 Chapter 24 It was five in the morning. Van Nussche 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 a hout house, 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 damn thing came her impatient voice, followed by the rhythmical sound of milking. From the street in front of the house horses' hooves 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. Marianca's handsome head, tined round to the red kerchief, appeared from the shed and again disappeared. Olenin was wearing a red silk shirt, a white Circassian coat, girded 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 experience 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, Venusia? 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 clear of the yard. C'est près, answered Venusia. Olenin felt as if Marianca'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 kiss-yak and heaping it up along the fence. Jane 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 colored garment gleamed in the sunshine and cast a black shadow. He always feared to lose any one of her movements. He 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. While 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, Olenin, have you been up long?" said Beletsky, as he entered the yard dressed in the coat of a Caucasian officer. Ah, Beletsky, 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 to-night. Marianca, of course you'll come to Ustenka's, he added, turning to the girl. Olenin felt surprised that Beletsky could address this woman so easily. But Marianca, 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 out-house. She's shy, the wence is shy, Beletsky 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? Beletsky smiled knowingly and winked, jerking his head in the direction of the out-house, into which Marianca 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 Beletsky, 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 Olenin. Well then said Beletsky, quite unable to understand the situation. 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. They are now in common. And what have I in common with a Malia Ivanovna? It's the same thing. You may say they're not very clean. That's another matter. Alaga, come alaga. But I have never known any Malia Ivanovnas, 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, where I live as you do. Therefore, I look for something quite different from what you look for. Boletsky raised his eyes incredulously. Anyhow, come to me this evening. Marianka 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, oh, Sharded Boletsky. 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 your company is ordered to Vazdidzensk?' "'Hardly, I was told the eighth company would be sent there,' said Olenin. "'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 am 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 Krinovitsyn has received the order of St. Anna for a raid. He expected a lieutenancy,' said Beletsky, laughing. He was let in. He has set off red quarters. 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 connection was there between him and those wild Cossack girls? Beletsky 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 Marianka, and perhaps might have to talk to her. It seemed to him impossible when he remembered her majestic bearing. But Beletsky spoke of it as if it were all perfectly simple. Is it possible that Beletsky will treat Marianka in the same way? That is interesting, thought he. No, better not go. It's also horrid so vulgar and above all it leads to nothing. But again he was worried by the question 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 Beletsky's and went in there. The hut in which Beletsky 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 a steep flight of steps, feather beds, rugs, blankets and cushions were tastefully and handsomly 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 Beletsky was quartered with his count 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. Beletsky himself, clean and good looking, lay on the bed in his under-clothing, lay twow musketeers. 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. Well it's soon be ready, cried Beletsky. Very soon, why, his granddad hungry, and from the hut came the sound of ringing laughter. Ustenka, plump, small, rosy and pretty, with her sleeves turned up, ran into Beletsky's hut to fetch some plates. Get away or I shall smash the plate she squeaked, escaping from Beletsky. You'd better come and help, she shouted, to a Lenin laughing. And don't forget to get some refreshments for the girls. Refreshments meant spice bread and sweets. And has Marianka come? Of course she brought some dough. Do you know, said Beletsky, 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. Borshava, what dignity! Where do they get it? I have not seen Borshava, but I think nothing can be better than the costume they wear here. Ah, I'm first rated fitting into any kind of life, said Beletsky, with a sigh of pleasure. I'll go and see what they're up to. He threw his dressing gown over his shoulders and ran out shouting. And you look after the refreshments. Lenin sent Beletsky's orderly to buy some 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 copics. Yes, yes, spend it all, answered O'Lenin, 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 girl's hut when Beletsky went there, and a few moments later saw how he jumped out and ran down the steps, accompanied by shrieks, bustling laughter. Turned out, he said. A little later Ustanka 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. Ustanka was rearranging