For two days a warm wind had been blowing from the south.
The last snow had melted off the fields. The foaming spring runnels had ceased their roaring, the gullies and rivulets of the steppe had finished gurgling. At dawn of the third day the wind died away and heavy mists descended over the steppe; the clumps of last year feather grass were silvered with moisture; the mounds, ravines and villages, the spires of the belfries, the arrowing crowns of the pyramidal poplars, were all drowned in an impenetrable milky haze.
That misty morning, for the first time after her recovery Aksinia went out on to the porch and stood long, intoxicated with the heady sweetness of the fresh spring air. Mastering her nausea and dizziness she walked as far as the well in the orchard, put down the bucket, and seated herself on the parapet.
Altogether different, marvellously fresh and enchanting seemed the world to Aksinia. With glittering eyes she agitatedly gazed about her, fingering the folds of her dress as would a child. The enmisted distance, the apple-trees in the orchard swimming with thaw-water, the wet palings and the road beyond them with its deep, water-filled ruts – all seemed incredibly beautiful to her; everything was blossoming with heavy yet delicate tints as though irradiated with sunlight.
A scrap of clean sky peering through the haze dazzled her with its chilly azure; the scent of rotting straw and thawed black earth was so familiar and pleasant that she sighed deeply and smiled at the corners of her lips; the artless snatch of song of a skylark reaching her ears from somewhere in the misty steppe awakened an unconscious sadness within her. And it was that snatch of skylark’s song heard in a strange land which sent Aksinia’s heart beating more quickly, and wrung two meagre little tears from her eyes.
Unthinkingly rejoicing in the life which had returned to her she experienced a tremendous desire to touch everything with her hands, to look at everything. She wanted to touch the currant bush which stood blackened with moisture, to press her cheek against the branch of an apple-tree covered with a velvety pale pink bloom, she desired to stride across the falling fencing and to walk trough the mire, away from all the tracks. To where beyond a broad hollow the fields of winter corn were showing wondrously green, merging with the misty distance.
For several days Aksinia lived in the expectation that at any moment Gregor would turn up. But at last she learned from neighbours who called on her host that the war was still going on, and that many Cossacks had sailed from Novorossisk to the Crimea, while those who had stayed behind had joined the Red Army or had been sent to the mines.
From the book ‘ The Don Flows Home to the Sea’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
After his first battle
After his first battle Gregor Melekhov was tormented by a dreary inward pain. He grew noticeably thin, lost weight, and frequently, whether attacking or resting, sleeping or waking, he saw the features and form of the Austrian whom he had killed by the railings, In his sleep he lived again and again through that first battle, and even felt the shuddering convulsion of his right hand clutching the lance. He would awake and drive the dream off violently, shading his painfully screwed up eyes with his hands.
The cavalry trampled down the ripened corn and left their hoof prints on the fields as though hail had rattled over all Galicia. The heavy soldiers’ boot tramped the roads, scratched the macadam, churned up the August mud. The gloomy face of the earth was pock-marked with shells; fragments of iron and steel tore into it, yearning for human blood. At night ruddy flickerings lit up the horizon: trees, villages, towns were flaming. In August –when fruits ripen and corn is ready for harvest – the wind swept sky was unsmilingly grey, the rare fine days were oppressive and sultrily steaming.
August declined to its close. The leaves turned an oily yellow in the orchard , and a mournful purple flooded the stalks. From a distance it seemed as though the trees were rent with wounds and streaming with blood.
Gregor studied with interest the changes that occurred in his comrades. Prokhor Zilov returned from hospital with the marks of a horse shoe on his cheek, and pain and bewilderment lurking in the corners of his lips. His calfish eyes blinked more than ever. Yegor Aharkov lost no opportunity of cursing and swearing, was more bawdy than ever and imprecated everything under the sun. Yemelian Groshev, a serious and efficient Cossack from Gregor’s own village, seemed to char; his faces turned dark, an he laughed awkwardly and morosely. Changes were to be observed in every face; each was inwardly nursing and rearing the iron seeds implanted by the war, and the young Cossacks were wilting and drooping like the stalks of mown grass.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
The cavalry trampled down the ripened corn and left their hoof prints on the fields as though hail had rattled over all Galicia. The heavy soldiers’ boot tramped the roads, scratched the macadam, churned up the August mud. The gloomy face of the earth was pock-marked with shells; fragments of iron and steel tore into it, yearning for human blood. At night ruddy flickerings lit up the horizon: trees, villages, towns were flaming. In August –when fruits ripen and corn is ready for harvest – the wind swept sky was unsmilingly grey, the rare fine days were oppressive and sultrily steaming.
