed, 'God has
sent me luck. I have killed a boar, so now I am wanted.' Consequently,
he naturally began to drink, and had gone on for four days never
leaving the village. Besides which he had had something to drink at
He came to Olenin quite drunk: his face red, his beard tangled,
but wearing a new beshmet trimmed with gold braid; and he brought
with him a balalayka which he had obtained beyond the river. He had
long promised Olenin this treat, and felt in the mood for it, so that
he was sorry to find Olenin writing.
'Write on, write on, my lad,' he whispered, as if he thought that
a spirit sat between him and the paper and must not be frightened
away, and he softly and silently sat down on the floor. When Daddy
Eroshka was drunk his favourite position was on the floor. Olenin
looked round, ordered some wine to be brought, and continued to
write. Eroshka found it dull to drink by himself and he wished to
'I've been to the betrothal at the cornet's. But there! They're
shwine!—Don't want them!—Have come to you.'
'And where did you get your balalayka asked Olenin, still writing.
'I've been beyond the river and got it there, brother mine,' he
answered, also very quietly. 'I'm a master at it. Tartar or Cossack,
squire or soldiers' songs, any kind you please.'
Olenin looked at him again, smiled, and went on writing.
That smile emboldened the old man.
'Come, leave off, my lad, leave off!' he said with sudden
'Well, perhaps I will.'
'Come, people have injured you but leave them alone, spit at them!
Come, what's the use of writing and writing, what's the good?'
And he tried to mimic Olenin by tapping the floor with his thick
fingers, and then twisted his big face to express contempt.
'What's the good of writing quibbles. Better have a spree and show
you're a man!'
No other conception of writing found place in his head except that
of legal chicanery.
Olenin burst out laughing and so did Eroshka. Then, jumping up
from the floor, the latter began to show off his skill on the
balalayka and to sing Tartar songs.
'Why write, my good fellow! You'd better listen to what I'll sing
to you. When you're dead you won't hear any more songs. Make merry
First he sang a song of his own composing accompanied by a dance:
'Ah, dee, dee, dee, dee, dee, dim, Say where did they last see
him? In a booth, at the fair, He was selling pins, there.'
Then he sang a song he had learnt from his former sergeant-major:
'Deep I fell in love on Monday, Tuesday nothing did but sigh,
Wednesday I popped the question, Thursday waited her reply. Friday,
late, it came at last, Then all hope for me was past! Saturday my life
to take I determined like a man, But for my salvation's sake Sunday
morning changed my plan!'
Then he sang again:
'Oh dee, dee, dee, dee, dee, dim, Say where did they last see
And after that, winking, twitching his shoulders, and footing it
to the tune, he sang:
'I will kiss you and embrace, Ribbons red twine round you; And
I'll call you little Grace. Oh, you little Grace now do Tell me, do
you love me true?'
And he became so excited that with a sudden dashing movement he
started dancing around the room accompanying himself the while.
Songs like 'Dee, dee, dee'—'gentlemen's songs'—he sang for
Olenin's benefit, but after drinking three more tumblers of chikhir
he remembered old times and began singing real Cossack and Tartar
songs. In the midst of one of his favourite songs his voice suddenly
trembled and he ceased singing, and only continued strumming on the
'Oh, my dear friend!' he said.
The peculiar sound of his voice made Olenin look round.
The old man was weeping. Tears stood in his eyes and one tear was
running down his cheek.
'You are gone, my young days, and will never come back!' he said,
blubbering and halting. 'Drink, why don't you drink!' he suddenly
shouted with a deafening roar, without wiping away his tears.
There was one Tartar song that specially moved him. It had few
words, but its charm lay in the sad refrain. 'Ay day, dalalay!'
Eroshka translated the words of the song: 'A youth drove his sheep
from the aoul to the mountains: the Russians came and burnt the aoul,
they killed all the men and took all the women into bondage. The youth
returned from the mountains. Where the aoul had stood was an empty
space; his mother not there, nor his brothers, nor his house; one tree
alone was left standing. The youth sat beneath the tree and wept.
"Alone like thee, alone am I left,'" and Eroshka began singing: 'Ay
day, dalalay!' and the old man repeated several times this wailing,
When he had finished the refrain Eroshka suddenly seized a gun
that hung on the wall, rushed hurriedly out into the yard and fired
off both barrels into the air. Then again he began, more dolefully,
his 'Ay day, dalalay—ah, ah,' and ceased.
Olenin followed him into the porch and looked up into the starry
sky in the direction where the shots had flashed. In the cornet's
house there were lights and the sound of voices. In the yard girls
were crowding round the porch and the windows, and running backwards
and forwards between the hut and the outhouse. Some Cossacks rushed
out of the hut and could not refrain from shouting, re-echoing the
refrain of Daddy Eroshka's song and his shots.
'Why are you not at the betrothal?' asked Olenin.
'Never mind them! Never mind them!' muttered the old man, who had
evidently been offended by something there. 'Don't like them, I
don't. Oh, those people! Come back into the hut! Let them make merry
by themselves and we'll make merry by ourselves.'
Olenin went in.
'And Lukashka, is he happy? Won't he come to see me?' he asked.
'What, Lukashka? They've lied to him and said I am getting his
girl for you,' whispered the old man. 'But what's the girl? She will
be ours if we want her. Give enough money—and she's ours. I'll fix it
up for you. Really!'
'No, Daddy, money can do nothing if she does not love me. You'd
better not talk like that!'
'We are not loved, you and I. We are forlorn,' said Daddy Eroshka
suddenly, and again he began to cry.
Listening to the old man's talk Olenin had drunk more than usual.
'So now my Lukashka is happy,' thought he; yet he felt sad. The old
man had drunk so much that evening that he fell down on the floor and
Vanyusha had to call soldiers in to help, and spat as they dragged the
old man out. He was so angry with the old man for his bad behaviour
that he did not even say a single French word.
It was August. For days the sky had been cloudless, the sun
scorched unbearably and from early morning the warm wind raised a
whirl of hot sand from the sand-drifts and from the road, and bore it
in the air through the reeds, the trees, and the village. The grass
and the leaves on the trees were covered with dust, the roads and
dried-up salt marshes were baked so hard that they rang when trodden
on. The water had long since subsided in the Terek and rapidly
vanished and dried up in the ditches. The slimy banks of the pond near
the village were trodden bare by the cattle and all day long you could
hear the splashing of water and the shouting of girls and boys
bathing. The sand-drifts and the reeds were already drying up in the
steppes, and the cattle, lowing, ran into the fields in the day-time.
The boars migrated into the distant reed-beds and to the hills beyond
the Terek. Mosquitoes and gnats swarmed in thick clouds over the low
lands and villages. The snow-peaks were hidden in grey mist. The air
was rarefied and smoky. It was said that abreks had crossed the now
shallow river and were prowling on this side of it. Every night the
sun set in a glowing red blaze. It was the busiest time of the year.
The villagers all swarmed in the melon-fields and the vineyards. The
vineyards thickly overgrown with twining verdure lay in cool, deep
shade. Everywhere between the broad translucent leaves, ripe, heavy,
black clusters peeped out. Along the dusty road from the vineyards the
creaking carts moved slowly, heaped up with black grapes. Clusters of
them, crushed by the wheels, lay in the dirt. Boys and girls in smocks
stained with grape-juice, with grapes in their hands and mouths, ran
after their mothers. On the road you continually came across tattered
labourers with baskets of grapes on their powerful shoulders; Cossack
maidens, veiled with kerchiefs to their eyes, drove bullocks harnessed
to carts laden high with grapes. Soldiers who happened to meet these
carts asked for grapes, and the maidens, clambering up without
stopping their carts, would take an armful of grapes and drop them
into the skirts of the soldiers' coats. In some homesteads they had
already begun pressing the grapes; and the smell of the emptied skins
filled the air. One saw the blood-red troughs in the pent-houses in
the yards and Nogay labourers with their trousers rolled up and their
legs stained with the juice. Grunting pigs gorged themselves with the
empty skins and rolled about in them. The flat roofs of the outhouses
were all spread over with the dark amber clusters drying in the sun.
Daws and magpies crowded round the roofs, picking the seeds and
fluttering from one place to another.
The fruits of the year's labour were being merrily gathered in,
and this year the fruit was unusually fine and plentiful.
In the shady green vineyards amid a sea of vines, laughter, songs,
merriment, and the voices of women were to be heard on all sides, and
glimpses of their bright-coloured garments could be seen.
Just at noon Maryanka was sitting in their vineyard in the shade
of a peach-tree, getting out the family dinner from under an
unharnessed cart. Opposite her, on a spread-out horse-cloth, sat the
cornet (who had returned from the school) washing his hands by pouring
water on them from a little jug. Her little brother, who had just come
straight out of the pond, stood wiping his face with his wide sleeves,
and gazed anxiously at his sister and his mother and breathed deeply,
awaiting his dinner. The old mother, with her sleeves rolled up over
her strong sunburnt arms, was arranging grapes, dried fish, and
clotted cream on a little low, circular Tartar table. The cornet wiped
his hands, took off his cap, crossed himself, and moved nearer to the
table. The boy seized the jug and eagerly began to drink. The mother
and daughter crossed their legs under them and sat down by the table.
Even in the shade it was intolerably hot. The air above the vineyard
smelt unpleasant: the strong warm wind passing amid the branches
brought no coolness, but only monotonously bent the tops of the pear,
peach, and mulberry trees with which the vineyard was sprinkled. The
comet, she felt unbearably hot. Her face was burning, and she did not
know where to put her feet, her eyes were moist with sleepiness and
weariness, her lips parted involuntarily, and her chest heaved heavily
The busy time of year had begun a fortnight ago and the continuous
heavy labour had filled the girl's life. At dawn she jumped up,
washed her face with cold water, wrapped herself in a shawl, and ran
out barefoot to see to the cattle. Then she hurriedly put on her shoes
and her beshmet and, taking a small bundle of bread, she harnessed the
bullocks and drove away to the vineyards for the whole day. There she
cut the grapes and carried the baskets with only an hour's interval
for rest, and in the evening she returned to the village, bright and
not tired, dragging the bullocks by a rope or driving them with a long
stick. After attending to the cattle, she took some sunflower seeds in
the wide sleeve of her smock and went to the corner of the street to
crack them and have some fun with the other girls. But as soon as it
was dusk she returned home, and after having supper with her parents
and her brother in the dark outhouse, she went into the hut, healthy
and free from care, and climbed onto the oven, where half drowsing she
listened to their lodger's conversation. As soon as he went away she
would throw herself down on her bed and sleep soundly and quietly till
morning. And so it went on day after day. She had not seen Lukashka
since the day of their betrothal, but calmly awaited the wedding. She
had got used to their lodger and felt his intent looks with pleasure.