the cushions along the wall. On the table, which was covered by a disproportionately small cloth, was a decanter of chick ear 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 stove, whispering giggling and spluttering with laughter. I humbly beg you to do honour to our patron saint, said Ustanka, inviting her guests to the table. O'Lenin noticed Marianca among the group of girls, who with that 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 Beletsky did. Beletsky stepped to the table somewhat solemnly, yet with confidence in his, drank a glass of wine to Ustanka's health, and invited the others to do the same. Ustanka 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 gentleman, 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 grayish paper, and began explaining circumstantially all about the price and the change, but Beletsky sent him away. Having mixed honey with wine in the glasses, and having lavishly scattered the three pounds of spice cakes on the table, Beletsky dragged the girls from their corners by force, made them sit down at the table, and began distributing the cakes among them. Olenin involuntarily noticed how Marianca's son burnt 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 Ustanka's and Beletsky'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 in perhaps provoking ridicule and infecting the others with his shyness. She blushed, and it seemed to him that Marianca 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? CHAPTER XXV How is it you don't know your own lodger, said Beletsky, addressing Marianca? How is one to know him if he never comes to see us? answered Marianca 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. Marianca 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. Ustinka was a pretty girl, small, plump, rosy, with merry brown eyes, and red lips, which were perpetually smiling and chattering. Marianca, 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 Baliecky, and the orderly, when he brought in the spice-cakes, all involuntarily gazed at Marianca, and anyone addressing the girls was sure to address her. She seemed a proud and happy queen among them. Baliecky, trying to keep up the spirit of the party, chattered incessantly, made the girls' hand-round chikir, filled about with them, and kept making improper remarks in French about Marianca's beauty to Allénen, calling her yours, la vôte, and advising him to behave as he did himself. Allénen felt more and more uncomfortable. He was devising an excuse to get out and run away, when Baliecky announced that Ustinka, whose saint's day it was, must offer chikir 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, Thaute-Alenen, rising to go away? Where are you off to? I'll fetch some tobacco, he said, meaning to escape, but Baliecky seized his hand. I have some money, he said to him in French. One can't go away. One has to pay here, Thaute-Alenen bitterly, vexed at his own awkwardness. Can't I really behave like Baliecky? I ought not to have come, but once I'm 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 chikir 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. Ustinka brought them another glass each, and kissed them both. Where girls? Now we'll have some fun, she said, clinking on the plate the four rubles the men had put there. Alenen no longer felt awkward, but became talkative. Now, Marienka, it's your turn to offer us wine and a kiss, said Baliecky, 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 Baliecky, kissing the struggling girl. No, you must offer it, he insisted, addressing Marienka. Offer a glass to your lodger. And taking her by the hand he led her to the bench and sat her down beside Alenen. What a beauty, he said, turning her head to see it in profile. Marienka did not resist, but proudly smiling turned her long eyes towards Alenen. A beautiful girl, repeated Baliecky. Yes, see what a beauty I am. Marienka's look seemed to endorse. Without considering what he was doing, Alenen embraced Marienka and was going to kiss her, but she suddenly extricated herself, upsetting Baliecky, pushing the top off the table, and spraying away towards the oven. There was much shouting and laughter, then Baliecky whispered something to the girls, and suddenly they all ran out into the passage and locked the door behind them. Why did you kiss Baliecky and won't kiss me, asked Alenen? 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 devils? Well, let them be there, and thus here, said Alenen, drawing closer to her. She frowned and sternly pushed him away with her hand, and again she appeared so majestically handsome to Alenen 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. Baliecky, open the door! What a stupid joke! Marienka again gave a bright, happy laugh. Ah, you're afraid of me, she said. Yes, you know you're as cross as your mother. When more of your time with the Roshka, 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 Baliecky pushed the door open, and Marienka sprang away from Alenen, and in doing so her thigh struck his leg. It's all nonsense what I've been thinking about. Love and self-sacrifice and Lukashka, happiness is the one thing. He who is happy is right, flashed through Alenen's mind, and with a strength unexpected to himself, he seized and kissed the beautiful Marienka on her temple and her cheek. Marienka was not angry, but only burst into a loud laugh and ran out to the other girls. That was the end of the party. Pustenka's mother, returned from her work, gave all the girls a scolding, and turned them all out. End of Chapter 25 Yes, thought Alenen, as he walked home, I need only slacken the reins a bit, and I might fall desperately in love with this Kossak 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 Marienka were changed. The wall that had separated them was broken down. Alenen now greeted her every time they met. The master of the house, having returned to collect the rent, on hearing of Alenen's wealth and generosity, invited him to his hut. The old woman received him kindly, and from the day of the party onwards Alenen 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 Orozhka. 