August declined to its close. The leaves turned an oily yellow in the orchard , and a mournful purple flooded the stalks. From a distance it seemed as though the trees were rent with wounds and streaming with blood.
Gregor studied with interest the changes that occurred in his comrades. Prokhor Zilov returned from hospital with the marks of a horse shoe on his cheek, and pain and bewilderment lurking in the corners of his lips. His calfish eyes blinked more than ever. Yegor Aharkov lost no opportunity of cursing and swearing, was more bawdy than ever and imprecated everything under the sun. Yemelian Groshev, a serious and efficient Cossack from Gregor’s own village, seemed to char; his faces turned dark, an he laughed awkwardly and morosely. Changes were to be observed in every face; each was inwardly nursing and rearing the iron seeds implanted by the war, and the young Cossacks were wilting and drooping like the stalks of mown grass.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
Saturday, December 12, 2009
He third Don Cossack regiment
He third Don Cossack regiment was stationed at Vilno together with certain sections of the third cavalry division. One day in June the various companies rode out from the city to take up country quarters. The day was dull but warm. The flowing clouds coursed in droves across the sky and concealed the sun. The regimental band blared at the head of the column, and the officers in their light summer caps and drill uniforms rode in a bunch at the back of a cloud of cigarette smoke rising above them.
On each side of the road the peasants and their womenfolk were cutting the hay, stopping to gaze at the columns of Cossacks as they passed. The horses sweated with the heat, a yellowish foam appeared between their legs and the light breeze blowing from the south east did not cool, but rather intensified the steaming swelter
Arrived at his destination, the regiment was broken up by companies among the states in the district. During the day the Cossacks cut the clover and meadow grass for the landowners, at night they grazed their hobbled horses in the fields assigned to them, and played cards or told stories by the smoke of the camp fires. The sixth company was billeted on the large estate of a Polish landowner. The officers lived in the house, played cards, got drunk, and paid attentions to the steward’s daughter; the Cossacks pitched their tents a couple of miles away from the house. Each morning the steward drove out in a drozhi to their camp. The corpulent, estimable gentleman would get out of the drozhi and invariably welcome the Cossacks with a wave of his white, glossy peaked cap.
‘Come and cut hay with us, sir; it’ll shake your fat down a bit,’ the Cossacks called to him. The steward smiled phlegmatically , wiped his bald head with his handkerchief, and went with the sergeant major to point out the next section of hay to be cut.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
On each side of the road the peasants and their womenfolk were cutting the hay, stopping to gaze at the columns of Cossacks as they passed. The horses sweated with the heat, a yellowish foam appeared between their legs and the light breeze blowing from the south east did not cool, but rather intensified the steaming swelter
Arrived at his destination, the regiment was broken up by companies among the states in the district. During the day the Cossacks cut the clover and meadow grass for the landowners, at night they grazed their hobbled horses in the fields assigned to them, and played cards or told stories by the smoke of the camp fires. The sixth company was billeted on the large estate of a Polish landowner. The officers lived in the house, played cards, got drunk, and paid attentions to the steward’s daughter; the Cossacks pitched their tents a couple of miles away from the house. Each morning the steward drove out in a drozhi to their camp. The corpulent, estimable gentleman would get out of the drozhi and invariably welcome the Cossacks with a wave of his white, glossy peaked cap.
‘Come and cut hay with us, sir; it’ll shake your fat down a bit,’ the Cossacks called to him. The steward smiled phlegmatically , wiped his bald head with his handkerchief, and went with the sergeant major to point out the next section of hay to be cut.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The regiment was continually changing its pace
The regiment was continually changing its pace, and the horses began to sweat. In the distance appeared the huts of a little village lying under a steep slope. On the other side of the village was a wood, its green the tops piercing the azure dome of the sky. From beyond the wood came the sound of gunfire, mingled with the frequent rattle of rifle shots. The horses pricked up their ears. The smoke of bursting shrapnel hovered in the sky a long way off; the rifle-fire came from the right of the company.
