Leo Tolstoy - Leo Tolstoy - The Complete Works

‘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.

Vanyusha, who meanwhile had finished his housekeeping arrangements and had even been shaved by the company’s barber and had pulled his trousers out of his high boots as a sign that the company was stationed in comfortable quarters, was in excellent spirits. He looked attentively but not benevolently at Eroshka, as at a wild beast he had never seen before, shook his head at the floor which the old man had dirtied and, having taken two bottles from under a bench, went to the landlady.

‘Good evening, kind people,’ he said, having made up his mind to be very gentle. ‘My master has sent me to get some chikhir. Will you draw some for me, good folk?’

The old woman gave no answer. The girl, who was arranging the kerchief on her head before a little Tartar mirror, looked round at Vanyusha in silence.

‘I’ll pay money for it, honoured people,’ said Vanyusha, jingling the coppers in his pocket. ‘Be kind to us and we, too will be kind to you,’ he added.

‘How much?’ asked the old woman abruptly. ‘A quart.’

‘Go, my own, draw some for them,’ said Granny Ulitka to her daughter. ‘Take it from the cask that’s begun, my precious.’

The girl took the keys and a decanter and went out of the hut with Vanyusha.

‘Tell me, who is that young woman?’ asked Olenin, pointing to Maryanka, who was passing the window. The old man winked and nudged the young man with his elbow.

‘Wait a bit,’ said he and reached out of the window. ‘Khm,’ he coughed, and bellowed, ‘Maryanka dear. Hallo, Maryanka, my girlie, won’t you love me, darling? I’m a wag,’ he added in a whisper to Olenin. The girl, not turning her head and swinging her arms regularly and vigorously, passed the window with the peculiarly smart and bold gait of a Cossack woman and only turned her dark shaded eyes slowly towards the old man.