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. Vanusia would bring him his tea, and he would sit down in a corner near the oven. The old woman did not mind him, but went on with her work, and over their tea or their chikir. They talked about Kossak affairs, about the neighbors, or about Russia, Alenen relating and the others inquiring. Sometimes he brought a book and read to himself. Marianca crouched like a wild goat with her feet drawn up under her, sometimes on the top of the oven, sometimes in a dark corner. She did not take part in the conversations, but Alenen 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 Marianca 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. And 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 and 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 his 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 Orozhka's wing, from the forest, and from his hut at the end of the village, and especially when he thought of Marianca 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, amulet-becks, 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 Marianca, whom he conceded to Lukashka, and to live with Daddy Orozhka 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 all together like Orozhka 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 that of Orozhkas. 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 happiness. CHAPTER 27 Just before the vintage, Lukashka came on horseback to see a linen. He looked more dashing than ever. Well, are you getting married? Asked the linen. 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 Loves Stud. I know horses. They examined the new horse, and made him caracal about the yard. The horse really was an exceptionally fine one, a broad and long gilding, 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 purebred horses. A linen could not help admiring the horse. He had not yet met with such a beauty in the Caucasus. But 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 the linen. 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 the linen. I've been offered a hundred and fifty rubles for it, but I'll give it to you for nothing. 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's 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 Gere 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 the linen. No, I have come to say goodbye. They are sending me from the cordon to accompany beyond the Terek. I am going tonight with my comrade, Nazarka. 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 betrothal? 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, too. I'll take you. Well, goodbye. Christ save you. Lukashka mounted his horse, and without calling on Marijanka, rode Karakoling 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'm 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 the linen's very window, and came up to the window of the cornet's hut. It was already quite dark, Marijanka, wearing only her smock, was combing her hair, preparing for bed. It's eye, whispered the Cossack. Marijanka's look was severely indifferent, but her face suddenly brightened up when she heard her name. She opened the window and leaned 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 for long? He did not answer, but went on kissing her, and she did not ask again. There, through the window, one can't even hug you properly, said Lukashka. Marijanka, dear, came the voice of her mother. Who is that with you? Lukashka took off his cap, which might have been seen, and crouched down by the window. Go! Be quick! whispered Marijanka. 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 Alenan. After drinking two bowls of chihir, he and Azarka 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 Kossak, Mingal, but stopped before he had finished the first verse, and after a pause, turning to Azarka, said, I say, she wouldn't let me in. Oh, rejoin, Azarka? I knew she wouldn't. You know what Yamka told me? The cadet has begun going to their house. The Yoroshka brags that he got a gun from the cadet, forgetting him Marianca. 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 it began his favorite song. From the village of Ismailov, from the master's favorite garden, once escaped the 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. CHAPTER XXVIII. The betrothal was taking place in the Cornets 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 coffee-book 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 Van Juusha, Dedi Erashka, Lukashka, and Meryanka. As Olenin was finishing this sentence, Dedi Erashka entered the room. Erashka 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 bear with a small knife in the yard. The dogs, Liam 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 won't. His women-neighbours, who were as a rule not too gracious towards him, greeted him, and brought him one a jug of chiquere, another some clotted cream, and a third a little flour. The next day Erashka sat in his storeroom 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 the betrothal. 