Although there was no escape from the heat and the mosquitoes
swarmed in the cool shadow of the wagons, and her little brother
tossing about beside her kept pushing her, Maryanka having drawn her
kerchief over her head was just falling asleep, when suddenly their
neighbour Ustenka came running towards her and, diving under the
wagon, lay down beside her.
'Sleep, girls, sleep!' said Ustenka, making herself comfortable
under the wagon. 'Wait a bit,' she exclaimed, 'this won't do!'
She jumped up, plucked some green branches, and stuck them through
the wheels on both sides of the wagon and hung her beshmet over them.
'Let me in,' she shouted to the little boy as she again crept
under the wagon. 'Is this the place for a Cossack—with the girls? Go
When alone under the wagon with her friend, Ustenka suddenly put
both her arms round her, and clinging close to her began kissing her
cheeks and neck.
'Darling, sweetheart,' she kept repeating, between bursts of
shrill, clear laughter.
'Why, you've learnt it from Grandad,' said Maryanka, struggling.
And they both broke into such peals of laughter that Maryanka's
mother shouted to them to be quiet.
'Are you jealous?' asked Ustenka in a whisper.
'What humbug! Let me sleep. What have you come for?'
But Ustenka kept on, 'I say! But I wanted to tell you such a
Maryanka raised herself on her elbow and arranged the kerchief
which had slipped off.
'Well, what is it?'
'I know something about your lodger!'
'There's nothing to know,' said Maryanka.
'Oh, you rogue of a girl!' said Ustenka, nudging her with her
elbow and laughing. 'Won't tell anything. Does he come to you?'
'He does. What of that?' said Maryanka with a sudden blush.
'Now I'm a simple lass. I tell everybody. Why should I pretend?'
said Ustenka, and her bright rosy face suddenly became pensive. 'Whom
do I hurt? I love him, that's all about it.'
'Grandad, do you mean?'
'And the sin?'
'Ah, Maryanka! When is one to have a good time if not while one's
still free? When I marry a Cossack I shall bear children and shall
have cares. There now, when you get married to Lukashka not even a
thought of joy will enter your head: children will come, and work!'
'Well? Some who are married live happily. It makes no difference!'
Maryanka replied quietly.
'Do tell me just this once what has passed between you and
'What has passed? A match was proposed. Father put it off for a
year, but now it's been settled and they'll marry us in autumn.'
'But what did he say to you?' Maryanka smiled.
'What should he say? He said he loved me. He kept asking me to
come to the vineyards with him.'
'Just see what pitch! But you didn't go, did you? And what a dare-
devil he has become: the first among the braves. He makes merry out
there in the army too! The other day our Kirka came home; he says:
"What a horse Lukashka's got in exchange!" But all the same I expect
he frets after you. And what else did he say?'
'Must you know everything?' said Maryanka laughing. 'One night he
came to my window tipsy, and asked me to let him in.' 'And you didn't
'Let him, indeed! Once I have said a thing I keep to it firm as a
rock,' answered Maryanka seriously.
'A fine fellow! If he wanted her, no girl would refuse him.'
'Well, let him go to the others,' replied Maryanka proudly.
'You don't pity him?'
'I do pity him, but I'll have no nonsense. It is wrong.' Ustenka
suddenly dropped her head on her friend's breast, seized hold of her,
and shook with smothered laughter. 'You silly fool!' she exclaimed,
quite out of breath. 'You don't want to be happy,' and she began
tickling Maryanka. 'Oh, leave off!' said Maryanka, screaming and
laughing. 'You've crushed Lazutka.'
'Hark at those young devils! Quite frisky! Not tired yet!' came
the old woman's sleepy voice from the wagon.
'Don't want happiness,' repeated Ustenka in a whisper,
insistently. 'But you are lucky, that you are! How they love you! You
are so crusty, and yet they love you. Ah, if I were in your place I'd
soon turn the lodger's head! I noticed him when you were at our house.
He was ready to eat you with his eyes. What things Grandad has given
me! And yours they say is the richest of the Russians. His orderly
says they have serfs of their own.'
Maryanka raised herself, and after thinking a moment, smiled.
'Do you know what he once told me: the lodger I mean?' she said,
biting a bit of grass. 'He said, "I'd like to be Lukashka the
Cossack, or your brother Lazutka—." What do you think he meant?'
'Oh, just chattering what came into his head,' answered Ustenka.
'What does mine not say! Just as if he was possessed!'
Maryanka dropped her hand on her folded beshmet, threw her arm
over Ustenka's shoulder, and shut her eyes.
'He wanted to come and work in the vineyard to-day: father invited
him,' she said, and after a short silence she fell asleep.
The sun had come out from behind the pear-tree that had shaded the
wagon, and even through the branches that Ustenka had fixed up it
scorched the faces of the sleeping girls. Maryanka woke up and began
arranging the kerchief on her head. Looking about her, beyond the
pear-tree she noticed their lodger, who with his gun on his shoulder
stood talking to her father. She nudged Ustenka and smilingly pointed
him out to her.
'I went yesterday and didn't find a single one,' Olenin was saying
as he looked about uneasily, not seeing Maryanka through the
'Ah, you should go out there in that direction, go right as by
compasses, there in a disused vineyard denominated as the Waste,
hares are always to be found,' said the cornet, having at once
changed his manner of speech.
'A fine thing to go looking for hares in these busy times! You had
better come and help us, and do some work with the girls,' the old
woman said merrily. 'Now then, girls, up with you!' she cried.
Maryanka and Ustenka under the cart were whispering and could
hardly restrain their laughter.
Since it had become known that Olenin had given a horse worth
fifty rubles to Lukashka, his hosts had become more amiable and the
cornet in particular saw with pleasure his daughter's growing intimacy
with Olenin. 'But I don't know how to do the work,' replied Olenin,
trying not to look through the green branches under the wagon where he
had now noticed Maryanka's blue smock and red kerchief.
'Come, I'll give you some peaches,' said the old woman.
'It's only according to the ancient Cossack hospitality. It's her
old woman's silliness,' said the cornet, explaining and apparently
correcting his wife's words. 'In Russia, I expect, it's not so much
peaches as pineapple jam and preserves you have been accustomed to eat
at your pleasure.'
'So you say hares are to be found in the disused vineyard?' asked
Olenin. 'I will go there,' and throwing a hasty glance through the
green branches he raised his cap and disappeared between the regular
rows of green vines.
The sun had already sunk behind the fence of the vineyards, and
its broken rays glittered through the translucent leaves when Olenin
returned to his host's vineyard. The wind was falling and a cool
freshness was beginning to spread around. By some instinct Olenin
recognized from afar Maryanka's blue smock among the rows of vine,
and, picking grapes on his way, he approached her. His highly excited
dog also now and then seized a low-hanging cluster of grapes in his
slobbering mouth. Maryanka, her face flushed, her sleeves rolled up,
and her kerchief down below her chin, was rapidly cutting the heavy
clusters and laying them in a basket. Without letting go of the vine
she had hold of, she stopped to smile pleasantly at him and resumed
her work. Olenin drew near and threw his gun behind his back to have
his hands free. 'Where are your people? May God aid you! Are you
alone?' he meant to say but did not say, and only raised his cap in
He was ill at ease alone with Maryanka, but as if purposely to
torment himself he went up to her.
'You'll be shooting the women with your gun like that,' said
'No, I shan't shoot them.'
They were both silent.
Then after a pause she said: 'You should help me.'
He took out his knife and began silently to cut off the clusters.
He reached from under the leaves low down a thick bunch weighing
about three pounds, the grapes of which grew so close that they
flattened each other for want of space. He showed it to Maryanka.
'Must they all be cut? Isn't this one too green?'
'Give it here.'
Their hands touched. Olenin took her hand, and she looked at him
'Are you going to be married soon?' he asked.
She did not answer, but turned away with a stern look.
'Do you love Lukashka?'
'What's that to you?'
'I envy him!'
'Very likely!' 'No really. You are so beautiful!'
And he suddenly felt terribly ashamed of having said it, so
commonplace did the words seem to him. He flushed, lost control of
himself, and seized both her hands.
'Whatever I am, I'm not for you. Why do you make fun of me?'
replied Maryanka, but her look showed how certainly she knew he was
not making fun.
'Making fun? If you only knew how I—'
The words sounded still more commonplace, they accorded still less
with what he felt, but yet he continued, 'I don't know what I would
not do for you—'
'Leave me alone, you pitch!'
But her face, her shining eyes, her swelling bosom, her shapely
legs, said something quite different. It seemed to him that she
understood how petty were all things he had said, but that she was
superior to such considerations. It seemed to him she had long known
all he wished and was not able to tell her, but wanted to hear how he
would say it. 'And how can she help knowing,' he thought, 'since I
only want to tell her all that she herself is? But she does not wish
to under-stand, does not wish to reply.'
'Hallo!' suddenly came Ustenka's high voice from behind the vine
at no great distance, followed by her shrill laugh. 'Come and help
me, Dmitri Andreich. I am all alone,' she cried, thrusting her round,
naive little face through the vines.
Olenin did not answer nor move from his place.
Maryanka went on cutting and continually looked up at Olenin. He
was about to say something, but stopped, shrugged his shoulders and,
having jerked up his gun, walked out of the vineyard with rapid
He stopped once or twice, listening to the ringing laughter of
Maryanka and Ustenka who, having come together, were shouting
something. Olenin spent the whole evening hunting in the forest and
returned home at dusk without having killed anything. When crossing
the road he noticed her open the door of the outhouse, and her blue
smock showed through it. He called to Vanyusha very loud so as to let
her know that he was back, and then sat down in the porch in his usual
place. His hosts now returned from the vineyard; they came out of the
outhouse and into their hut, but did not ask of the latch and knocked.
The floor hardly creaked under the bare cautious footsteps which
approached the door. The latch clicked, the door creaked, and he
noticed a faint smell of marjoram and pumpkin, and Maryanka's whole
figure appeared in the doorway. He saw her only for an instant in the
moonlight. She slammed the door and, muttering something, ran lightly
back again. Olenin began rapping softly but nothing responded. He ran
to the window and listened. Suddenly he was startled by a shrill,
squeaky man's voice.
'Fine!' exclaimed a rather small young Cossack in a white cap,
coming across the yard close to Olenin. 'I saw ... fine!'
Olenin recognized Nazarka, and was silent, not knowing what to do
'Fine! I'll go and tell them at the office, and I'll tell her
father! That's a fine cornet's daughter! One's not enough for her.'
'What do you want of me, what are you after?' uttered Olenin.
