A Man's Experience

Author: Sholokhov
Translator: Cao Ying / Country: Bahamas
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2001-06-01
Features: I come home from work exhausted, sometimes I get so angry I'm like a demon. If you treat her roughly, she will never answer you back with harsh words. No, never! She is so quiet and affectionate, she doesn't know how to serve you properly. Although our income is low, she still tries her best to make you eat well. If you look at her, your anger will subside, and in a little while, you'll go and hug her, and say, "Sorry, my dear Irina, I was too rough with you. You should know that I didn't have a good day at work today." Then we'll be peaceful again, and I'll feel at ease too. Hey, buddy, do you know what this means for work? The next morning, I jumped out of bed and went to the factory. No matter what job I took on, it went smoothly and efficiently! See? Having a wise wife at home means so much.
This story began with hunting bears. Aunt Darya was cutting wood in the forest. She walked into the dense bushes and almost fell into a bear's den. Aunt Darya was brave; she left her young son to guard the bear's den nearby and rushed back to the village in a hurry. Upon returning to the village, she first ran into Trofim Nikokitch's small hut. "Is the master home?" "Yes." "I found a bear's den. If you can kill the bear, you can share the benefits." Trofim Nikokitch looked her up and down, skeptical, and said, "Are you serious? Then take me there. You'll get part of the reward." They set off together. Darya led the way ahead briskly, while Trofim Nikokitch and his son Illya followed behind. Things went wrong: they startled a big, pregnant sow out of the den and fired their guns but missed—whether because they aimed too far or for some other reason, the beast got away. Trofim Nikokitch stared at his very old, worn-out rifle for a long time, cursed loudly, glared at Illya, who was sneering, and finally said, "We can't let the beast get away. It looks like we'll have to spend the night in the woods." In the morning, they could see that the sow had crossed the dense pine forest eastward toward Grynevsk Forest. The tangled tracks were clearly left in the fresh snow. Trofim and his son followed the tracks for two days and two nights. They were hungry (their dry rations ran out the next day) and cold until the third day, when they finally killed the unsuspecting sow under a lone birch tree. At that moment, Trofim Nikokitch looked at Illya, who was struggling to move the seventeen-poud heavy sow, and said, "Son, now that you're strong enough, it's time for you to get married. I'm old and no longer have the strength to hunt. My eyes are weak, and I can't aim the gun. Look, the beast is pregnant, and it's also a person's duty to have offspring." Illya stuck a bloody knife into the snow, shook his sweaty hair back from his forehead, and thought, "Okay, it's starting."
From then on, both father and mother repeatedly told Illya, "Get married, get married, it's time. Mother is getting old, she can't work anymore, the house needs a young woman to help the old woman," and so on. Illya sat on the bed, panting heavily, and said nothing. But later, after being severely scolded by the boy, he secretly put a saw in his pocket, took an axe, and other carpentry tools, and prepared to leave. He didn't go anywhere else but the capital to find his uncle Yefim, who worked as a clerk at the "Moser Bakery." His mother kept nagging, "Illya, I've found a wife for you. She's just the right fit for you—she looks like a ripe apple. She can work in the fields, talk, and entertain guests. We need to go ask for her hand; otherwise, someone else will snatch her away." The boy was upset and depressed. He really didn't want to get married, and there wasn't a single girl he liked in the nearby villages. But when he found out that the matchmaker was the daughter of the small shopkeeper Feodoroshin, he was furious. In the morning, he hastily ate some breakfast, bid farewell to his family, and strode toward the train station. His mother wailed bitterly as he left, his father raised his gray eyebrows and said harshly, "Illya, if you like to wander, go ahead. Just don't come back to the house. I think you've picked up the 'Red Guard' disease—you always hang out with those troublemakers. Do whatever you want, but I'm not going to bother with you anymore." He heard his son slam the door shut, looked out the window as Illya strode down the straight, wide street, and listened to his grandmother's angry crying, frowning and sighing for a long time.