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 balalaika, which he had obtained beyond the river. He had longed promised Olenin this treat, and felt in the mood for it, so that he was sorry to find Olenin writing. Right on, right 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 Iroshka was drunk, his favorite position was on the floor. Olenin looked round, ordered some wine to be brought, and continued to write. Iroshka found it difficult to drink by himself, and he wanted to talk. I have been to the betrothal of the cornets, but there, that shwain, don't want them, have come to you. And where did you get your balalaika? asked Olenin, still writing. I have been beyond the river, and got it there, brother mine, he answered, also very quietly. I am a master at it, Tata or Cossack, squire or soldier's son. 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 firmness. Well, perhaps I will. Come, people have injured you, but leave them alone, spit at them. Come, watch the use of writing and writing, watch 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. Watch the good of writing squiggles, better have a spree and show you are a man. No other conception of writing found place in his head, except that of legal chicanery. Olenin burst out laughing, and so did Arashka. Then jumping up from the floor, the latter began to show off his skill on the balalaika, and to sing Tata songs. Why write, my good fellow, you'd better listen to what I'll sing to you. When you are dead, you won't hear any more songs, make merry now. Yet he sang a song of his own composing, accompanied by a dance, a-de-de-de-de-de-de-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 a question, Thursday waited her reply, Friday late it came at last, and no hope for me was passed, 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, O-de-de-de-de-de-dim, say where did they last see him? 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, O 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 D-D-D, gentlemen's songs, he sang for Olenin's benefit. And after drinking three more tumblers of chiquere 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 balalaika. O my dear friend, he said. The peculiar sound of his voice made Olenin look round. The old man was weeping. He rested 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 suspiciously moved him. It had few words, but its charm lay in the sad refrain. Ardey! Dalalay! Erushka translated the words of the song. A youth drove his sheep from the Eul to the mountains. The Russians came and burnt the Eul. They killed all the men and took all the women into bondage. The youth returned from the mountains. Where the Eul 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 I am left, and Erushka began singing, Ardey! Dalalay! And the old man repeated several times this wailing, heart-rending refrain. When he had finished the refrain, Erushka suddenly seized a gun that hung on the wall, smashed hurriedly out into the yard, and fired off both barrels into the air. Then again he began, more dullfully, his Aidey! Dalalay! Ah! Ah! Unceased! Olenin followed him into the porch and looked up into the starry sky, in the direction where the shots had flashed. In the Cornitz 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 out-house. Some Cossacks rushed out of the hut, and could not refrain from shouting, re-echoing the refrain of Daddy Erushka's song in these shots. Why are you not at the betrosal, Astolenin? Never mind them, never mind them, mutter 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, Ast? What, Lukashka? They've lied to him, and said I am getting his girl for you, whispered the old man. But watch 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. She 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 Erushka, 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 Van Yuscha 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. Chapter 29 of the Cossacks. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David Cole. The Cossacks by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise and Aylma Maud. Chapter 29. 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 terrick, 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 steps, and the cattle lowing ran into the fields in the daytime. The boars migrated into the distant reed beds and to the hills beyond the terrick. Mosquitoes and gnats swarmed in thick clouds over the lowlands and villages. The snow peaks were hidden in gray mist. The air was rarified and smoky. It was said that abrex 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 villages all swarmed in the melon fields and the vineyards. The vineyards thickly overgrown with twining verger 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. Ladies 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 labours with baskets of grapes on their powerful shoulders. Cossack maidens, veiled with kerchiefs to their eyes, drove bullocks harnessed to carts laid in 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 penthouses in the yards, and no-gay labours where their trousers rolled up and their legs stained with the juice. Drying pigs gorged themselves with the empty skins, and rolled about in them. The flat grooves of the outhouses were all spread over with the dark amber clusters drying in the sun. Doors 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 laughed a song's merriment, and the voices of women would be heard on all sides, and glimpses of their bright-coloured garments could be seen. Just at noon Marianca 