Gregor listened tensely to every sound his nerves tautened into little bundles of sensation. Zikov fidgeted in his saddle talking incessantly:
‘Gregor, those shots sound just like boys rattling sticks along railings, don’t they? ‘he remarked.
‘Shut up, magpie!’
The company entered the village. Russians soldiers were overrunning the yards. The inhabitants of the huts were packing their belongings to flee, their faces impressed with alarm and confusion. As Gregor passed he noticed that soldiers were firing the roof of a shed but its owner, a tall grey haired White Russian crashed by his sudden misfortune, went past them without paying the slightest attention. Gregor saw the man’s family loading a cart with red covered pillows and ramshackle furniture, and the man himself was carefully carrying a broken wheel rim which it was of not value to anybody, and had probably lain in the yard for years. Gregor was amazed at the stupidity of the women, who were pilling the carts with painted pots and ikons and were leaving necessary and valuable articles behind in the huts. Down the street the feathers from an feather bed blew like a miniature snowstorm
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
Gregor listened tensely to every sound his nerves tautened into little bundles of sensation. Zikov fidgeted in his saddle talking incessantly:
‘Gregor, those shots sound just like boys rattling sticks along railings, don’t they? ‘he remarked.
‘Shut up, magpie!’
The company entered the village. Russians soldiers were overrunning the yards. The inhabitants of the huts were packing their belongings to flee, their faces impressed with alarm and confusion. As Gregor passed he noticed that soldiers were firing the roof of a shed but its owner, a tall grey haired White Russian crashed by his sudden misfortune, went past them without paying the slightest attention. Gregor saw the man’s family loading a cart with red covered pillows and ramshackle furniture, and the man himself was carefully carrying a broken wheel rim which it was of not value to anybody, and had probably lain in the yard for years. Gregor was amazed at the stupidity of the women, who were pilling the carts with painted pots and ikons and were leaving necessary and valuable articles behind in the huts. Down the street the feathers from an feather bed blew like a miniature snowstorm
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
Saturday, November 7, 2009
‘Gunfire!’Zikov almost shouted
‘Gunfire!’Zikov almost shouted and tears filled his clafish eyes. Gregor lifted his head. In front of him the troop sergeant’s grey greatcoat rose and fell in unison with the horse’s back; on each side stretched fields of uncut corn; a skylark danced in the sky at the height of a telegraph pole. The entire company was aroused. The sound of the firing ran through it like an electric current. Lashed into activity, lieutinant Polkovnikov put the company into a fast trot. Beyond a crossroad, where a deserted tavern stood, they began to fall in with the carts of refugees. A squadron of smart looking dragoons went by. Their captain , riding a sorrel thoroughbred, stared at the Cossacks ironically and spurred up his horse. They passed a great, pockmarked artilleryman carrying an armful of boards probably torn from the fence of the tavern, and came upon a howitzer battery stranded in a muddy and swampy hollow. The riders were lashing at their horses, whilst the gunners struggled with the carriage wheels.
A little farther on they overtook an infantry regiment. The soldiers were marching swiftly, their overcoats flung back. The sun glittered on their polished helmets and streamed from their bayonets. A corporal in the last company threw a lump of mud at Gregor:
‘Here, catch! Chuck it at the Austrians!’
‘Don’t play about grasshopper!’ Gregor replied, and cut the lump pf mud in its flight with his whip.
From now on they were continually passing foot regiments crawling like caterpillars, batteries, baggage wagons, red cross wagons. The deathly breath of imminent battle was in the air.
A little later, as it was entering a village, the fourth company was overtaken by the commander of the regiment, colonel Kaledin, accompanied by his second in command. As they passed Gregor heard the latter say agitatedly to Kaledin:
‘This village isn’t marked on the ordnance map, Vasily ! We may find ourselves in an awkward situation.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
A little farther on they overtook an infantry regiment. The soldiers were marching swiftly, their overcoats flung back. The sun glittered on their polished helmets and streamed from their bayonets. A corporal in the last company threw a lump of mud at Gregor:
‘Here, catch! Chuck it at the Austrians!’
‘Don’t play about grasshopper!’ Gregor replied, and cut the lump pf mud in its flight with his whip.
From now on they were continually passing foot regiments crawling like caterpillars, batteries, baggage wagons, red cross wagons. The deathly breath of imminent battle was in the air.