'Nothing; only I'll tell them at the office.'
Nazarka spoke very loud, and evidently did so intentionally,
adding: 'Just see what a clever cadet!'
Olenin trembled and grew pale.
'Come here, here!' He seized the Cossack firmly by the arm and
drew him towards his hut.
'Nothing happened, she did not let me in, and I too mean no harm.
She is an honest girl—'
'Yes, but all the same I'll give you something now. Wait a bit!'
Nazarka said nothing. Olenin ran into his hut and brought out ten
rubles, which he gave to the Cossack.
'Nothing happened, but still I was to blame, so I give this!—Only
for God's sake don't let anyone know, for nothing happened ... '
'I wish you joy,' said Nazarka laughing, and went away.
Nazarka had come to the village that night at Lukashka's bidding
to find a place to hide a stolen horse, and now, passing by on his
way home, had heard the sound of footsteps. When he returned next
morning to his company he bragged to his chum, and told him how
cleverly he had got ten rubles. Next morning Olenin met his hosts and
they knew nothing about the events of the night. He did not speak to
Maryanka, and she only laughed a little when she looked at him. Next
night he also passed without sleep, vainly wandering about the yard.
The day after he purposely spent shooting, and in the evening he went
to see Beletski to escape from his own thoughts. He was afraid of
himself, and promised himself not to go to his hosts' hut any more.
That night he was roused by the sergeant-major. His company was
ordered to start at once on a raid. Olenin was glad this had
happened, and thought he would not again return to the village.
The raid lasted four days. The commander, who was a relative of
Olenin's, wished to see him and offered to let him remain with the
staff, but this Olenin declined. He found that he could not live away
from the village, and asked to be allowed to return to it. For having
taken part in the raid he received a soldier's cross, which he had
formerly greatly desired. Now he was quite indifferent about it, and
even more indifferent about his promotion, the order for which had
still not arrived. Accompanied by Vanyusha he rode back to the cordon
without any accident several hours in advance of the rest of the
company. He spent the whole evening in his porch watching Maryanka,
and he again walked about the yard, without aim or thought, all night.
It was late when he awoke the next day. His hosts were no longer
in. He did not go shooting, but now took up a book, and now went out
into the porch, and now again re-entered the hut and lay down on the
bed. Vanyusha thought he was ill.
Towards evening Olenin got up, resolutely began writing, and wrote
on till late at night. He wrote a letter, but did not post it because
he felt that no one would have understood what he wanted to say, and
besides it was not necessary that anyone but himself should understand
it. This is what he wrote:
'I receive letters of condolence from Russia. They are afraid that
I shall perish, buried in these wilds. They say about me: "He will
become coarse; he will be behind the times in everything; he will
take to drink, and who knows but that he may marry a Cossack girl."
It was not for nothing, they say, that Ermolov declared: "Anyone
serving in the Caucasus for ten years either becomes a confirmed
drunkard or marries a loose woman." How terrible! Indeed it won't do
for me to ruin myself when I might have the great happiness of even
becoming the Countess B—-'s husband, or a Court chamberlain, or a
Marechal de noblesse of my district. Oh, how repulsive and pitiable
you all seem to me! You do not know what happiness is and what life
is! One must taste life once in all its natural beauty, must see and
understand what I see every day before me—those eternally
unapproachable snowy peaks, and a majestic woman in that primitive
beauty in which the first woman must have come from her creator's
hands—and then it becomes clear who is ruining himself and who is
living truly or falsely—you or I. If you only knew how despicable and
pitiable you, in your delusions, seem to me! When I picture to
myself—in place of my hut, my forests, and my love—those
drawing-rooms, those women with their pomatum-greased hair eked out
with false curls, those unnaturally grimacing lips, those hidden,
feeble, distorted limbs, and that chatter of obligatory drawing-room
conversation which has no right to the name—I feel unendurably
revolted. I then see before me those obtuse faces, those rich eligible
girls whose looks seem to say:
"It's all right, you may come near though I am rich and eligible"-
-and that arranging and rearranging of seats, that shameless
match-making and that eternal tittle-tattle and pretence; those
rules—with whom to shake hands, to whom only to nod, with whom to
converse (and all this done deliberately with a conviction of its
inevitability), that continual ennui in the blood passing on from
generation to generation. Try to understand or believe just this one
thing: you need only see and comprehend what truth and beauty are, and
all that you now say and think and all your wishes for me and for
yourselves will fly to atoms! Happiness is being with nature, seeing
her, and conversing with her. "He may even (God forbid) marry a common
Cossack girl, and be quite lost socially" I can imagine them saying of
me with sincere pity! Yet the one thing I desire is to be quite "lost"
in your sense of the word. I wish to marry a Cossack girl, and dare
not because it would be a height of happiness of which I am unworthy.
'Three months have passed since I first saw the Cossack girl,
Maryanka. The views and prejudices of the world I had left were still
fresh in me. I did not then believe that I could love that woman. I
delighted in her beauty just as I delighted in the beauty of the
mountains and the sky, nor could I help delighting in her, for she is
as beautiful as they. I found that the sight of her beauty had become
a necessity of my life and I began asking myself whether I did not
love her. But I could find nothing within myself at all like love as I
had imagined it to be. Mine was not the restlessness of loneliness and
desire for marriage, nor was it platonic, still less a carnal love
such as I have experienced. I needed only to see her, to hear her, to
know that she was near— and if I was not happy, I was at peace.
'After an evening gathering at which I met her and touched her, I
felt that between that woman and myself there existed an indissoluble
though unacknowledged bond against which I could not struggle, yet I
did struggle. I asked myself: "Is it possible to love a woman who will
never understand the profoundest interests of my life? Is it possible
to love a woman simply for her beauty, to love the statue of a woman?"
But I was already in love with her, though I did not yet trust to my
'After that evening when I first spoke to her our relations
changed. Before that she had been to me an extraneous but majestic
object of external nature: but since then she has become a human
being. I began to meet her, to talk to her, and sometimes to go to
work for her father and to spend whole evenings with them, and in
this intimate intercourse she remained still in my eyes just as pure,
inaccessible, and majestic. She always responded with equal calm,
pride, and cheerful equanimity. Sometimes she was friendly, but
generally her every look, every word, and every movement expressed
equanimity—not contemptuous, but crushing and bewitching. Every day
with a feigned smile on my lips I tried to play a part, and with
torments of passion and desire in my heart I spoke banteringly to her.
She saw that I was dissembling, but looked straight at me cheerfully
and simply. This position became unbearable. I wished not to deceive
her but to tell her all I thought and felt. I was extremely agitated.
We were in the vineyard when I began to tell her of my love, in words
I am now ashamed to remember. I am ashamed because I ought not to have
dared to speak so to her because she stood far above such words and
above the feeling they were meant to express. I said no more, but from
that day my position has been intolerable. I did not wish to demean
myself by continuing our former flippant relations, and at the same
time I felt that I had not yet reached the level of straight and
simple relations with her. I asked myself despairingly, "What am I to
do?" In foolish dreams I imagined her now as my mistress and now as my
wife, but rejected both ideas with disgust. To make her a wanton woman
would be dreadful. It would be murder. To turn her into a fine lady,
the wife of Dmitri Andreich Olenin, like a Cossack woman here who is
married to one of our officers, would be still worse. Now could I turn
Cossack like Lukashka, and steal horses, get drunk on chikhir, sing
rollicking songs, kill people, and when drunk climb in at her window
for the night without a thought of who and what I am, it would be
different: then we might understand one another and I might be happy.
'I tried to throw myself into that kind of life but was still more
conscious of my own weakness and artificiality. I cannot forget
myself and my complex, distorted past, and my future appears to me
still more hopeless. Every day I have before me the distant snowy
mountains and this majestic, happy woman. But not for me is the only
happiness possible in the world; I cannot have this woman! What is
most terrible and yet sweetest in my condition is that I feel that I
understand her but that she will never understand me; not because she
is inferior: on the contrary she ought not to understand me. She is
happy, she is like nature: consistent, calm, and self-contained; and
I, a weak distorted being, want her to understand my deformity and my
torments! I have not slept at night, but have aimlessly passed under
her windows not rendering account to myself of what was happening to
me. On the 18th our company started on a raid, and I spent three days
away from the village. I was sad and apathetic, the usual songs,
cards, drinking-bouts, and talk of rewards in the regiment, were more
repulsive to me than usual. Yesterday I returned home and saw her, my
hut. Daddy Eroshka, and the snowy mountains, from my porch, and was
seized by such a strong, new feeling of joy that I understood it all.
I love this woman; I feel real love for the first and only time in my
life. I know what has befallen me. I do not fear to be degraded by
this feeling, I am not ashamed of my love, I am proud of it. It is not
my fault that I love. It has come about against my will. I tried to
escape from my love by self-renunciation, and tried to devise a joy in
the Cossack Lukashka's and Maryanka's love, but thereby only stirred
up my own love and jealousy. This is not the ideal, the so-called
exalted love which I have known before; not that sort of attachment in
which you admire your own love and feel that the source of your
emotion is within yourself and do everything yourself. I have felt
that too. It is still less a desire for enjoyment: it is something
different. Perhaps in her I love nature: the personification of all
that is beautiful in nature; but yet I am not acting by my own will,
but some elemental force loves through me; the whole of God's world,
all nature, presses this love into my soul and says, "Love her." I
love her not with my mind or my imagination, but with my whole being.
Loving her I feel myself to be an integral part of all God's joyous
world. I wrote before about the new convictions to which my solitary
life had brought me, but no one knows with what labour they shaped
themselves within me and with what joy I realized them and saw a new
way of life opening out before me; nothing was dearer to me than those
convictions... Well! ... love has come and neither they nor any
regrets for them remain! It is even difficult for me to believe that
I could prize such a one-sided, cold, and abstract state of mind.
Beauty came and scattered to the winds all that laborious inward toil,
and no regret remains for what has vanished! Self-renunciation is all
nonsense and absurdity! That is pride, a refuge from well-merited
unhappiness, and salvation from the envy of others' happiness: "Live
for others, and do good!"—Why? when in my soul there is only love for
myself and the desire to love her and to live her life with her? Not
for others, not for Lukashka, I now desire happiness. I do not now
love those others. Formerly I should have told myself that this is
wrong. I should have tormented myself with the questions: What will
become of her, of me, and of Lukashka? Now I don't care. I do not live
my own life, there is something stronger than me which directs me. I
suffer; but formerly I was dead and only now do I live. Today I will
go to their house and tell her everything.'