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 in 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 cornet, having crossed himself once more, took a little jug of chiquire that stood behind him covered with a vine-leaf, and having had a drink from the mouth of the jug, passed it to the old woman. He had nothing on over his shirt, which was unfastened at the neck, and showed his shaggy muscular chest. His fine-featured, cunning face looked cheerful. Neither in his attitude nor in his words was his usual wailiness to be seen. He was cheerful and natural. Shall we finish the bit beyond the shed tonight, he asked, wiping his wet beard. We'll manage it, replied his wife, if only the weather does not hinder us. The demkins have not half finished yet, she added. Only Ustanka is at work there, wearing herself out. What can you expect of them, said the old man proudly? Here, have a drink, Mariana dear, said the old woman, passing the jug to the girl. God willing, we'll have enough to pay for the wedding feast, shared it. That's not yet a while, said the cornet, with a slight frown. The girl hung her head. Why shouldn't we mention it, said the old woman? The affair is settled, and the time is drawing near, too. Don't make plans beforehand, said the cornet. Now we have the harvest to get in. Have you seen Lukashka's new horse, asked the old woman? That which Dmitry Andreevich Olenin gave him is gone, he's exchanged it. No I have not, but I spoke with a servant today, said the cornet, and he said his master has again received a thousand rubles, rolling in riches in shorts of the old woman. The whole family felt cheerful and contented. The work was progressing successfully, the grapes were more abundant and finer than they had expected. After dinner, Marianka threw some grass to the oxen, folded her beshmet for a pillow, and lay down under the wagon on the juicy downtrodden grass. She had on only a red kerchief over her head, and a faded blue print smock, yet 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 and deeply. 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 in 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 out-house 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 betrosal, but calmly awaited the wedding. She had got used to their lodger, and felt his intent looks with pleasure. End of CHAPTER XXIX 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, Marajanka, having drawn her kerchief over her head, was just falling asleep, when suddenly their neighbour Ustanka came running towards her and, diving under the wagon, lay down beside her. "'Sleep, girl, sleep,' said Ustanka, 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 besmet 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 away.' When alone under the wagon with her friend, Ustanka 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 grand-dead,' said Marajanka, struggling, stop it. And they both broke into such peals of laughter that Marajanka's mother shouted for them to be quiet. "'Are you jealous?' asked Ustanka in a whisper. What humbug! Let me sleep. What have you come for?' But Ustanka kept on, I say, but I wanted to tell you such a thing. Marajanka 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 Marajanka. "'Oh, you rogue of a girl,' said Ustanka, nudging her with her elbow and laughing. Won't tell anything. Does he come to you?' He does. What of that?' said Marajanka with a sudden blush. Now I'm a simple lass. I tell everybody. Why should I pretend, said Ustanka, and her bright, rosy face suddenly became pensive? Whom do I hurt? I love him. That's all about it.' "'Granddad, do you mean?' Well, yes. And the sin.' "'Amarajanka, 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,' Marajanka replied quietly. "'Do tell me, just this once, what has passed between you and Lukashka?' "'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, Marajanka 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 daredevil he has become, the first among the graves. He makes many out there in the army, too. The other day Alkyrka 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 Marajanka, laughing. One night he came to my window tipsy and asked me to let him in. And you didn't let him? Let him indeed. Once I have said a thing I keep to it firm as a rock, answered Marajanka seriously. A fine fellow. If he wanted her, no girl would refuse him. Well, let him go to the others, replied Marajanka proudly. "'You don't pity him?' "'I do pity him, but I'll have no nonsense. It is wrong. A stinker suddenly dropped her hand on her friend's breast, seized hold of her, and shook with smothered laughter. You silly fools, she exclaimed quite out of breath. You don't want to be happy. And she began tickling Marajanka. "'Oh, leave off,' said Marajanka, 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 a stinker 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 the house. He was ready to eat you with his eyes, what things grandad has given me. And you, as they say, is the richest of the Russians. His orderly says they have serfs of their own.' Marajanka 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 Astonka. What does mine not say, just as if he was possessed?' Marajanka dropped her hand on her folded besmet, through her arm over Astonka's shoulder, and shot her eyes. She wanted to come and work in the vineyard to-day. Father invited him, she said, and after a short silence she fell asleep. End of CHAPTER XXX The Cossacks by Leo Tolstoy TRANSLATED BY LOUIS AND ELMA MORT CHAPTER XXXI The sun had come out from behind the pear tree that had shaded the wagon, and