The Cossacks, graf Tolstoy Leo [best smutty novels .txt] 📗

The old life was wiped out and a quite new life had begun

in which there were as yet no mistakes. Here as a new man among

new men he could gain a new and good reputation. He was conscious

of a youthful and unreasoning joy of life. Looking now out of the

window at the boys spinning their tops in the shadow of the house,

now round his neat new lodging, he thought how pleasantly he would

settle down to this new Cossack village life. Now and then he

glanced at the mountains and the blue sky, and an appreciation of

the solemn grandeur of nature mingled with his reminiscences and

dreams. His new life had begun, not as he imagined it would when

he left Moscow, but unexpectedly well. ‘The mountains, the

mountains, the mountains!’ they permeated all his thoughts and

feelings.

 

‘He’s kissed his dog and licked the jug! … Daddy Eroshka has

kissed his dog!’ suddenly the little Cossacks who had been

spinning their tops under the window shouted, looking towards the

side street. ‘He’s drunk his bitch, and his dagger!’ shouted the

boys, crowding together and stepping backwards.

 

These shouts were addressed to Daddy Eroshka, who with his gun on

his shoulder and some pheasants hanging at his girdle was

returning from his shooting expedition.

 

‘I have done wrong, lads, I have!’ he said, vigorously swinging

his arms and looking up at the windows on both sides of the

street. ‘I have drunk the bitch; it was wrong,’ he repeated,

evidently vexed but pretending not to care.

 

Olenin was surprised by the boys’ behavior towards the old hunter,

but was still more struck by the expressive, intelligent face and

the powerful build of the man whom they called Daddy Eroshka.

 

‘Here Daddy, here Cossack!’ he called. ‘Come here!’

 

The old man looked into the window and stopped.

 

‘Good evening, good man,’ he said, lifting his little cap off his

cropped head.

 

‘Good evening, good man,’ replied Olenin. ‘What is it the

youngsters are shouting at you?’

 

Daddy Eroshka came up to the window. ‘Why, they’re teasing the old

man. No matter, I like it. Let them joke about their old daddy,’

he said with those firm musical intonations with which old and

venerable people speak. ‘Are you an army commander?’ he added.

 

‘No, I am a cadet. But where did you kill those pheasants?’ asked

Olenin.

 

‘I dispatched these three hens in the forest,’ answered the old

man, turning his broad back towards the window to show the hen

pheasants which were hanging with their heads tucked into his belt

and staining his coat with blood. ‘Haven’t you seen any?’ he

asked. ‘Take a brace if you like! Here you are,’ and he handed two

of the pheasants in at the window. ‘Are you a sportsman yourself?’

he asked.

 

‘I am. During the campaign I killed four myself.’

 

‘Four? What a lot!’ said the old man sarcastically. ‘And are you a

drinker? Do you drink CHIKHIR?’

 

‘Why not? I like a drink.’

 

‘Ah, I see you are a trump! We shall be KUNAKS, you and I,’ said

Daddy Eroshka.

 

‘Step in,’ said Olenin. ‘We’ll have a drop of CHIKHIR.’

 

‘I might as well,’ said the old man, ‘but take the pheasants.’ The

old man’s face showed that he liked the cadet. He had seen at once

that he could get free drinks from him, and that therefore it

would be all right to give him a brace of pheasants.

 

Soon Daddy Eroshka’s figure appeared in the doorway of the hut,

and it was only then that Olenin became fully conscious of the

enormous size and sturdy build of this man, whose red-brown face

with its perfectly white broad beard was all furrowed by deep

lines produced by age and toil. For an old man, the muscles of his

legs, arms, and shoulders were quite exceptionally large and

prominent. There were deep scars on his head under the short-cropped hair. His thick sinewy neck was covered with deep

intersecting folds like a bull’s. His horny hands were bruised and

scratched. He stepped lightly and easily over the threshold,

unslung his gun and placed it in a corner, and casting a rapid

glance round the room noted the value of the goods and chattels

deposited in the hut, and with out-turned toes stepped softly, in

his sandals of raw hide, into the middle of the room. He brought

with him a penetrating but not unpleasant smell of CHIKHIR wine,

vodka, gunpowder, and congealed blood.

 

Daddy Eroshka bowed down before the icons, smoothed his beard, and

approaching Olenin held out his thick brown hand. ‘Koshkildy,’

said he; That is Tartar for “Good-day”—“Peace be unto you,” it

means in their tongue.’

 

‘Koshkildy, I know,’ answered Olenin, shaking hands.

 

‘Eh, but you don’t, you won’t know the right order! Fool!’ said

Daddy Eroshka, shaking his head reproachfully. ‘If anyone says

“Koshkildy” to you, you must say “Allah rasi bo sun,” that is,

“God save you.” That’s the way, my dear fellow, and not

“Koshkildy.” But I’ll teach you all about it. We had a fellow

here, Elias Mosevich, one of your Russians, he and I were kunaks.

He was a trump, a drunkard, a thief, a sportsman—and what a

sportsman! I taught him everything.’

 

‘And what will you teach me?’ asked Olenin, who was becoming more

and more interested in the old man.

 

‘I’ll take you hunting and teach you to fish. I’ll show you

Chechens and find a girl for you, if you like—even that! That’s

the sort I am! I’m a wag!’—and the old man laughed. ‘I’ll sit

down. I’m tired. Karga?’ he added inquiringly.

 

‘And what does “Karga” mean?’ asked Olenin.

 

‘Why, that means “All right” in Georgian. But I say it just so. It

is a way I have, it’s my favourite word. Karga, Karga. I say it

just so; in fun I mean. Well, lad, won’t you order the chikhir?

You’ve got an orderly, haven’t you? Hey, Ivan!’ shouted the old

man. ‘All your soldiers are Ivans. Is yours Ivan?’

 

‘True enough, his name is Ivan—Vanyusha. Here Vanyusha! Please

get some chikhir from our landlady and bring it here.’

 

‘Ivan or Vanyusha, that’s all one. Why are all your soldiers

Ivans? Ivan, old fellow,’ said the old man, ‘you tell them to give

you some from the barrel they have begun. They have the best

chikhir in the village. But don’t give more than thirty kopeks for

the quart, mind, because that witch would be only too glad…. Our

people are anathema people; stupid people,’ Daddy Eroshka

continued in a confidential tone after Vanyusha had gone out.

‘They do not look upon you as on men, you are worse than a Tartar

in their eyes. “Worldly Russians” they say. But as for me, though

you are a soldier you are still a man, and have a soul in you.

Isn’t that right? Elias Mosevich was a soldier, yet what a

treasure of a man he was! Isn’t that so, my dear fellow? That’s

why our people don’t like me; but I don’t care! I’m a merry

fellow, and I like everybody. I’m Eroshka; yes, my dear fellow.’

 

And the old Cossack patted the young man affectionately on the

shoulder.