Late that evening, after writing this letter, Olenin went to his
hosts' hut. The old woman was sitting on a bench behind the oven
unwinding cocoons. Maryanka with her head uncovered sat sewing by the
light of a candle. On seeing Olenin she jumped up, took her kerchief
and stepped to the oven. 'Maryanka dear,' said her mother, 'won't you
sit here with me a bit?' 'No, I'm bareheaded,' she replied, and sprang
up on the oven. Olenin could only see a knee, and one of her shapely
legs hanging down from the oven. He treated the old woman to tea. She
treated her guest to clotted cream which she sent Maryanka to fetch.
But having put a plateful on the table Maryanka again sprang on the
oven from whence Olenin felt her eyes upon him. They talked about
household matters. Granny Ulitka became animated and went into
raptures of hospitality. She brought Olenin preserved grapes and a
grape tart and some of her best wine, and pressed him to eat and drink
with the rough yet proud hospitality of country folk, only found among
those who produce their bread by the labour of their own hands. The
old woman, who had at first struck Olenin so much by her rudeness, now
often touched him by her simple tenderness towards her daughter.
'Yes, we need not offend the Lord by grumbling! We have enough of
everything, thank God. We have pressed sufficient CHIKHIR and have
preserved and shall sell three or four barrels of grapes and have
enough left to drink. Don't be in a hurry to leave us. We will make
merry together at the wedding.'
'And when is the wedding to be?' asked Olenin, feeling his blood
suddenly rush to his face while his heart beat irregularly and
He heard a movement on the oven and the sound of seeds being
'Well, you know, it ought to be next week. We are quite ready,'
replied the old woman, as simply and quietly as though Olenin did not
exist. 'I have prepared and have procured everything for Maryanka. We
will give her away properly. Only there's one thing not quite right.
Our Lukashka has been running rather wild. He has been too much on the
spree! He's up to tricks! The other day a Cossack came here from his
company and said he had been to Nogay.'
'He must mind he does not get caught,' said Olenin.
'Yes, that's what I tell him. "Mind, Lukashka, don't you get into
mischief. Well, of course, a young fellow naturally wants to cut a
dash. But there's a time for everything. Well, you've captured or
stolen something and killed an abrek! Well, you're a fine fellow! But
now you should live quietly for a bit, or else there'll be trouble."'
'Yes, I saw him a time or two in the division, he was always
merry-making. He has sold another horse,' said Olenin, and glanced
towards the oven. A pair of large, dark, and hostile eyes glittered
as they gazed severely at him.
He became ashamed of what he had said. 'What of it? He does no one
any harm,' suddenly remarked Maryanka. 'He makes merry with his own
money,' and lowering her legs she jumped down from the oven and went
out banging the door.
Olenin followed her with his eyes as long as she was in the hut,
and then looked at the door and waited, understanding nothing of what
Granny Ulitka was telling him.
A few minutes later some visitors arrived: an old man, Granny
Ulitka's brother, with Daddy Eroshka, and following them came
Maryanka and Ustenka.
'Good evening,' squeaked Ustenka. 'Still on holiday?' she added,
turning to Olenin.
'Yes, still on holiday,' he replied, and felt, he did not know
why, ashamed and ill at ease.
He wished to go away but could not. It also seemed to him
impossible to remain silent. The old man helped him by asking for a
drink, and they had a drink. Olenin drank with Eroshka, with the other
Cossack, and again with Eroshka, and the more he drank the heavier was
his heart. But the two old men grew merry. The girls climbed onto the
oven, where they sat whispering and looking at the men, who drank till
it was late. Olenin did not talk, but drank more than the others. The
Cossacks were shouting. The old woman would not let them have any more
chikhir, and at last turned them out. The girls laughed at Daddy
Eroshka, and it was past ten when they all went out into the porch.
The old men invited themselves to finish their merry-making at
Olenin's. Ustenka ran off home and Eroshka led the old Cossack to
Vanyusha. The old woman went out to tidy up the shed. Maryanka
remained alone in the hut. Olenin felt fresh and joyous, as if he had
only just woke up. He noticed everything, and having let the old men
pass ahead he turned back to the hut where Maryanka was preparing for
bed. He went up to her and wished to say something, but his voice
broke. She moved away from him, sat down cross-legged on her bed in
the corner, and looked at him silently with wild and frightened eyes.
She was evidently afraid of him. Olenin felt this. He felt sorry and
ashamed of himself, and at the same time proud and pleased that he
aroused even that feeling in her.
'Maryanka!' he said. 'Will you never take pity on me? I can't tell
you how I love you.'
She moved still farther away.
'Just hear how the wine is speaking! ... You'll get nothing from
'No, it is not the wine. Don't marry Lukashka. I will marry you.'
('What am I saying,' he thought as he uttered these words. 'Shall I
be able to say the same to-morrow?' 'Yes, I shall, I am sure I shall,
and I will repeat them now,' replied an inner voice.)
'Will you marry me?'
She looked at him seriously and her fear seemed to have passed.
'Maryanka, I shall go out of my mind! I am not myself. I will do
whatever you command,' and madly tender words came from his lips of
their own accord.
'Now then, what are you drivelling about?' she interrupted,
suddenly seizing the arm he was stretching towards her. She did not
push his arm away but pressed it firmly with her strong hard fingers.
'Do gentlemen marry Cossack girls? Go away!'
'But will you? Everything...'
'And what shall we do with Lukashka?' said she, laughing.
He snatched away the arm she was holding and firmly embraced her
young body, but she sprang away like a fawn and ran barefoot into the
porch: Olenin came to his senses and was terrified at himself. He
again felt himself inexpressibly vile compared to her, yet not
repenting for an instant of what he had said he went home, and
without even glancing at the old men who were drinking in his room he
lay down and fell asleep more soundly than he had done for a long
The next day was a holiday. In the evening all the villagers,
their holiday clothes shining in the sunset, were out in the street.
That season more wine than usual had been produced, and the people
were now free from their labours. In a month the Cossacks were to
start on a campaign and in many families preparations were being made
Most of the people were standing in the square in front of the
Cossack Government Office and near the two shops, in one of which
cakes and pumpkin seeds were sold, in the other kerchiefs and cotton
prints. On the earth-embankment of the office-building sat or stood
the old men in sober grey, or black coats without gold trimmings or
any kind of ornament. They conversed among themselves quietly in
measured tones, about the harvest, about the young folk, about village
affairs, and about old times, looking with dignified equanimity at the
younger generation. Passing by them, the women and girls stopped and
bent their heads. The young Cossacks respectfully slackened their pace
and raised their caps, holding them for a while over their heads. The
old men then stopped speaking. Some of them watched the passers-by
severely, others kindly, and in their turn slowly took off their caps
and put them on again.
The Cossack girls had not yet started dancing their khorovods, but
having gathered in groups, in their bright coloured beshmets with
white kerchiefs on their heads pulled down to their eyes, they sat
either on the ground or on the earth-banks about the huts sheltered
from the oblique rays of the sun, and laughed and chattered in their
ringing voices. Little boys and girls playing in the square sent their
balls high up into the clear sky, and ran about squealing and
shouting. The half-grown girls had started dancing their khorovods,
and were timidly singing in their thin shrill voices. Clerks, lads not
in the service, or home for the holiday, bright-faced and wearing
smart white or new red Circassian gold-trimmed coats, went about arm
in arm in twos or threes from one group of women or girls to another,
and stopped to joke and chat with the Cossack girls. The Armenian
shopkeeper, in a gold-trimmed coat of fine blue cloth, stood at the
open door through which piles of folded bright-coloured kerchiefs were
visible and, conscious of his own importance and with the pride of an
Oriental tradesman, waited for customers. Two red-bearded, barefooted
Chechens, who had come from beyond the Terek to see the fete, sat on
their heels outside the house of a friend, negligently smoking their
little pipes and occasionally spitting, watching the villagers and
exchanging remarks with one another in their rapid guttural speech.
Occasionally a workaday-looking soldier in an old overcoat passed
across the square among the bright-clad girls. Here and there the
songs of tipsy Cossacks who were merry-making could already be heard.
All the huts were closed; the porches had been scrubbed clean the day
before. Even the old women were out in the street, which was
everywhere sprinkled with pumpkin and melon seed-shells. The air was
warm and still, the sky deep and clear. Beyond the roofs the
dead-white mountain range, which seemed very near, was turning rosy in
the glow of the evening sun. Now and then from the other side of the
river came the distant roar of a cannon, but above the village,
mingling with one another, floated all sorts of merry holiday sounds.
Olenin had been pacing the yard all that morning hoping to see
Maryanka. But she, having put on holiday clothes, went to Mass at the
chapel and afterwards sat with the other girls on an earth- embankment
cracking seeds; sometimes again, together with her companions, she ran
home, and each time gave the lodger a bright and kindly look. Olenin
felt afraid to address her playfully or in the presence of others. He
wished to finish telling her what he had begun to say the night
before, and to get her to give him a definite answer. He waited for
another moment like that of yesterday evening, but the moment did not
come, and he felt that he could not remain any longer in this
uncertainty. She went out into the street again, and after waiting
awhile he too went out and without knowing where he was going he
followed her. He passed by the corner where she was sitting in her
shining blue satin beshmet, and with an aching heart he heard behind
him the girls laughing.
Beletski's hut looked out onto the square. As Olenin was passing
it he heard Beletski's voice calling to him, 'Come in,' and in he
After a short talk they both sat down by the window and were soon
joined by Eroshka, who entered dressed in a new beshmet and sat down
on the floor beside them.
'There, that's the aristocratic party,' said Beletski, pointing
with his cigarette to a brightly coloured group at the corner. 'Mine
is there too. Do you see her? in red. That's a new beshmet. Why don't
you start the khorovod?' he shouted, leaning out of the window. 'Wait
a bit, and then when it grows dark let us go too. Then we will invite
them to Ustenka's. We must arrange a ball for them!'
'And I will come to Ustenka's,' said Olenin in a decided tone.
'Will Maryanka be there?'
'Yes, she'll be there. Do come!' said Beletski, without the least
surprise. 'But isn't it a pretty picture?' he added, pointing to the
'Yes, very!' Olenin assented, trying to appear indifferent.
'Holidays of this kind,' he added, 'always make me wonder why all
these people should suddenly be contented and jolly. To-day for
instance, just because it happens to be the fifteenth of the month,
everything is festive. Eyes and faces and voices and movements and
garments, and the air and the sun, are all in a holiday mood. And we
no longer have any holidays!'
'Yes,' said Beletski, who did not like such reflections.
'And why are you not drinking, old fellow?' he said, turning to
Eroshka winked at Olenin, pointing to Beletski. 'Eh, he's a proud
one that kunak of yours,' he said.
