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 Chéchens 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 Nogáy 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 Ulítka, 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 Maryánka 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 Maryánka 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!” Maryánka 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 Ulítka 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
Ulítka, 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 Lukáshka 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 Lukáshka whom she had lately fitted out for
service in the Cossack regiment, and whom she wished to marry to the
cornet’s daughter, Maryánka.
“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 Fómushkin. He says he’s all right, and that his
superiors are satisfied. He says they are looking out for _abreks_
again. Lukáshka is quite happy, he says.”
“Ah well, thank God,” said the cornet’s wife. “‘Snatcher’ is certainly
the only word for him.” Lukáshka 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
Lukáshka’s mother.
“I thank God, Mother, that he’s a good son! He’s a fine fellow,
everyone praises him,” says Lukáshka’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 Lukáshka’s mother, shaking her head.
“There’s your girl now, your Maryánka—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 Lukáshka’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 Lukáshka 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 Maryánka 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
Lukáshka’s mother. “And we’ll make our bows to Elias Vasílich too.”
“Elias, indeed!” says the cornet’s wife proudly. “It’s to me you must
speak! All in its own good time.”
Lukáshka’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 Maryánka,
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 Lukáshka!”
But Granny Ulítka had her own cares and she remained sitting on the
threshold thinking hard about something, till the girl called her.