The Cossacks (19 page)

He did not know what to say. “And if I came to visit you?” he asked her abruptly.

“Well, that would be different,” she said with a nod.

Beletsky suddenly pushed the door open, and Maryanka fell back against Olenin, her thigh knocking his leg.

“My thoughts about love, selflessness, and Lukashka’s right to Maryanka were all such nonsense!” flashed through Olenin’s mind.
“Happiness is all that matters: He who is happy is right!” And with a force that took even him by surprise, he seized Maryanka and kissed her forehead and cheeks. She laughed out loud and ran to join the other girls.

That was the end of the party. Ustenka’s mother returned from the fields and, scolding the girls, chased them all out.

“If I don’t rein myself in a little, I’ll fall wildly in love with that Cossack girl!” Olenin said to himself as he walked home. He lay down to sleep with this thought but felt that it would all pass and that he would be fine in a day or two.

But it did not pass. His relationship with Maryanka began to change. The wall that had separated them crumbled. Olenin now greeted her every time they met. The cornet, having collected the rent money from Olenin and realizing how wealthy and generous he was, invited him over to his house. Old Ulitka now received him warmly, and since the day of the party Olenin often went over to visit them in the evenings and stayed until late at night. To all outward appearances, his life in the village was unchanged, but in his soul everything had changed. He spent his days in the forest but with the approach of dusk went to visit the cornet and Old Ulitka either alone or with Uncle Eroshka. They had become so accustomed to his visits that they would have been surprised if he failed to come one evening. He paid well for the wine and was a quiet man. Vanyusha always brought him his tea. Olenin always sat in the corner by the stove while the old woman continued unperturbed with her chores and he and the cornet, sipping tea or Chikhir, chatted about Cossack affairs, neighbors, and Russia. Olenin was asked many questions about Russia, which he answered at great length. Sometimes he brought a book with him, which he would read quietly. Maryanka crouched like a gazelle by the stove or in a dark corner. She never took part in the conversation, but Olenin saw her eyes and face, heard her movements and heard her cracking sunflower seeds, and felt that she was listening to him with all her being. He felt her presence as he silently read. At times he imagined that her eyes were fixed on him
as he talked, and encountering their radiance, he would fall silent and gaze at her. She immediately covered her face, and he, pretending to be immersed in conversation with the old woman, listened to Maryanka’s breath and movements and waited for her to look at him again. When others were present she was cheerful and kind toward him, but when they were alone, her tone became abrupt and rough. Sometimes he came to visit before Maryanka had returned from herding the cattle back into the yard and suddenly would hear her strong tread and see her blue cotton smock flashing by the open door. She would walk into the room, see him, and her eyes would smile at him with a tenderness that was barely discernible, and he would feel both joy and fear. He neither expected nor wanted anything from her, but her presence became increasingly vital to him.

Olenin had immersed himself so entirely in the life of the village that his past seemed completely foreign to him, and his future, particularly a future outside the world in which he now lived, did not interest him at all. Receiving letters from friends and relatives, he was offended that they evidently grieved over him as over someone lost. Here in his village he considered those lost who did not live a life like his. He was convinced that he would never regret having torn himself away from his previous life to settle down in the Caucasus in such a solitary and idiosyncratic way. On campaigns and in the forts he had felt fine. But it was only here, under Uncle Eroshka’s wing, in the forest and in his house at the edge of the village, and when he thought of Maryanka and Lukashka, that he saw clearly what a lie he had lived in the past. This lie had distressed him even back then, but now it seemed to him inexpressibly laughable and vile. With every passing day he felt freer and more like a human being. He saw the Caucasus now very differently from what he had once imagined it to be: he did not find anything that remotely resembled what he had dreamed of, or read, or heard. “All that nonsense about cloaks, rapids, Ammalat-beks, heroes and villains,” he thought. “The people here exist as nature does. They die, they are born, they copulate, again they are born, they fight, eat, drink, rejoice, and again die, without any terms except for the unchanging terms that nature imposes on sun, grass, beast, and tree. They have no other laws.”