Illya left the village and sat by the river, thinking about the girl who was being set up for him, Natasha, and laughed. She was really like a nun: her two cunning lips were tightly shut, she always sighed, made the sign of the cross, and was like an old woman from ancient times, never missing a prayer. She was really like a piece of over-leavened dough.
My name is Ignat Pukhin, and I am a Cossack from Provatrovsk. I am a true Cossack: I carry a wooden-handled Mauser rifle, two hand grenades, and a rifle on my shoulder. My cartridges are filled in every pocket except the ammunition box, so I can't hang a plowshare on my breeches, so I tie the plowshare to my waist with a rope. My eyes are quick and lively, almost frightening, even women are afraid of them. I can chat casually with anyone when I go out, and once I get to know them, she might say, "Hey, Ignat, your eyes are so wild—there's nothing about them you can't look at."
Nothing else is special, except that I have a low voice and it's a bit hoarse. At that time, I was collecting grain in Gipkint. It was spring in 1919. In Provatrovsk, I was collecting grain with Comrade Goldin. He was the same rank as me and very familiar with me. He came from a Jewish family. He wasn't an ordinary young man—his temper was fiery, and he was extremely cunning. I was straightforward and didn't play any tricks. My method of collecting grain was simple and rough. I took my "treasures" and went to the wealthy Cossacks, always bluntly demanding, "Grain!"—"No."—"Why not?"—"No is no, you bastard." Of course, I wasn't polite to him either—I put my pistol to his belly and said dryly, "There are ten bullets in the gun. I can kill you ten times, bury you ten times, and dig you up ten times! Will you give it?" He replied, "Alright, I'll do it!"
Goldin, however, was very flexible. He would go in through one nostril and out through the other. That guy was like a duck—water never touched him—but he always collected more grain than me. But they respected both of us equally. People respected Goldin because he was gentle, and he was always quiet like a girl. And me, Pukhin—I see why you wouldn't respect me! I'm a straightforward person, and I always speak without reservation, and I also say some motivational things. They laughed at my pretense, and the young Cossacks deliberately refused to give grain to provoke me. They said, "Our Pukhin gets angry like a nightingale." Well, they called me a nightingale like that. Alright, that's interesting.
We collected grain for the Ninth Army in the south. At that time, we heard that the rebels had clashed with General Shekretsov in Yasensk and forced them to retreat. We rushed forward, and they couldn't stop us. We came to Fagiz District in Kursk Province. Grain collection there was smooth. We worked together for a month. Before we arrived, they had only collected ten thousand pounds of millet, but after we came, they collected twenty thousand. Goldin's position rose higher and higher. One day, we woke up, and he had already become the full representative of the South Front Grain Supply Committee, like a chick hatching from an egg. That's interesting.
I took a team of sailors to collect millet and wheat in Fagiz District. Goldin called me and whispered, "You, Pukhin, are a serious person, you're strong enough to bend a wooden rod into a yoke. But you're strange—you don't have much meat." I didn't understand what he meant by bending a wooden rod into a yoke, but as for meat, I didn't have much—I only had bones. What do I need meat for? Am I a woman or something? They wouldn't give grain just because of my meat. He said, "Be more polite to me." I replied, "Do you know that during the October Revolution, I fought off the cadets in the Kremlin?" He said, "I know." I said, "Do you know that during the charge, a cadet's bullet hit my bladder? It's still rolling around in there like a goose egg?" He said, "I know, and I respect that bullet in your bladder too." I said, "Alright, you don't need to worry about my bullet—it's surrounded by fat. It wasn't hit in the heel, so it won't draw blood to other parts. You should pity our soldiers, who are fighting at the front and can't go hungry." He said, "Go," then shook his head and sighed heavily. Does that mean he's starting to pity the soldiers too? That's interesting.
I went back to collecting grain. We worked hard, and the farmers were left with almost nothing. They had almost nothing left, even their felt boots were taken away. But at that time, Goldin was transferred to Saratov. A week later, he suddenly received a telegraph: "To the Don Grain Committee, I order you to go to Saratov." Below the signature was, "Saratov Provincial Grain Committee Representative Goldin."