Beletski raised his glass. ALLAH BIRDY' he said, emptying it.
(ALLAH BIRDY, 'God has given!'—the usual greeting of Caucasians when
'Sau bul' ('Your health'), answered Eroshka smiling, and emptied
'Speaking of holidays!' he said, turning to Olenin as he rose and
looked out of the window, 'What sort of holiday is that! You should
have seen them make merry in the old days! The women used to come out
in their gold—trimmed sarafans. Two rows of gold coins hanging round
their necks and gold-cloth diadems on their heads, and when they
passed they made a noise, "flu, flu," with their dresses. Every woman
looked like a princess. Sometimes they'd come out, a whole herd of
them, and begin singing songs so that the air seemed to rumble, and
they went on making merry all night. And the Cossacks would roll out a
barrel into the yards and sit down and drink till break of day, or
they would go hand—in— hand sweeping the village. Whoever they met
they seized and took along with them, and went from house to house.
Sometimes they used to make merry for three days on end. Father used
to come home—I still remember it—quite red and swollen, without a
cap, having lost everything: he'd come and lie down. Mother knew what
to do: she would bring him some fresh caviar and a little chikhir to
sober him up, and would herself run about in the village looking for
his cap. Then he'd sleep for two days! That's the sort of fellows they
were then! But now what are they?'
'Well, and the girls in the sarafans, did they make merry all by
themselves?' asked Beletski.
'Yes, they did! Sometimes Cossacks would come on foot or on horse
and say, "Let's break up the khorovods," and they'd go, but the girls
would take up cudgels. Carnival week, some young fellow would come
galloping up, and they'd cudgel his horse and cudgel him too. But he'd
break through, seize the one he loved, and carry her off. And his
sweetheart would love him to his heart's content! Yes, the girls in
those days, they were regular queens!'
Just then two men rode out of the side street into the square. One
of them was Nazarka. The other, Lukashka, sat slightly sideways on
his well-fed bay Kabarda horse which stepped lightly over the hard
road jerking its beautiful head with its fine glossy mane. The
well-adjusted gun in its cover, the pistol at his back, and the cloak
rolled up behind his saddle showed that Lukashka had not come from a
peaceful place or from one near by. The smart way in which he sat a
little sideways on his horse, the careless motion with which he
touched the horse under its belly with his whip, and especially his
half-closed black eyes, glistening as he looked proudly around him,
all expressed the conscious strength and self- confidence of youth.
'Ever seen as fine a lad?' his eyes, looking from side to side, seemed
to say. The elegant horse with its silver ornaments and trappings, the
weapons, and the handsome Cossack himself attracted the attention of
everyone in the square. Nazarka, lean and short, was much less well
dressed. As he rode past the old men, Lukashka paused and raised his
curly white sheepskin cap above his closely cropped black head.
'Well, have you carried off many Nogay horses?' asked a lean old
man with a frowning, lowering look.
'Have you counted them, Grandad, that you ask?' replied Lukashka,
'That's all very well, but you need not take my lad along with
you,' the old man muttered with a still darker frown.
'Just see the old devil, he knows everything,' muttered Lukashka
to himself, and a worried expression came over his face; but then,
noticing a corner where a number of Cossack girls were standing, he
turned his horse towards them.
'Good evening, girls!' he shouted in his powerful, resonant voice,
suddenly checking his horse. 'You've grown old without me, you
witches!' and he laughed.
'Good evening, Lukashka! Good evening, laddie!' the merry voices
answered. 'Have you brought much money? Buy some sweets for the
girls! ... Have you come for long? True enough, it's long since we
'Nazarka and I have just flown across to make a night of it,'
replied Lukashka, raising his whip and riding straight at the girls.
'Why, Maryanka has quite forgotten you,' said Ustenka, nudging
Maryanka with her elbow and breaking into a shrill laugh.
Maryanka moved away from the horse and throwing back her head
calmly looked at the Cossack with her large sparkling eyes.
'True enough, you have not been home for a long time! Why are you
trampling us under your horse?' she remarked dryly, and turned away.
Lukashka had appeared particularly merry. His face shone with
audacity and joy. Obviously staggered by Maryanka's cold reply he
suddenly knitted his brow.
'Step up on my stirrup and I'll carry you away to the mountains.
Mammy!' he suddenly exclaimed, and as if to disperse his dark
thoughts he caracoled among the girls. Stooping down towards
Maryanka, he said, 'I'll kiss, oh, how I'll kiss you! ...'
Maryanka's eyes met his and she suddenly blushed and stepped back.
'Oh, bother you! you'll crush my feet,' she said, and bending her
head looked at her well-shaped feet in their tightly fitting light
blue stockings with clocks and her new red slippers trimmed with
narrow silver braid.
Lukashka turned towards Ustenka, and Maryanka sat down next to a
woman with a baby in her arms. The baby stretched his plump little
hands towards the girl and seized a necklace string that hung down
onto her blue beshmet. Maryanka bent towards the child and glanced at
Lukashka from the comer of her eyes. Lukashka just then was getting
out from under his coat, from the pocket of his black beshmet, a
bundle of sweetmeats and seeds.
'There, I give them to all of you,' he said, handing the bundle to
Ustenka and smiling at Maryanka.
A confused expression again appeared on the girl's face. It was as
though a mist gathered over her beautiful eyes. She drew her kerchief
down below her lips, and leaning her head over the fair- skinned face
of the baby that still held her by her coin necklace she suddenly
began to kiss it greedily. The baby pressed his little hands against
the girl's high breasts, and opening his toothless mouth screamed
"You're smothering the boy!" said the little one's mother, taking
him away; and she unfastened her beshmet to give him the breast.
"You'd better have a chat with the young fellow."
"I'll only go and put up my horse and then Nazarka and I will come
back; we'll make merry all night," said Lukashka, touching his horse
with his whip and riding away from the girls.
Turning into a side street, he and Nazarka rode up to two huts
that stood side by side.
"Here we are all right, old fellow! Be quick and come soon!"
called Lukashka to his comrade, dismounting in front of one of the
huts; then he carefully led his horse in at the gate of the wattle
fence of his own home.
"How d'you do, Stepka?" he said to his dumb sister, who, smartly
dressed like the others, came in from the street to take his horse;
and he made signs to her to take the horse to the hay, but not to
The dumb girl made her usual humming noise, smacked her lips as
she pointed to the horse and kissed it on the nose, as much as to say
that she loved it and that it was a fine horse.
"How d'you do. Mother? How is it that you have not gone out yet?"
shouted Lukashka, holding his gun in place as he mounted the steps of
His old mother opened the door.
"Dear me! I never expected, never thought, you'd come," said the
old woman. "Why, Kirka said you wouldn't be here."
"Go and bring some chikhir, Mother. Nazarka is coming here and we
will celebrate the feast day."
"Directly, Lukashka, directly!" answered the old woman. "Our women
are making merry. I expect our dumb one has gone too."
She took her keys and hurriedly went to the outhouse. Nazarka,
after putting up his horse and taking the gun off his shoulder,
returned to Lukashka's house and went in.
'Your health!' said Lukashka, taking from his mother's hands a cup
filled to the brim with chikhir and carefully raising it to his bowed
'A bad business!' said Nazarka. 'You heard how Daddy Burlak said,
"Have you stolen many horses?" He seems to know!'
'A regular wizard!' Lukashka replied shortly. 'But what of it!' he
added, tossing his head. 'They are across the river by now. Go and
'Still it's a bad lookout.'
'What's a bad lookout? Go and take some chikhir to him to-morrow
and nothing will come of it. Now let's make merry. Drink!' shouted
Lukashka, just in the tone in which old Eroshka uttered the word.
'We'll go out into the street and make merry with the girls. You go
and get some honey; or no, I'll send our dumb wench. We'll make merry
'Are we stopping here long?' he asked.
Till we've had a bit of fun. Run and get some vodka. Here's the
Nazarka ran off obediently to get the vodka from Yamka's.
Daddy Eroshka and Ergushov, like birds of prey, scenting where the
merry-making was going on, tumbled into the hut one after the other,
'Bring us another half-pail,' shouted Lukashka to his mother, by
way of reply to their greeting.
'Now then, tell us where did you steal them, you devil?' shouted
Eroshka. 'Fine fellow, I'm fond of you!'
'Fond indeed...' answered Lukashka laughing, 'carrying sweets from
cadets to lasses! Eh, you old...'
'That's not true, not true! ... Oh, Mark,' and the old man burst
out laughing. 'And how that devil begged me. "Go," he said, "and
arrange it." He offered me a gun! But no. I'd have managed it, but I
feel for you. Now tell us where have you been?' And the old man began
speaking in Tartar.
Lukashka answered him promptly.
Ergushov, who did not know much Tartar, only occasionally put in a
word in Russian: 'What I say is he's driven away the horses. I know
it for a fact,' he chimed in.
'Girey and I went together.' (His speaking of Girey Khan as
'Girey' was, to the Cossack mind, evidence of his boldness.) 'Just
beyond the river he kept bragging that he knew the whole of the
steppe and would lead the way straight, but we rode on and the night
was dark, and my Girey lost his way and began wandering in a circle
without getting anywhere: couldn't find the village, and there we
were. We must have gone too much to the right. I believe we wandered
about well—nigh till midnight. Then, thank goodness, we heard dogs
'Fools!' said Daddy Eroshka. 'There now, we too used to lose our
way in the steppe. (Who the devil can follow it?) But I used to ride
up a hillock and start howling like the wolves, like this!' He placed
his hands before his mouth, and howled like a pack of wolves, all on
one note. 'The dogs would answer at once ... Well, go on—so you found
'We soon led them away! Nazarka was nearly caught by some Nogay
women, he was!'
'Caught indeed,' Nazarka, who had just come back, said in an
'We rode off again, and again Girey lost his way and almost landed
us among the sand-drifts. We thought we were just getting to the
Terek but we were riding away from it all the time!'
'You should have steered by the stars,' said Daddy Eroshka.
'That's what I say,' interjected Ergushov,
'Yes, steer when all is black; I tried and tried all about... and
at last I put the bridle on one of the mares and let my own horse go
free—thinking he'll lead us out, and what do you think! he just gave
a snort or two with his nose to the ground, galloped ahead, and led us
straight to our village. Thank goodness! It was getting quite light.
We barely had time to hide them in the forest. Nagim came across the
river and took them away.'
Ergushov shook his head. 'It's just what I said. Smart. Did you
get much for them?'
'It's all here,' said Lukashka, slapping his pocket.
Just then his mother came into the room, and Lukashka did not
finish what he was saying.
'Drink!' he shouted.
'We too, Girich and I, rode out late one night...' began Eroshka.