When he compared these people to himself, they seemed so strong, wonderful, and free that he felt ashamed and unhappy. He often considered throwing everything to the wind and registering as a Cossack, buying livestock and a house in the village, and marrying a Cossack woman. But not Maryanka! He would graciously concede Maryanka to Lukashka. He would live with Uncle Eroshka, go hunting and fishing with him, and march with the Cossacks on their campaigns. “Why don’t I do this? What am I waiting for?” he asked himself. “Am I afraid of doing what I find reasonable and right?” he wondered, both inciting and chastising himself. “Is the dream of being a simple Cossack, of living close to nature without harming my fellow human beings, of doing good, a more foolish dream than what I dreamt before?” he thought. “Dreams of being an imperial minister or a regimental commander?”

But an inner voice told him to wait. He was held back by the vague awareness that he was not quite capable of living life the way Eroshka or Lukashka did. His idea of happiness was so different from theirs. He was held back by the thought that happiness lay in selflessness. The horse he had given to Lukashka continued to fill him with joy. He was always on the lookout for occasions to sacrifice himself for others, but these occasions did not arise. At times he forgot this newfound recipe for happiness and felt he might well be able to immerse himself in the kind of life Eroshka led. But then he would suddenly catch himself and quickly grasp at the idea of selflessness, and once again calmly and proudly gaze at others and their happiness.

At the start of the grape harvest Lukashka rode into the village to see Olenin. He appeared even more dashing than usual.

“So, you are getting married?” Olenin asked cheerfully as he came out to meet him.

“I exchanged the horse you gave me, across the river,” Lukashka said, avoiding the question. “This one’s a real beauty. A Kabardinian horse from the great Lov stud. I know my horses.”

They examined the new horse, and Lukashka did wild stunts riding through the yard. It was an exceptionally fine bay with a long, broad
body, a glossy coat, a thick tail, and the soft, delicate mane and withers of the thoroughbred. The horse was so well fed that one could stretch out and sleep on its back, Lukashka said. Its hooves, eyes, and teeth were fine and sharply outlined, as one sees only in the purest breed lines. Olenin could not help admiring the horse—it was the first time he had come across such a beauty in the Caucasus.

“And what a step he has!” Lukashka said, patting the horse’s neck. “He’s really clever, too. He follows me everywhere!”

“When you exchanged the horse, did you have to pay a lot in addition?” Olenin asked.

“No, I just threw in whatever I had,” Lukashka answered with a grin. “I got him from a blood brother.”

“He’s a wonderful horse! How much would you sell him for?” Olenin asked.

“I’ve been offered a hundred and fifty rubles, but I’d give him to you for nothing,” Lukashka said cheerfully. “Say the word, and he’s yours. I’ll unsaddle him and you can take him away. Just give me any old horse so I can ride out on sorties.”

“No, no, you must keep him!”

“Well, I’ve brought you a present anyway,” Lukashka said, loosening his belt and pulling out one of his two daggers. “I got it across the river.”

“Thank you!”

“And my mother says she’ll bring you some grapes.”

“She needn’t do that. I’m sure you and I will have a chance to settle things someday. Look, I’m not even offering you any money for this dagger you’re giving me.”

“Money? But you and I are blood brothers, just like I am with Girei Khan across the river! He took me to his house and told me to choose something I like for myself. So I took this sword. That’s how we do things here.”

Olenin and Lukashka went inside the house and drank a glass of Chikhir.

“Are you going to stay in the village for a while?” Olenin asked.

“No, I just came to say good-bye. I’m being sent from the checkpoint to one of our squadrons across the Terek. I’m leaving right now with my friend Nazarka.”

“So when’s the marriage going to be?”

“Well, next time I get a day’s leave I’ll get betrothed,” Lukashka said reluctantly.

“You won’t be staying a little longer to see your future bride?”

“No. What do I need to see her for? By the way, when you’ll be out marching on a campaign, don’t forget to ask for Lukashka the Snatcher. You should see all the wild boars out there! I’ve already killed two. I’ll take you out hunting.”