We took the train to Saratov. That's interesting.
On the banks of the Don, on a small hill bald from the fierce sun, I lay under the shade of wild blackberry bushes with Zakhary the old man. A brown kite circled and flew in the sky, accompanied by scales of clouds. The leaves of the blackberry bushes were scattered with bird droppings, but they didn't give us any shade. My ears were buzzing from the heat. If you looked down at the ripples on the surface of the Don River or at the dried-out watermelon rind under your feet, sticky saliva would seep into your mouth, but you wouldn't bother to spit it out. In the valley near the dry marsh, the sheep herds were scattered into several groups, huddled closely together. They twisted their butts lazily, shaking their dirty tails, and sneezed nervously because they had inhaled dust. Next to the embankment, a strong little sheep stood on its hind legs, nursing on the yellow and dirty mother sheep. It occasionally bumped its head against its mother's udder, and the mother sheep bleated and curled up. I felt that her eyes seemed to be full of pain.
Zakhary the old man sat up next to me. He pulled down his knitted sweater, squinted his eyes like a nearsighted person, and felt around the folds and seams of his clothes. The old man would be seventy next year. His bare back was strangely wrinkled, and his shoulder blades stuck out sharply beneath the skin, but his eyes were still clear, young, and lively. His gaze under the two gray brows was also lively and spirited. He caught a louse, struggled to pinch it with his trembling, rough fingers, and carefully placed it on the ground far from him, making a small cross in the air, and muttered softly, "Go, little thing! You probably want to live too, right? Yeah. Look at you, you've drunk blood from the landlord's wife."
The old man grunted and pulled up his sweater. Then he raised his head and drank lukewarm water from a wooden canteen. Every time he took a sip, his Adam's apple jumped up; two soft wrinkles hung from his chin to his throat; water dripped from his beard; and through the purple eyelids like saffron, the sun cast a faint red glow. He screwed the canteen lid back on, glanced at me, and after catching my gaze, he chewed his lips dryly and gazed at the wilderness. Behind the valley, a hazy illusion was vaguely visible; above the scorched ground, the wind carried the sweet scent of mint.
The old man paused for a moment, pushed his shepherd's staff to the side, and pointed to me with his cigarette-stained fingers, saying, "Do you see those white poplar tops behind the valley? That's the estate of the lord Tomilin, called Topolevka. There's also a small village there called Topolevka, where some peasants live, all former serfs. My father worked for the lord, driving his carriage, for his whole life. When I was young, he told me about how Yevgraf Tomilin, the lord, traded him for a trained crane with a neighbor landlord. After my father died, I took over his job and became a carriage driver. At that time, the lord himself was almost sixty. He was fat and full of vitality. In his youth, he served in the Tsar's guard, but after his service was completed, he came to the Don River to live out his days. The Cossacks took his land in the Don region, but the government allocated three thousand hectares of land to the lord in Saratov Province. He rented this land to the peasants of Saratov and lived in Topolevka."
He was a strange man. He always wore a thin cotton coat and carried a short sword. Sometimes, when he went out to visit, he would tell me to drive, "Go, you bastard!" I whipped the horses a few times. The carriage galloped forward so fast that the tears on my face didn't even have time to dry. There were many small ponds filled with spring water on the road. If we hit one of these ponds, the front wheels were fine, but the back wheels—splat!—would go flying! After running a mile, the lord would shout, "Go back!" I would turn around and desperately race toward that hole. Often I would go back and forth there three times, until the spring broke or a wheel came off, before giving up. The lord would then groan and get up, walk home step by step, and I would follow behind, pulling the horses.
Besides this, he had another habit: when we left the estate, he would sit in the driver's seat with me and take the whip from my hand. "Make the middle horse run faster!" I would drive the middle horse as hard as I could, so fast that the yoke didn't even move, while he whipped the horses on the sides. The carriage was pulled by three horses—the two on the sides were purebred Don horses, their bodies long like snakes, their heads drooping to one side as if they were gnawing the ground.