'Oh bother, we'll never hear the end of you!' said Lukashka. 'I am
going.' And having emptied his cup and tightened the strap of his
belt he went out.
It was already dark when Lukashka went out into the street. The
autumn night was fresh and calm. The full golden moon floated up
behind the tall dark poplars that grew on one side of the square.
From the chimneys of the outhouses smoke rose and spread above the
village, mingling with the mist. Here and there lights shone through
the windows, and the air was laden with the smell of kisyak,
grape-pulp, and mist. The sounds of voices, laughter, songs, and the
cracking of seeds mingled just as they had done in the daytime, but
were now more distinct. Clusters of white kerchiefs and caps gleamed
through the darkness near the houses and by the fences.
In the square, before the shop door which was lit up and open, the
black and white figures of Cossack men and maids showed through the
darkness, and one heard from afar their loud songs and laughter and
talk. The girls, hand in hand, went round and round in a circle
stepping lightly in the dusty square. A skinny girl, the plainest of
them all, set the tune:
'From beyond the wood, from the forest dark,
From the garden green and the shady park,
There came out one day two young lads so gay.
Young bachelors, hey! brave and smart were they!
And they walked and walked, then stood still, each man,
And they talked and soon to dispute began!
Then a maid came out; as she came along,
Said, "To one of you I shall soon belong!"
'Twas the fair-faced lad got the maiden fair,
Yes, the fair-faced lad with the golden hair!
Her right hand so white in his own took he,
And he led her round for his mates to see!
And said, "Have you ever in all your life,
Met a lass as fair as my sweet little wife?"'
The old women stood round listening to the songs. The little boys
and girls ran about chasing one another in the dark. The men stood
by, catching at the girls as the latter moved round, and sometimes
breaking the ring and entering it. On the dark side of the doorway
stood Beletski and Olenin, in their Circassian coats and sheepskin
caps, and talked together in a style of speech unlike that of the
Cossacks, in low but distinct tones, conscious that they were
attracting attention. Next to one another in the khorovod circle
moved plump little Ustenka in her red beshmet and the stately
Maryanka in her new smock and beshmet. Olenin and Beletski were
discussing how to snatch Ustenka and Maryanka out of the ring.
Beletski thought that Olenin wished only to amuse himself, but Olenin
was expecting his fate to be decided. He wanted at any cost to see
Maryanka alone that very day and to tell her everything, and ask her
whether she could and would be his wife. Although that question had
long been answered in the negative in his own mind, he hoped he would
be able to tell her all he felt, and that she would understand him.
'Why did you not tell me sooner?' said Beletski. 'I would have got
Ustenka to arrange it for you. You are such a queer fellow! ...'
'What's to be done! ... Some day, very soon, I'll tell you all
about it. Only now, for Heaven's sake, arrange so that she should
come to Ustenka's.'
'All right, that's easily done! Well, Maryanka, will you belong to
the "fair-faced lad", and not to Lukashka?' said Beletski, speaking
to Maryanka first for propriety's sake, but having received no reply
he went up to Ustenka and begged her to bring Maryanka home with her.
He had hardly time to finish what he was saying before the leader
began another song and the girls started pulling each other round in
the ring by the hand.
"Past the garden, by the garden,
A young man came strolling down,
Up the street and through the town.
And the first time as he passed
He did wave his strong right hand.
As the second time he passed
Waved his hat with silken band.
But the third time as he went
He stood still: before her bent.
"How is it that thou, my dear,
My reproaches dost not fear?
In the park don't come to walk
That we there might have a talk?
Come now, answer me, my dear,
Dost thou hold me in contempt?
Later on, thou knowest, dear,
Thou'lt get sober and repent.
Soon to woo thee I will come,
And when we shall married be
Thou wilt weep because of me!"
"Though I knew what to reply,
Yet I dared not him deny,
No, I dared not him deny!
So into the park went I,
In the park my lad to meet,
There my dear one I did greet."
"Maiden dear, I bow to thee!
Take this handkerchief from me.
In thy white hand take it, see!
Say I am beloved by thee.
I don't know at all, I fear,
What I am to give thee, dear!
To my dear I think I will
Of a shawl a present make—
And five kisses for it take."'
Lukashka and Nazarka broke into the ring and started walking about
among the girls. Lukashka joined in the singing, taking seconds in
his clear voice as he walked in the middle of the ring swinging his
arms. 'Well, come in, one of you!' he said. The other girls pushed
Maryanka, but she would not enter the ring. The sound of shrill
laughter, slaps, kisses, and whispers mingled with the singing.
As he went past Olenin, Lukashka gave a friendly nod.
'Dmitri Andreich! Have you too come to have a look?' he said.
'Yes,' answered Olenin dryly.
Beletski stooped and whispered something into Ustenka's ear. She
had not time to reply till she came round again, when she said:
'All right, we'll come.'
'And Maryanka too?'
Olenin stooped towards Maryanka. 'You'll come? Please do, if only
for a minute. I must speak to you.'
'If the other girls come, I will.'
'Will you answer my question?' said he, bending towards her. 'You
are in good spirits to-day.'
She had already moved past him. He went after her.
'Will you answer?'
'The question I asked you the other day,' said Olenin, stooping to
her ear. 'Will you marry me?'
Maryanka thought for a moment.
'I'll tell you,' said she, 'I'll tell you to-night.'
And through the darkness her eyes gleamed brightly and kindly at
the young man.
He still followed her. He enjoyed stooping closer to her. But
Lukashka, without ceasing to sing, suddenly seized her firmly by the
hand and pulled her from her place in the ring of girls into the
middle. Olenin had only time to say, "Come to Ustenka's," and stepped
back to his companion.
The song came to an end. Lukashka wiped his lips, Maryanka did the
same, and they kissed. "No, no, kisses five!" said Lukashka. Chatter,
laughter, and running about, succeeded to the rhythmic movements and
sound. Lukashka, who seemed to have drunk a great deal, began to
distribute sweetmeats to the girls.
"I offer them to everyone!" he said with proud, comically pathetic
self-admiration. "But anyone who goes after soldiers goes out of the
ring!" he suddenly added, with an angry glance at Olenin.
The girls grabbed his sweetmeats from him, and, laughing,
struggled for them among themselves. Beletski and Olenin stepped
Lukashka, as if ashamed of his generosity, took off his cap and
wiping his forehead with his sleeve came up to Maryanka and Ustenka.
"Answer me, my dear, dost thou hold me in contempt?" he said in
the words of the song they had just been singing, and turning to
Maryanka he angrily repeated the words: "Dost thou hold me in
contempt? When we shall married be thou wilt weep because of me!" he
added, embracing Ustenka and Maryanka both together.
Ustenka tore herself away, and swinging her arm gave him such a
blow on the back that she hurt her hand.
"Well, are you going to have another turn?" he asked.
"The other girls may if they like," answered Ustenka, "but I am
going home and Maryanka was coming to our house too."
With his arm still round her, Lukashka led Maryanka away from the
crowd to the darker comer of a house.
"Don't go, Maryanka," he said, "let's have some fun for the last
time. Go home and I will come to you!"
"What am I to do at home? Holidays are meant for merrymaking. I am
going to Ustenka's," replied Maryanka.
'I'll marry you all the same, you know!'
'All right,' said Maryanka, 'we shall see when the time comes.'
'So you are going,' said Lukashka sternly, and, pressing her
close, he kissed her on the cheek.
'There, leave off! Don't bother,' and Maryanka, wrenching herself
from his arms, moved away.
'Ah my girl, it will turn out badly,' said Lukashka reproachfully
and stood still, shaking his head. 'Thou wilt weep because of me...'
and turning away from her he shouted to the other girls:
'Now then! Play away!'
What he had said seemed to have frightened and vexed Maryanka. She
stopped, 'What will turn out badly?'
'Why, that you keep company with a soldier-lodger and no longer
care for me!'
'I'll care just as long as I choose. You're not my father, nor my
mother. What do you want? I'll care for whom I like!'
'Well, all right...' said Lukashka, 'but remember!' He moved
towards the shop. 'Girls!' he shouted, 'why have you stopped? Go on
dancing. Nazarka, fetch some more chikhir.'
'Well, will they come?' asked Olenin, addressing Beletski.
'They'll come directly,' replied Beletski. 'Come along, we must
prepare the ball.'
It was already late in the night when Olenin came out of
Beletski's hut following Maryanka and Ustenka. He saw in the dark
street before him the gleam of the girl's white kerchief. The golden
moon was descending towards the steppe. A silvery mist hung over the
village. All was still; there were no lights anywhere and one heard
only the receding footsteps of the young women. Olenin's heart beat
fast. The fresh moist atmosphere cooled his burning face. He glanced
at the sky and turned to look at the hut he had just come out of: the
candle was already out. Then he again peered through the darkness at
the girls' retreating shadows. The white kerchief disappeared in the
mist. He was afraid to remain alone, he was so happy. He jumped down
from the porch and ran after the girls.
'Bother you, someone may see...' said Ustenka.
Olenin ran up to Maryanka and embraced her.
Maryanka did not resist.
'Haven't you kissed enough yet?' said Ustenka. 'Marry and then
kiss, but now you'd better wait.'
'Good-night, Maryanka. To-morrow I will come to see your father
and tell him. Don't you say anything.'
'Why should I!' answered Maryanka.
Both the girls started running. Olenin went on by himself thinking
over all that had happened. He had spent the whole evening alone with
her in a corner by the oven. Ustenka had not left the hut for a single
moment, but had romped about with the other girls and with Beletski
all the time. Olenin had talked in whispers to Maryanka.
'Will you marry me?' he had asked.
'You'd deceive me and not have me,' she replied cheerfully and
'But do you love me? Tell me for God's sake!'
'Why shouldn't I love you? You don't squint,' answered Maryanka,
laughing and with her hard hands squeezing his....
'What whi-ite, whi-i-ite, soft hands you've got—so like clotted
cream,' she said.
'I am in earnest. Tell me, will you marry me?'
'Why not, if father gives me to you?'
'Well then remember, I shall go mad if you deceive me. To-morrow I
will tell your mother and father. I shall come and propose.'
Maryanka suddenly burst out laughing.
'What's the matter?'
'It seems so funny!'
'It's true! I will buy a vineyard and a house and will enroll
myself as a Cossack.'
'Mind you don't go after other women then. I am severe about
Olenin joyfully repeated all these words to himself. The memory of
them now gave him pain and now such joy that it took away his breath.