even through the branches that Astonka had fixed up, it scorched the faces of the sleeping girls. Marajanka 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 Astonka and smilingly pointed him out to her. I went yesterday and didn't find a single one O'Lenin was saying, as he looked about uneasily, not seeing Marajanka through the branches. Ah, you should go out there in that direction. Go right as by compasses, there is a disused vineyard, denominated as the waste. There are always to be founds at the cornet, having at once changed his manner of speech. A fine thing to go looking for hairs 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. Marajanka and Astonka under the cart were whispering and could hardly restrain their laughter. Since it had become known that O'Lenin had given a horse worth fifty rubles to Lukashka, his hosts had become more amiable, and the cornet in particular saw with pleasure his daughters growing intimacy with O'Lenin. But I don't know how to do the work, replied O'Lenin, trying not to look through the green branches under the wagon, where he had now noticed Marajanka'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 jammin' preserves, you have been accustomed to eat it your pleasure. So you say hairs are to be found in the disused vineyard, asked O'Lenin, 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 O'Lenin returned to his house vineyard. The wind was falling and a cool freshness was beginning to spread around. By some instinct O'Lenin recognized from afar Marajanka'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. Marajanka, 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 holed of, she stopped to smile pleasantly at him and resumed her work. O'Lenin 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 silence. He was ill at ease alone with Marajanka, but as if purposely to torment himself he went up to her. You'll be shooting the women with your gun like that, said Marajanka. 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 a low down to 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 Marajanka. Must they all be cut? Isn't this one too green? Give it here. Their hands touched. O'Lenin took her hand, and she looked at him smiling. 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 embarrassed of having said it. So commonplace did the word seem to him. He flushed, lost control of himself, and seized both their hands. Whatever I am, I'm not for you. Why do you make fun of me? replied Marajanka. But her look showed how certainly she knew he was not making fun. If you only knew how I. The word 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 smiling 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 understand, does not wish to reply. Hello! Certainly came a stanker's high voice from behind the vine, at no great distance, followed by her shrill laugh. Come and help me, Dimitri Andreech. I am all alone, she said, thrusting her round naive little face through the vines. Olenin did not answer nor move from his place. Marajanka 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 strides. End of Chapter 31, Recording by David Cole, Midway, Massachusetts. Chapter 32 of the Cossacks. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David Cole. The Cossacks by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise and Alema Mord. Chapter 32. He stopped once or twice, listening to the ringing laughter of Marajanka and Ustanka, 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 Vannusha, 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 him in. Marajanka went twice out of the gate. Once in the twilight it seemed to him that she was looking at him. He eagerly followed her every movement, but could not make up his mind to approach her. When she disappeared into the hut, he left the porch, and began pacing up and down the yard, but Marajanka did not come out again. Olenin spent the whole sleepless night out in the yard, listening to every sound in his host's hut. He heard them talking early in the evening, heard them having their supper and pulling out their cushions and going to bed. He heard Marajanka laughing at something, and then heard everything growing gradually quiet. The cornet and his wife talked a while in whispers, and someone was breathing. Olenin re-entered his hut, Van Nussia lay asleep in his clothes. Olenin envied him, and again went out to pace the yard, always expecting something, but no one came, no one moved, and he only heard the regular breathing of three people. He knew Marajanka's breathing and listened to it and to the beating of his own heart. In the village everything was quiet. The waning moon rose late, and the deep-breathing cattle in the yard became more visible as they lay down and slowly rose. Olenin angrily asked himself, What is it I want, but could not tear himself away from the enchantment of the night? Suddenly he thought he distinctly heard the floor creak and the sound of footsteps in his host's hut. He rushed to the door, but all was silent again except for the sound of regular breathing, and in the yard the buffalo-cow, after a deep sigh, again moved. Rows on her fore knees and then on her feet, swished her tail, and something splashed steadily on the dry clay ground. Then she lay down again in the dim moonlight. He asked himself, What am I to do? And definitely decided to go to bed, but again he heard a sound, and in his imagination there arose the image of Marajanka coming out into this moonlit, misty night, and again he rushed to her window and again heard the sound of footsteps. Not till just before dawn did he go up to her window and push at the shutter and then run to the door, and this time he really heard Marajanka's deep breathing and her footsteps. He took hold 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 Marajanka'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 young Cossack in a white cap, coming across the yard close to Olenin. I saw Fine. Fine recognized Natsaka, and was silent, not knowing what to do or say. 