“Good-bye! May God protect you!”

Lukashka mounted his horse without first crossing the yard to Maryanka’s house and, doing stunts on the saddle, rode down the street to where Nazarka was waiting.

“Are we going to Yamka’s?” Nazarka asked, winking in the direction of the house where she lived.

“I’ll join you there in a while,” Lukashka said. “Here, take along my horse, and feed him if I’m late. By morning I’m sure to be at the squadron.”

“Did the cadet give you anything else?”

“No, he didn’t,” Lukashka said, dismounting and handing the reins to Nazarka. “As it is, I’m glad I gave him my dagger as a present, otherwise he might well have wanted my horse.”

Lukashka slipped past Olenin’s window into the yard and crossed over to the main house. It was quite dark already. Maryanka, wearing only her smock, was combing her hair and getting ready for bed.

“It’s me,” the Cossack whispered.

Her stern expression suddenly brightened. She opened the window and leaned out with a mix of fear and joy.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Open up,” Lukashka said. “Let me in for a minute. I’m tired of waiting.” He touched her cheek through the open window and kissed her. “Come on, let me in.”

“I’ve already told you I wouldn’t do that!” she replied. “Are you here for long?”

He did not answer but continued kissing her, and she did not ask further.

“I can’t even hug you properly through the window,” Lukashka said.

“Maryanka!” came her mother’s voice. “Who are you talking to?”

Lukashka took off his white sheepskin hat so it would not give him away and crouched down by the window.

“Go, quickly!” Maryanka whispered and then called out to her mother: “It’s Lukashka, he’s looking for Father.”

“Tell him to come over here.”

“He’s gone already! He said he was in a hurry!”

Lukashka ran through the yard, ducking beneath the windows, and headed over to Yamka’s. Olenin was the only one to see him. Lukashka and Nazarka drank two mugs of Chikhir and then left the village.

The night was warm, dark, and quiet. They rode in silence, the horses’ hooves the only sound. Lukashka began singing a song about the Cossack Mingal, but before he finished the first verse he turned to Nazarka. “Can you believe she wouldn’t let me in?”

“So she didn’t?” Nazarka replied. “Well, I knew she wouldn’t. Yamka told me that the cadet has started going over to her house. Uncle Eroshka’s been bragging that the cadet gave him a rifle for getting him Maryanka.”

“He’s lying!” Lukashka said angrily. “She’s not that kind of girl. If that old devil doesn’t shut his mouth I’m going to shut it for him!” And he began singing his favorite song.

The betrothal was held at the cornet’s house. Lukashka had returned to the village for the day but did not come to see Olenin, and Olenin did not go to the betrothal, although the cornet had invited him. He felt more dejected than at any time since he had settled in the village. He had seen Lukashka, dressed in his best clothes, walk with his mother to the cornet’s house and was tortured by the thought that Lukashka was acting so coldly toward him. Olenin shut himself in his room and started to write in his diary.

“Lately much has changed, and I have reflected on many things,” he began, “and the way things have turned out, I seem to be back where I started. To be happy, one needs only one thing: to love. To love self-lessly, to love everyone and everything, to spread a web of love in all directions and catch whoever falls into it. I have caught Vanyusha, Uncle Eroshka, Lukashka, and Maryanka this way.”

Just as Olenin was writing these words, Uncle Eroshka came into the room. He was in the best of spirits. A few days earlier Olenin had dropped by to see him, and had found him sitting proudly in his yard adroitly skinning a boar with a tiny knife. His dogs, among them Lyam, his favorite, gently wagged their tails as they watched him work. Urchins were staring respectfully at Eroshka through the fence, not taunting him the way they usually did, and the women of the neighborhood, not usually kind to him, called out greetings and brought him flour, clotted cream, and jugs of Chikhir. The following morning Eroshka was sitting in his storeroom, covered in blood, handing out pounds of boar meat in exchange for money or wine. His face seemed to say: “God sent me good fortune and I killed a boar! You see? Uncle has become useful again!”