The pain was because she had remained as calm as usual while talking
to him. She did not seem at all agitated by these new conditions. It
was as if she did not trust him and did not think of the future. It
seemed to him that she only loved him for the present moment, and that
in her mind there was no future with him. He was happy because her
words sounded to him true, and she had consented to be his. 'Yes,'
thought he to himself, 'we shall only understand one another when she
is quite mine. For such love there are no words. It needs life—the
whole of life. To-morrow everything will be cleared up. I cannot live
like this any longer; to-morrow I will tell everything to her father,
to Beletski, and to the whole village.'
Lukashka, after two sleepless nights, had drunk so much at the
fete that for the first time in his life his feet would not carry
him, and he slept in Yamka's house.
The next day Olenin awoke earlier than usual, and immediately
remembered what lay before him, and he joyfully recalled her kisses,
the pressure of her hard hands, and her words, 'What white hands you
have!' He jumped up and wished to go at once to his hosts' hut to ask
for their consent to his marriage with Maryanka. The sun had not yet
risen, but it seemed that there was an unusual bustle in the street
and side-street: people were moving about on foot and on horseback,
and talking. He threw on his Circassian coat and hastened out into the
porch. His hosts were not yet up. Five Cossacks were riding past and
talking loudly together. In front rode Lukashka on his broad-backed
The Cossacks were all speaking and shouting so that it was
impossible to make out exactly what they were saying.
'Ride to the Upper Post,' shouted one.
'Saddle and catch us up, be quick,' said another.
'It's nearer through the other gate!'
'What are you talking about?' cried Lukashka. 'We must go through
the middle gates, of course.'
'So we must, it's nearer that way,' said one of the Cossacks who
was covered with dust and rode a perspiring horse. Lukashka's face
was red and swollen after the drinking of the previous night and his
cap was pushed to the back of his head. He was calling out with
authority as though he were an officer.
'What is the matter? Where are you going?' asked Olenin, with
difficulty attracting the Cossacks' attention.
'We are off to catch abreks. They're hiding among the sand-drifts.
We are just off, but there are not enough of us yet.'
And the Cossacks continued to shout, more and more of them joining
as they rode down the street. It occurred to Olenin that it would not
look well for him to stay behind; besides he thought he could soon
come back. He dressed, loaded his gun with bullets, jumped onto his
horse which Vanyusha had saddled more or less well, and overtook the
Cossacks at the village gates. The Cossacks had dismounted, and
filling a wooden bowl with chikhir from a little cask which they had
brought with them, they passed the bowl round to one another and drank
to the success of their expedition. Among them was a smartly dressed
young cornet, who happened to be in the village and who took command
of the group of nine Cossacks who had joined for the expedition. All
these Cossacks were privates, and although the cornet assumed the airs
of a commanding officer, they only obeyed Lukashka. Of Olenin they
took no notice at all, and when they had all mounted and started, and
Olenin rode up to the cornet and began asking him what was taking
place, the cornet, who was usually quite friendly, treated him with
marked condescension. It was with great difficulty that Olenin managed
to find out from him what was happening. Scouts who had been sent out
to search for abreks had come upon several hillsmen some six miles
from the village. These abreks had taken shelter in pits and had fired
at the scouts, declaring they would not surrender. A corporal who had
been scouting with two Cossacks had remained to watch the abreks, and
had sent one Cossack back to get help.
The sun was just rising. Three miles beyond the village the steppe
spread out and nothing was visible except the dry, monotonous, sandy,
dismal plain covered with the footmarks of cattle, and here and there
with tufts of withered grass, with low reeds in the flats, and rare,
little-trodden footpaths, and the camps of the nomad Nogay tribe just
visible far away. The absence of shade and the austere aspect of the
place were striking. The sun always rises and sets red in the steppe.
When it is windy whole hills of sand are carried by the wind from
place to place.
When it is calm, as it was that morning, the silence,
uninterrupted by any movement or sound, is peculiarly striking. That
morning in the steppe it was quiet and dull, though the sun had
already risen. It all seemed specially soft and desolate. The air was
hushed, the footfalls and the snorting of the horses were the only
sounds to be heard, and even they quickly died away.
The men rode almost silently. A Cossack always carries his weapons
so that they neither jingle nor rattle. Jingling weapons are a
terrible disgrace to a Cossack. Two other Cossacks from the village
caught the party up and exchanged a few words. Lukashka's horse either
stumbled or caught its foot in some grass, and became restive—which
is a sign of bad luck among the Cossacks, and at such a time was of
special importance. The others exchanged glances and turned away,
trying not to notice what had happened. Lukaskha pulled at the reins,
frowned sternly, set his teeth, and flourished his whip above his
head. His good Kabarda horse, prancing from one foot to another not
knowing with which to start, seemed to wish to fly upwards on wings.
But Lukashka hit its well- -fed sides with his whip once, then again,
and a third time, and the horse, showing its teeth and spreading out
its tail, snorted and reared and stepped on its hind legs a few paces
away from the others.
'Ah, a good steed that!' said the cornet.
That he said steed instead of HORSE indicated special praise.
'A lion of a horse,' assented one of the others, an old Cossack.
The Cossacks rode forward silently, now at a footpace, then at a
trot, and these changes were the only incidents that interrupted for
a moment the stillness and solemnity of their movements.
Riding through the steppe for about six miles, they passed nothing
but one Nogay tent, placed on a cart and moving slowly along at a
distance of about a mile from them. A Nogay family was moving from
one part of the steppe to another. Afterwards they met two tattered
Nogay women with high cheekbones, who with baskets on their backs were
gathering dung left by the cattle that wandered over the steppe. The
cornet, who did not know their language well, tried to question them,
but they did not understand him and, obviously frightened, looked at
Lukashka rode up to them both, stopped his horse, and promptly
uttered the usual greeting. The Nogay women were evidently relieved,
and began speaking to him quite freely as to a brother.
'Ay—ay, kop abrek!' they said plaintively, pointing in the
direction in which the Cossacks were going. Olenin understood that
they were saying, 'Many abreks.'
Never having seen an engagement of that kind, and having formed an
idea of them only from Daddy Eroshka's tales, Olenin wished not to be
left behind by the Cossacks, but wanted to see it all. He admired the
Cossacks, and was on the watch, looking and listening and making his
own observations. Though he had brought his sword and a loaded gun
with him, when he noticed that the Cossacks avoided him he decided to
take no part in the action, as in his opinion his courage had already
been sufficiently proved when he was with his detachment, and also
because he was very happy.
Suddenly a shot was heard in the distance.
The cornet became excited, and began giving orders to the Cossacks
as to how they should divide and from which side they should
approach. But the Cossacks did not appear to pay any attention to
these orders, listening only to what Lukashka said and looking to him
alone. Lukashka's face and figure were expressive of calm solemnity.
He put his horse to a trot with which the others were unable to keep
pace, and screwing up his eyes kept looking ahead.
'There's a man on horseback,' he said, reining in his horse and
keeping in line with the others.
Olenin looked intently, but could not see anything. The Cossacks
soon distinguished two riders and quietly rode straight towards them.
'Are those the ABREKS?' asked Olenin.
The Cossacks did not answer his question, which appeared quite
meaningless to them. The ABREKS would have been fools to venture
across the river on horseback.
'That's friend Rodka waving to us, I do believe,' said Lukashka,
pointing to the two mounted men who were now clearly visible. 'Look,
he's coming to us.'
A few minutes later it became plain that the two horsemen were the
Cossack scouts. The corporal rode up to Lukashka.
'Are they far?' was all Lukashka said.
Just then they heard a sharp shot some thirty paces off. The
corporal smiled slightly.
'Our Gurka is having shots at them,' he said, nodding in the
direction of the shot.
Having gone a few paces farther they saw Gurka sitting behind a
sand-hillock and loading his gun. To while away the time he was
exchanging shots with the ABREKS, who were behind another sand- heap.
A bullet came whistling from their side.
The cornet was pale and grew confused. Lukashka dismounted from
his horse, threw the reins to one of the other Cossacks, and went up
to Gurka. Olenin also dismounted and, bending down, followed Lukashka.
They had hardly reached Gurka when two bullets whistled above them.
Lukashka looked around laughing at Olenin and stooped a little.
'Look out or they will kill you, Dmitri Andreich,' he said. 'You'd
better go away—you have no business here.' But Olenin wanted
absolutely to see the ABREKS.
From behind the mound he saw caps and muskets some two hundred
paces off. Suddenly a little cloud of smoke appeared from thence, and
again a bullet whistled past. The ABREKS were hiding in a marsh at the
foot of the hill. Olenin was much impressed by the place in which they
sat. In reality it was very much like the rest of the steppe, but
because the ABREKS sat there it seemed to detach itself from all the
rest and to have become distinguished. Indeed it appeared to Olenin
that it was the very spot for ABREKS to occupy. Lukashka went back to
his horse and Olenin followed him.
'We must get a hay-cart,' said Lukashka, 'or they will be killing
some of us. There behind that mound is a Nogay cart with a load of
The cornet listened to him and the corporal agreed. The cart of
hay was fetched, and the Cossacks, hiding behind it, pushed it
forward. Olenin rode up a hillock from whence he could see
everything. The hay-cart moved on and the Cossacks crowded together
behind it. The Cossacks advanced, but the Chechens, of whom there were
nine, sat with their knees in a row and did not fire.
All was quiet. Suddenly from the Chechens arose the sound of a
mournful song, something like Daddy Eroshka's 'Ay day, dalalay.' The
Chechens knew that they could not escape, and to prevent themselves
from being tempted to take to flight they had strapped themselves
together, knee to knee, had got their guns ready, and were singing
The Cossacks with their hay-cart drew closer and closer, and
Olenin expected the firing to begin at any moment, but the silence
was only broken by the abreks' mournful song. Suddenly the song
ceased; there was a sharp report, a bullet struck the front of the
cart, and Chechen curses and yells broke the silence and shot
followed on shot and one bullet after another struck the cart. The
Cossacks did not fire and were now only five paces distant.
Another moment passed and the Cossacks with a whoop rushed out on
both sides from behind the cart—Lukashka in front of them. Olenin
heard only a few shots, then shouting and moans. He thought he saw
smoke and blood, and abandoning his horse and quite beside himself he
ran towards the Cossacks. Horror seemed to blind him. He could not
make out anything, but understood that all was over. Lukashka, pale as
death, was holding a wounded Chechen by the arms and shouting, 'Don't
kill him. I'll take him alive!' The Chechen was the red-haired man who
had fetched his brother's body away after Lukashka had killed him.
Lukashka was twisting his arms. Suddenly the Chechen wrenched himself
free and fired his pistol. Lukashka fell, and blood began to flow from
his stomach. He jumped up, but fell again, swearing in Russian and in
Tartar. More and more blood appeared on his clothes and under him.