A little later, as it was entering a village, the fourth company was overtaken by the commander of the regiment, colonel Kaledin, accompanied by his second in command. As they passed Gregor heard the latter say agitatedly to Kaledin:
‘This village isn’t marked on the ordnance map, Vasily ! We may find ourselves in an awkward situation.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
Sunday, November 1, 2009
During the second week of July
During the second week of July, 1914, the divisional staff transferred Gregor Melekhov’s regiment to the town of Rovno in Volhynia, to take part in manoeuvres. A fortnight later, tired out with continual manoeuvring. Gregor and the other Cossacks of the fourth company were lying in their tents, when the company commander, lieutenant Poljovnikov, galloped furiously back from the regimental staff.
‘Another attack I suppose,’ Prokhor Zikov suggested tentatively, and waited for someone to agree.
The troop sergeant thrust the needle with which he had been mending his trousers into the lining of his cap, and remarked:
‘I expect so; they won’t let us rest for a moment.’
A minute or two later the bugler sounded the alarm. The Cossacks jumped to their feet. They had their horses saddled well within the regulation time. As Gregor was tearing the tent-pegs the sergeant managed to mutter him:
‘It’s war time, my lad!’
‘You’re lying!’ Gregor expressed his disbelief.
‘God’s truth! The sergeant major told me.’
The company formed up in the street, the commander at its head. ‘In troop columns!’ his command flew over the ranks.
The horses’ hoofs clattered as they went at a trot out of the village on to the highway. From a neighbouring village the first and fifth companies could be seen riding towards the station.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
‘Another attack I suppose,’ Prokhor Zikov suggested tentatively, and waited for someone to agree.
The troop sergeant thrust the needle with which he had been mending his trousers into the lining of his cap, and remarked:
‘I expect so; they won’t let us rest for a moment.’
A minute or two later the bugler sounded the alarm. The Cossacks jumped to their feet. They had their horses saddled well within the regulation time. As Gregor was tearing the tent-pegs the sergeant managed to mutter him:
‘It’s war time, my lad!’
‘You’re lying!’ Gregor expressed his disbelief.
‘God’s truth! The sergeant major told me.’
The company formed up in the street, the commander at its head. ‘In troop columns!’ his command flew over the ranks.
The horses’ hoofs clattered as they went at a trot out of the village on to the highway. From a neighbouring village the first and fifth companies could be seen riding towards the station.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
Monday, October 12, 2009
During the second week of July
During the second week of July, 1914, the divisional staff transferred Gregor Melekhov’s regiment to the town of Rovno in Volhynia, to take part in manoeuvres. A fortnight later, tired out with continual manoeuvring. Gregor and the other Cossacks of the fourth company were lying in their tents, when the company commander, lieutenant Poljovnikov, galloped furiously back from the regimental staff.
‘Another attack I suppose,’ Prokhor Zikov suggested tentatively, and waited for someone to agree.
The troop sergeant thrust the needle with which he had been mending his trousers into the lining of his cap, and remarked:
‘I expect so; they won’t let us rest for a moment.’
A minute or two later the bugler sounded the alarm. The Cossacks jumped to their feet. They had their horses saddled well within the regulation time. As Gregor was tearing the tent-pegs the sergeant managed to mutter him:
‘It’s war time, my lad!’
‘You’re lying!’ Gregor expressed his disbelief.
‘God’s truth! The sergeant major told me.’
The company formed up in the street, the commander at its head. ‘In troop columns!’ his command flew over the ranks.
The horses’ hoofs clattered as they went at a trot out of the village on to the highway. From a neighbouring village the first and fifth companies could be seen riding towards the station.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
‘Another attack I suppose,’ Prokhor Zikov suggested tentatively, and waited for someone to agree.
The troop sergeant thrust the needle with which he had been mending his trousers into the lining of his cap, and remarked:
‘I expect so; they won’t let us rest for a moment.’
A minute or two later the bugler sounded the alarm. The Cossacks jumped to their feet. They had their horses saddled well within the regulation time. As Gregor was tearing the tent-pegs the sergeant managed to mutter him:
‘It’s war time, my lad!’
‘You’re lying!’ Gregor expressed his disbelief.
‘God’s truth! The sergeant major told me.’
The company formed up in the street, the commander at its head. ‘In troop columns!’ his command flew over the ranks.
The horses’ hoofs clattered as they went at a trot out of the village on to the highway. From a neighbouring village the first and fifth companies could be seen riding towards the station.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry
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