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. Natsaka 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. Ay, discuss. Yes, but all the same I'll give you something now. Wait a bit. Natsaka 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 Natsaka, laughing it went away. Natsaka 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 brank 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 Marianka, and she only laughed a little when she looked at him. Next night he also passed without sleep, vainly wondering about the yard. The day after he purposely spent shooting, and in the evening he went to see Beletsky, to escape from his own thoughts. He was afraid of himself, and promised himself not to go to his host's 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 Vanusia 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 Marianca, and he again walked about the yard, without aim or thought, all night. CHAPTER XXXXVIII of the Cossacks. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings from the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David Cole. The Cossacks by Leo Tolstoy. Recording by Louise and Aylma Mord. CHAPTER XXXIII 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 laid down on the bed. Vanusia thought he was ill. As 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 and 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 Bee's husband, or a court chamberlain, or a marriageal don or bless 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. 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 your eye. If you only knew how despicable and pitiable you in your delusions seem to me. When I pitched to myself, in place of my hut, my forests and my love, those drawing-rooms, those women with their palmatum greased hair, eeked 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 matchmaking, and that eternal, tittle-tattling pretense. Those rules, with whom to shake hands, to whom only to gnaw, 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 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, Marianca. 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 lesser 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 my feelings. 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 faint 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. The 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 Andreevich Olenin, like a Cossack woman here who is married to one of our officers, would be still worse. Now could I turn Cossack like Kukashka, and steal horses, get drunk on chiquire, 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 were 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 a count 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 Erushka 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 Marianka'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. 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 in 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 realised 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-reunciation 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. Formally 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 formally I was dead and only now do I live. Today I will go to their house and tell her everything. End of chapter 33, recording by David Cole, Medway, Massachusetts. Chapter 34 of the Cossacks. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David Cole. The Cossacks by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise and Alema Mord. Chapter 34. Late that evening, after writing this letter, Olenin went to his host's 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 bare-headed, 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 Olitka 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 a rough yet proud hospitality of country folk, only found among those who produced 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 chiquire, and have preserved until sale three or four barrels of grapes, and have enough left to drink. Don't be in a hurry to leave us. We will make Mary together at the wedding. And when is the wedding to be, asked Olenin, feeling his blood suddenly rushed to his face, while his heart beat irregularly and painfully. He heard a movement on the oven, and the sound of seeds being cracked. Well, you knew 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 Mary Anker. We will give it 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 Akosa 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 abreck. 