Some Cossacks approached him and began loosening his girdle. One of
them, Nazarka, before beginning to help, fumbled for some time, unable
to put his sword in its sheath: it would not go the right way. The
blade of the sword was blood-stained.
The Chechens with their red hair and clipped moustaches lay dead
and hacked about. Only the one we know of, who had fired at Lukashka,
though wounded in many places was still alive. Like a wounded hawk all
covered with blood (blood was flowing from a wound under his right
eye), pale and gloomy, he looked about him with wide—open excited
eyes and clenched teeth as he crouched, dagger in hand, still prepared
to defend himself. The cornet went up to him as if intending to pass
by, and with a quick movement shot him in the ear. The Chechen started
up, but it was too late, and he fell.
The Cossacks, quite out of breath, dragged the bodies aside and
took the weapons from them. Each of the red-haired Chechens had been
a man, and each one had his own individual expression. Lukashka was
carried to the cart. He continued to swear in Russian and in Tartar.
'No fear, I'll strangle him with my hands. ANNA SENI!' he cried,
struggling. But he soon became quiet from weakness.
Olenin rode home. In the evening he was told that Lukashka was at
death's door, but that a Tartar from beyond the river had undertaken
to cure him with herbs.
The bodies were brought to the village office. The women and the
little boys hastened to look at them.
It was growing dark when Olenin returned, and he could not collect
himself after what he had seen. But towards night memories of the
evening before came rushing to his mind. He looked out of the window,
Maryanka was passing to and fro from the house to the cowshed, putting
things straight. Her mother had gone to the vineyard and her father to
the office. Olenin could not wait till she had quite finished her
work, but went out to meet her. She was in the hut standing with her
back towards him. Olenin thought she felt shy.
'Maryanka,' said he, 'I say, Maryanka! May I come in?'
She suddenly turned. There was a scarcely perceptible trace of
tears in her eyes and her face was beautiful in its sadness. She
looked at him in silent dignity.
Olenin again said:
'Maryanka, I have come—'
'Leave me alone!' she said. Her face did not change but the tears
ran down her cheeks.
'What are you crying for? What is it?'
'What?' she repeated in a rough voice. 'Cossacks have been killed,
that's what for.'
'Lukashka?' said Olenin.
'Go away! What do you want?'
'Maryanka!' said Olenin, approaching her.
'You will never get anything from me!'
'Maryanka, don't speak like that,' Olenin entreated.
'Get away. I'm sick of you!' shouted the girl, stamping her foot,
and moved threateningly towards him. And her face expressed such
abhorrence, such contempt, and such anger that Olenin suddenly
understood that there was no hope for him, and that his first
impression of this woman's inaccessibility had been perfectly
Olenin said nothing more, but ran out of the hut.
For two hours after returning home he lay on his bed motionless.
Then he went to his company commander and obtained leave to visit the
staff. Without taking leave of anyone, and sending Vanyusha to settle
his accounts with his landlord, he prepared to leave for the fort
where his regiment was stationed. Daddy Eroshka was the only one to
see him off. They had a drink, and then a second, and then yet
another. Again as on the night of his departure from Moscow, a
three-horsed conveyance stood waiting at the door. But Olenin did not
confer with himself as he had done then, and did not say to himself
that all he had thought and done here was 'not it'. He did not promise
himself a new life. He loved Maryanka more than ever, and knew that he
could never be loved by her.
'Well, good-bye, my lad!' said Daddy Eroshka. 'When you go on an
expedition, be wise and listen to my words—the words of an old man.
When you are out on a raid or the like (you know I'm an old wolf and
have seen things), and when they begin firing, don't get into a crowd
where there are many men. When you fellows get frightened you always
try to get close together with a lot of others. You think it is
merrier to be with others, but that's where it is worst of all! They
always aim at a crowd. Now I used to keep farther away from the others
and went alone, and I've never been wounded. Yet what things haven't I
seen in my day?'
'But you've got a bullet in your back,' remarked Vanyusha, who was
clearing up the room.
'That was the Cossacks fooling about,' answered Eroshka.
'Cossacks? How was that?' asked Olenin.
'Oh, just so. We were drinking. Vanka Sitkin, one of the Cossacks,
got merry, and puff! he gave me one from his pistol just here.'
'Yes, and did it hurt?' asked Olenin. 'Vanyusha, will you soon be
ready?' he added.
'Ah, where's the hurry! Let me tell you. When he banged into me,
the bullet did not break the bone but remained here. And I say:
"You've killed me, brother. Eh! What have you done to me? I won't let
you off! You'll have to stand me a pailful!"'
'Well, but did it hurt?' Olenin asked again, scarcely listening to
'Let me finish. He stood a pailful, and we drank it, but the blood
went on flowing. The whole room was drenched and covered with blood.
Grandad Burlak, he says, "The lad will give up the ghost. Stand a
bottle of the sweet sort, or we shall have you taken up!" They bought
more drink, and boozed and boozed—'
'Yes, but did it hurt you much?' Olenin asked once more.
'Hurt, indeed! Don't interrupt: I don't like it. Let me finish. We
boozed and boozed till morning, and I fell asleep on the top of the
oven, drunk. When I woke in the morning I could not unbend myself
'Was it very painful?' repeated Olenin, thinking that now he would
at last get an answer to his question.
'Did I tell you it was painful? I did not say it was painful, but
I could not bend and could not walk.'
'And then it healed up?' said Olenin, not even laughing, so heavy
was his heart.
'It healed up, but the bullet is still there. Just feel it!' And
lifting his shirt he showed his powerful back, where just near the
bone a bullet could be felt and rolled about.
'Feel how it rolls,' he said, evidently amusing himself with the
bullet as with a toy. 'There now, it has rolled to the back.'
'And Lukashka, will he recover?' asked Olenin.
'Heaven only knows! There's no doctor. They've gone for one.'
'Where will they get one? From Groznoe?' asked Olenin. 'No, my
lad. Were I the Tsar I'd have hung all your Russian doctors long ago.
Cutting is all they know! There's our Cossack Baklashka, no longer a
real man now that they've cut off his leg! That shows they're fools.
What's Baklashka good for now? No, my lad, in the mountains there are
real doctors. There was my chum, Vorchik, he was on an expedition and
was wounded just here in the chest. Well, your doctors gave him up,
but one of theirs came from the mountains and cured him! They
understand herbs, my lad!'
'Come, stop talking rubbish,' said Olenin. 'I'd better send a
doctor from head-quarters.'
'Rubbish!' the old man said mockingly. 'Fool, fool! Rubbish.
You'll send a doctor!—If yours cured people, Cossacks and Chechens
would go to you for treatment, but as it is your officers and colonels
send to the mountains for doctors. Yours are all humbugs, all
Olenin did not answer. He agreed only too fully that all was
humbug in the world in which he had lived and to which he was now
'How is Lukashka? You've been to see him?' he asked.
'He just lies as if he were dead. He does not eat nor drink. Vodka
is the only thing his soul accepts. But as long as he drinks vodka
it's well. I'd be sorry to lose the lad. A fine lad—a brave, like
me. I too lay dying like that once. The old women were already
wailing. My head was burning. They had already laid me out under the
holy icons. So I lay there, and above me on the oven little drummers,
no bigger than this, beat the tattoo. I shout at them and they drum
all the harder.' (The old man laughed.) 'The women brought our church
elder. They were getting ready to bury me. They said, "He defiled
himself with worldly unbelievers; he made merry with women; he ruined
people; he did not fast, and he played the balalayka. Confess," they
said. So I began to confess. "I've sinned!" I said. Whatever the
priest said, I always answered "I've sinned." He began to ask me about
the balalayka. "Where is the accursed thing," he says. "Show it me and
smash it." But I say, "I've not got it." I'd hidden it myself in a net
in the outhouse. I knew they could not find it. So they left me. Yet
after all I recovered. When I went for my BALALAYKA—What was I
saying?' he continued. 'Listen to me, and keep farther away from the
other men or you'll get killed foolishly. I feel for you, truly: you
are a drinker—I love you! And fellows like you like riding up the
mounds. There was one who lived here who had come from Russia, he
always would ride up the mounds (he called the mounds so funnily,
"hillocks"). Whenever he saw a mound, off he'd gallop. Once he
galloped off that way and rode to the top quite pleased, but a
Chechen fired at him and killed him! Ah, how well they shoot from
their gun-rests, those Chechens! Some of them shoot even better than
I do. I don't like it when a fellow gets killed so foolishly!
Sometimes I used to look at your soldiers and wonder at them. There's
foolishness for you! They go, the poor fellows, all in a clump, and
even sew red collars to their coats! How can they help being hit! One
gets killed, they drag him away and another takes his place! What
foolishness!' the old man repeated, shaking his head. 'Why not
scatter, and go one by one? So you just go like that and they won't
notice you. That's what you must do.'
'Well, thank you! Good-bye, Daddy. God willing we may meet again,'
said Olenin, getting up and moving towards the passage.
The old man, who was sitting on the floor, did not rise.
'Is that the way one says "Good-bye"? Fool, fool!' he began. 'Oh
dear, what has come to people? We've kept company, kept company for
well-nigh a year, and now "Good-bye!" and off he goes! Why, I love
you, and how I pity you! You are so forlorn, always alone, always
alone. You're somehow so unsociable. At times I can't sleep for
thinking about you. I am so sorry for you. As the song has it:
"It is very hard, dear brother, In a foreign land to live."
So it is with you.'
'Well, good-bye,' said Olenin again.
The old man rose and held out his hand. Olenin pressed it and
turned to go.
'Give us your mug, your mug!'
And the old man took Olenin by the head with both hands and kissed
him three times with wet moustaches and lips, and began to cry.
'I love you, good-bye!'
Olenin got into the cart.
'Well, is that how you're going? You might give me something for a
remembrance. Give me a gun! What do you want two for?' said the old
man, sobbing quite sincerely.
Olenin got out a musket and gave it to him.
'What a lot you've given the old fellow,' murmured Vanyusha,
'he'll never have enough! A regular old beggar. They are all such
irregular people,' he remarked, as he wrapped himself in his overcoat
and took his seat on the box.
'Hold your tongue, swine!' exclaimed the old man, laughing. 'What
a stingy fellow!'
Maryanka came out of the cowshed, glanced indifferently at the
cart, bowed and went towards the hut.
'LA FILLE!' said Vanyusha, with a wink, and burst out into a silly
'Drive on!' shouted Olenin, angrily.
'Good-bye, my lad! Good-bye. I won't forget you!' shouted Eroshka.
Olenin turned round. Daddy Eroshka was talking to Maryanka,
evidently about his own affairs, and neither the old man nor the girl
looked at Olenin.