It was five in the morning. Vanyúsha was in the porch heating the
samovar, and using the leg of a long boot instead of bellows. Olénin
had already ridden off to bathe in the Térek. (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 Olénin, riding bareback on a handsome dark-grey
horse which was still wet and shining, rode up to the gate. Maryánka’s
handsome head, tied round with a red kerchief, appeared from the shed
and again disappeared. Olénin 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 smartness,
threw open the gate and, tightening the reins, swished his whip and
entered the yard. “Is tea ready, Vanyúsha?” he cried gaily, not looking
at the door of the shed. He felt with pleasure how his fine horse,
pressing down its flanks, pulling at the bridle and with every muscle
quivering and with each foot ready to leap over the fence, pranced on
the hard clay of the yard. _“C’est prêt_,” answered Vanyúsha. Olénin
felt as if Maryánka’s beautiful head was still looking out of the shed
but he did not turn to look at her. As he jumped down from his horse he
made an awkward movement and caught his gun against the porch, and
turned a frightened look towards the shed, where there was no one to be
seen and whence the sound of milking could still be heard.
Soon after he had entered the hut he came out again and sat down with
his pipe and a book on the side of the porch which was not yet exposed
to the rays of the sun. He meant not to go anywhere before dinner that
day, and to write some long-postponed letters; but somehow he felt
disinclined to leave his place in the porch, and he was as reluctant to
go back into the hut as if it had been a prison. The housewife had
heated her oven, and the girl, having driven the cattle, had come back
and was collecting _kisyak_ and heaping it up along the fence. Olénin
went on reading, but did not understand a word of what was written in
the book that lay open before him. He kept lifting his eyes from it and
looking at the powerful young woman who was moving about. Whether she
stepped into the moist morning shadow thrown by the house, or went out
into the middle of the yard lit up by the joyous young light, so that
the whole of her stately figure in its bright coloured garment gleamed
in the sunshine and cast a black shadow—he always feared to lose any
one of her movements. It delighted him to see how freely and gracefully
her figure bent: into what folds her only garment, a pink smock, draped
itself on her bosom and along her shapely legs; how she drew herself up
and her tight-drawn smock showed the outline of her heaving bosom, how
the soles of her narrow feet in her worn red slippers 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, Olénin, have you been up long?” said Belétski as he entered the
yard dressed in the coat of a Caucasian officer.
“Ah, Belétski,” replied Olénin, 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. Maryánka, of
course you’ll come to Ústenka’s?” he added, turning to the girl.
Olénin felt surprised that Belétski could address this woman so easily.
But Maryánka, 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,” Belétski 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 Ústenka’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?”
Belétski smiled knowingly and winked, jerking his head in the direction
of the outhouse into which Maryánka had disappeared.
Olénin shrugged his shoulders and blushed.
“Well, really you are a strange fellow!” said he.
“Come now, don’t pretend”
Olénin frowned, and Belétski 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
Olénin.
“Well then?” said Belétski, quite unable to understand the situation.
“It may be strange,” replied Olénin, “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? Eróshka—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 Amália Ivánovna?
It’s the same thing! You may say they’re not very clean—that’s another
matter... _À la guerre, comme à la guerre!_...”
“But I have never known any Amália Ivánovas, and have never known how
to behave with women of that sort,” replied Olénin. “One cannot respect
them, but these I do respect.”
“Well go on respecting them! Who wants to prevent you?”
Olénin 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.”
Belétski raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Anyhow, come to me this
evening; Maryánka 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 Belétski. “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 Olénin.
“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
Vozdvízhensk?”
“Hardly. I was told the 8th Company would be sent there,” said Olénin.
“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 Krinovítsin has received
the Order of St. Anna for a raid. He expected a lieutenancy,” said
Belétski laughing. “He was let in! He has set off for headquarters.”
It was growing dusk and Olénin 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? Belétski 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 Maryánka and perhaps might
have to talk to her. It seemed to him impossible when he remembered her
majestic bearing. But Belétski spoke of it as if it were all perfectly
simple. “Is it possible that Belétski will treat Maryánka 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 Belétski’s, and went in
there.
The hut in which Belétski lived was like Olénin’s. It was raised nearly
five feet from the ground on wooden piles, and had two rooms. In the
first (which Olénin 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 Belétski 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.
Belétski 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 Belétski.
“Very soon! Why? Is Grandad hungry?” and from the hut came the sound of
ringing laughter.
Ústenka, plump, small, rosy, and pretty, with her sleeves turned up,
ran into Belétski’s hut to fetch some plates.
“Get away or I shall smash the plates!” she squeaked, escaping from
Belétski. “You’d better come and help,” she shouted to Olénin,
laughing. “And don’t forget to get some refreshments for the girls.”
(“Refreshments” meaning spicebread and sweets.)
“And has Maryánka come?”
“Of course! She brought some dough.”
“Do you know,” said Belétski, “if one were to dress Ústenka 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! Bórsheva? What dignity! Where do they get it...”
“I have not seen Bórsheva, 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 Belétski
with a sigh of pleasure. “I’ll go and see what they are up to.”
He threw his dressing-gown over his shoulders and ran out, shouting,
“And you look after the ‘refreshments’.”
Olénin sent Belétski’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
honey?”
“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 Olénin 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 Belétski 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 Ústenka 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.
Ústenka 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 Ústenka,
inviting her guests to the table.
Olénin noticed Maryánka 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 Belétski did. Belétski stepped to the table
somewhat solemnly yet with confidence and ease, drank a glass of wine
to Ústenka’s health, and invited the others to do the same. Ústenka
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 Belétski sent
him away.
Having mixed honey with wine in the glasses, and having lavishly
scattered the three pounds of spice-cakes on the table, Belétski
dragged the girls from their corners by force, made them sit down at
the table, and began distributing the cakes among them. Olénin
involuntarily noticed how Maryánka’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 Ústenka’s and Belétski’s free and easy manner and their wish
to enliven the company. Olénin 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 Maryánka 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?”