But actually he is higher up than a general, because he’s so important. The Czar himself knows him,” Vanyusha said with pride. “We aren’t poor riffraff like the other soldiers. My master’s father was a senator, he had more than a thousand serfs, and my master is sent a thousand rubles a month. That’s why wherever we’ve been quartered the people loved us. Another man might be an army captain, but if he has no money, then what’s the good of that, as—”
“I’ll go lock up,” the girl interrupted.
Vanyusha carried the wine to Olenin, proclaiming, “
La fille il c’est très jullie!”
And with a foolish laugh he quickly left the room.
13
Meanwhile, a bugle sounded tattoo in the village square. The villagers were returning from work. The cattle were lowing by the gates in a dusty golden cloud. Women and girls hurried through streets and yards, driving the cattle toward the sheds. The sun sank below the distant snow-covered mountain range, and a bluish shadow spread over earth and sky. The first stars appeared dimly over the darkening orchards, and the bustle in the village gradually fell silent. After tending the cattle, the women gathered on the street corners to sit in groups on the earthen mounds surrounding the houses, cracking sunflower seeds with their teeth. Maryanka, having milked the cows, joined a group of women and girls who were talking to an old man about the Chechen warrior whom Lukashka had killed. The old Cossack was telling the tale, and the women were asking questions.
“I bet he’ll get a good reward, won’t he?” one of the women asked.
“Of course he will. Word has it they’ll give him a medal.”
“But Mosyev tried to get the better of him—he took his rifle, but the commanders in Kizlyar heard about it.”
“He’s mean-spirited, Mosyev is!”
“I heard Lukashka has come back to the village,” one of the girls said.
“He and Nazarka have already drunk half a bucket at Yamka’s.” Yamka was a dissolute, unmarried Cossack woman who kept a drinking house.
“That Lukashka the Snatcher is a lucky man!” one of the women added. “A real snatcher! That’s for sure a fine boy! His father, old Kiryazh, was a fine man too, and Luka’s just like him. When old Kiryazh was killed, the whole village wailed. Ah, look, here they come,” the woman said, pointing at three men walking toward them along the street. “Ha, that drunkard Ergushov managed to join them!”
Lukashka, Nazarka, and Ergushov had drunk half a bucket ofvodka among them. The faces of all three were redder than usual, particularly that of old Ergushov, who was tottering. Laughing loudly, he kept nudging Nazarka in the ribs.
“Hey there, girls!” he called out. “How about a song!”
“Greetings, greetings!” the girls called out.
“Why should we sing, it’s not a feast day!” one of the women said. “It’s you who’s full of drink—
you
sing!”
Ergushov guffawed and nudged Nazarka. “Why don’t you start, and I’ll sing along. I’m the best singer you ever heard!”
“Hey, have you fallen asleep, my beauties?” Nazarka shouted. “We’ve come back from the checkpoint to drink your health! But as you can see, we’ve already drunk Lukashka’s!”
As Lukashka approached the group, he slowly raised his sheepskin hat and stopped in front of the girls. His neck and wide cheekbones were flushed. He stood and spoke quietly and deliberately; but in his quietness and deliberateness there was more vitality than in all of Nazarka’s antics. Lukashka was like a playful stallion that had suddenly stopped in midgallop, snorting and flicking its tail. He spoke little, glancing at his drunken comrades and then back at the girls with a twinkle in his eye. When Maryanka joined the group at the corner, he raised his sheepskin hat in an unhurried sweep, stepped aside for her to pass, and then stepped back in front of her, one foot a little forward, his thumbs hooked into his belt and toying with
“I’ll go lock up,” the girl interrupted.
Vanyusha carried the wine to Olenin, proclaiming, “
La fille il c’est très jullie!”
And with a foolish laugh he quickly left the room.
13
Meanwhile, a bugle sounded tattoo in the village square. The villagers were returning from work. The cattle were lowing by the gates in a dusty golden cloud. Women and girls hurried through streets and yards, driving the cattle toward the sheds. The sun sank below the distant snow-covered mountain range, and a bluish shadow spread over earth and sky. The first stars appeared dimly over the darkening orchards, and the bustle in the village gradually fell silent. After tending the cattle, the women gathered on the street corners to sit in groups on the earthen mounds surrounding the houses, cracking sunflower seeds with their teeth. Maryanka, having milked the cows, joined a group of women and girls who were talking to an old man about the Chechen warrior whom Lukashka had killed. The old Cossack was telling the tale, and the women were asking questions.
“I bet he’ll get a good reward, won’t he?” one of the women asked.
“Of course he will. Word has it they’ll give him a medal.”
“But Mosyev tried to get the better of him—he took his rifle, but the commanders in Kizlyar heard about it.”
“He’s mean-spirited, Mosyev is!”
“I heard Lukashka has come back to the village,” one of the girls said.
“He and Nazarka have already drunk half a bucket at Yamka’s.” Yamka was a dissolute, unmarried Cossack woman who kept a drinking house.
“That Lukashka the Snatcher is a lucky man!” one of the women added. “A real snatcher! That’s for sure a fine boy! His father, old Kiryazh, was a fine man too, and Luka’s just like him. When old Kiryazh was killed, the whole village wailed. Ah, look, here they come,” the woman said, pointing at three men walking toward them along the street. “Ha, that drunkard Ergushov managed to join them!”
Lukashka, Nazarka, and Ergushov had drunk half a bucket ofvodka among them. The faces of all three were redder than usual, particularly that of old Ergushov, who was tottering. Laughing loudly, he kept nudging Nazarka in the ribs.
“Hey there, girls!” he called out. “How about a song!”
“Greetings, greetings!” the girls called out.
“Why should we sing, it’s not a feast day!” one of the women said. “It’s you who’s full of drink—
you
sing!”
Ergushov guffawed and nudged Nazarka. “Why don’t you start, and I’ll sing along. I’m the best singer you ever heard!”
“Hey, have you fallen asleep, my beauties?” Nazarka shouted. “We’ve come back from the checkpoint to drink your health! But as you can see, we’ve already drunk Lukashka’s!”
As Lukashka approached the group, he slowly raised his sheepskin hat and stopped in front of the girls. His neck and wide cheekbones were flushed. He stood and spoke quietly and deliberately; but in his quietness and deliberateness there was more vitality than in all of Nazarka’s antics. Lukashka was like a playful stallion that had suddenly stopped in midgallop, snorting and flicking its tail. He spoke little, glancing at his drunken comrades and then back at the girls with a twinkle in his eye. When Maryanka joined the group at the corner, he raised his sheepskin hat in an unhurried sweep, stepped aside for her to pass, and then stepped back in front of her, one foot a little forward, his thumbs hooked into his belt and toying with
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