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, and he was always merry-making. He has sold another horse to Olenin, and glanced towards the oven. A pair of large dark and hostile eyes glitted 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 Marianca. He makes merry with his own money, and lowering her legs, she jumped down from the oven and went out banging in 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 Arashka, and following them came Marianca and Rustenka. Good evening, squeaked Rustenka, still on holiday she had it 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 Arashka, with the other Cossack and again with Arashka, 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 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 Shakir, and at last turned them out. The girls laughed at Daddy Arashka, and it was past 10, when they all went out into the porch. The old men invited themselves to finish their merry-making at Olenin's. Rustenka ran off home, and Arashka led the old Cossack to Vanusia. The old woman went out to tidy up the shed. Marianca remained alone in the hut. Olenin felt fresh and joyous, as if he had only just woken up. He noticed everything, and having let the old men pass ahead, he turned back to the hut where Marianca 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. Marianca, he said, will you never take pity on me? I can't tell you how I love you. She moved still further away. Just hear how the wine is speaking. You'll get nothing from me. No, it is not the wine. Don't marry Lukashka. I will marry you. What am I saying, he thought, is yet of those 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. Marianca, 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 dwelling about, she interrupted. Certainly, 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 Kossak 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 thorn, 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 time. End of Chapter 34, Recording by David Cole, Medway, Massachusetts Canada, The Kossaks by Leo Tolstoy, Translated by Louise and Elmer Maud, Chapter 35 The next day was a holiday. In the evening all the villagers, their holiday clothes shining in the sunset, were out in the street. The season more wine than usual had been produced. And the people were now free from their labors. In a month the Kossaks were to start on a campaign, and in many families, preparations were being made for weddings. Most of the people were standing in the square in front of the Kossak 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 somber gray, 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 Kossaks 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 took slowly off their caps and put them on again. The Kossak girls had not yet started dancing their kovrots, but having gathered in groups, in their bright-colored beshmits, 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 kovrots, and were timidly singing in their thin shrill voices. Clerks, lads not in service, or home for the holidays, bright-faced and wearing smart white or new Circassian gold trim 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 Kossak girls. The Armenian shopkeeper in a gold trim coat of fine blue cloth stood at the open door through which piles of folded bright-colored 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 Tatec to see the Fett, 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 or another in their rapid guttural speech. Occasionally a work-a-day-looking soldier in an old overcoat passed across the square among the bright-clad girls. Here and there the songs of tipsy Kossaks, 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. Olenion had been pacing the yard all that morning hoping to see Marianca, but she, having put on holiday clothes, went to mass at the chapel and afterward 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. Olenion 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 a while 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 a aching heart he heard behind him the girls laughing. Beletsky's hut looked out onto the square as Olenion was passing it. He heard Beletsky's voice calling to him. Come in and in he went. After a short talk they both sat down by the window and were soon joined by Iroshka who entered dressed in a new Beshmet and sat down on the floor beside them. There that's the aristocratic party said Beletsky pointing with his cigarette to a brightly colored 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 Karovod? He shouted leaning out the window. Wait a bit and then when it grows dark let us go too. Then we will invite them to Ustankas. We must arrange a ball for them and I will come to Ustankas said Olenion in a decided tone. Will Marianca be there? Yes she'll be there. Do come said Beletsky without the least surprise. But isn't it a pretty picture he added pointing to the motley crowds? Yes very Olenion 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. Today for instance just because it happens to be the 15th 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 Beletsky who did not like such reflections. And why are you not drinking old fellow? He said turning to Iroshka. Iroshka winked at Olenion pointing to Beletsky. Eh he's a proud one that Kunjak of yours he said. Beletsky raised his glass ala birdy he said emptying it. Ala birdy God has given the usual greeting of Caucasians when drinking together. Sabul your health answered Iroshka smiling and emptied his glass. Speaking of holidays he said turning to Olenion as he rose and looked out 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 sariphons. Two rows of gold coins hanging around 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 chick here to sober him up and would herself run about the village looking for his cap. Then he'd sleep for two days that's the sort of fellas they were then but now what are they? Well and the girls in the sarah fans did they make merry all by themselves asked Baletsky? Yes they did sometimes Cossacks would come on foot or on horse and say let's break up the corovods and they'd go but the girls would take up cudgels. 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. End of chapter 35