Book: Stories by Foreign Authors: Russian

V >> Various >> Stories by Foreign Authors: Russian




Recovering himself, he took his grandfather's hunting-whip from the
wall, and was about to belabor Peter's back with it, when Pidorka's
little six-year-old brother Ivas rushed up from somewhere or other, and,
grasping his father's legs with his little hands, screamed out, "Daddy,
daddy! don't beat Petrus!" What was to be done? A father's heart is not
made of stone. Hanging the whip again upon the wall, he led him quietly
from the house. "If you ever show yourself in my cottage again, or even
under the windows, look out, Petro! by Heaven, your black moustache will
disappear; and your black locks, though wound twice about your ears,
will take leave of your pate, or my name is not Terentiy Korzh." So
saying, he gave him a little taste of his fist in the nape of his neck,
so that all grew dark before Petrus, and he flew headlong. So there was
an end of their kissing. Sorrow seized upon our doves; and a rumor was
rife in the village, that a certain Pole, all embroidered with gold,
with moustaches, sabres, spurs, and pockets jingling like the bells of
the bag with which our sacristan Taras goes through the church every
day, had begun to frequent Korzh's house. Now, it is well known why the
father is visited when there is a black-browed daughter about. So, one
day, Pidorka burst into tears, and clutched the hand of her Ivas. "Ivas,
my dear! Ivas, my love! fly to Petrus, my child of gold, like an arrow
from a bow. Tell him all: I would have loved his brown eyes, I would
have kissed his white face, but my fate decrees not so. More than one
towel have I wet with burning tears. I am sad, I am heavy at heart. And
my own father is my enemy. I will not marry that Pole, whom I do not
love. Tell him they are preparing a wedding, but there will be no music
at our wedding: ecclesiastics will sing instead of pipes and kobzas.
[Footnote: Eight-stringed musical instrument.] I shall not dance with my
bridegroom: they will carry me out. Dark, dark will be my dwelling,--of
maple wood; and, instead of chimneys, a cross will stand upon the roof."

Petro stood petrified, without moving from the spot, when the innocent
child lisped out Pidorka's words to him. "And I, unhappy man, thought to
go to the Crimea and Turkey, win gold and return to thee, my beauty! But
it may not be. The evil eye has seen us. I will have a wedding, too,
dear little fish, I too; but no ecclesiastics will be at that wedding.
The black crow will caw, instead of the pope, over me; the smooth field
will be my dwelling; the dark blue clouds my roof-tree. The eagle will
claw out my brown eyes: the rain will wash the Cossack's bones, and the
whirlwinds will dry them. But what am I? Of whom, to whom, am I
complaining? 'T is plain, God willed it so. If I am to be lost, then so
be it!" and he went straight to the tavern.

My late grandfather's aunt was somewhat surprised on seeing Petrus in
the tavern, and at an hour when good men go to morning mass; and she
stared at him as though in a dream, when he demanded a jug of brandy,
about half a pailful. But the poor fellow tried in vain to drown his
woe. The vodka stung his tongue like nettles, and tasted more bitter
than wormwood. He flung the jug from him upon the ground. "You have
sorrowed enough, Cossack," growled a bass voice behind him. He looked
round--Basavriuk! Ugh, what a face! His hair was like a brush, his eyes
like those of a bull. "I know what you lack: here it is." Then he
jingled a leather purse which hung from his girdle, and smiled
diabolically. Petro shuddered. "He, he, he! yes, how it shines!" he
roared, shaking out ducats into his hand: "he, he, he! and how it
jingles! And I only ask one thing for a whole pile of such shiners."--
"It is the Evil One!" exclaimed Petro: "Give them here! I'm ready for
anything!" They struck hands upon it. "See here, Petro, you are ripe
just in time: to-morrow is St. John the Baptist's day. Only on this one
night in the year does the fern blossom. Delay not. I will await thee at
midnight in the Bear's ravine."

I do not believe that chickens await the hour when the woman brings
their corn with as much anxiety as Petrus awaited the evening. And, in
fact, he looked to see whether the shadows of the trees were not
lengthening, if the sun were not turning red towards setting; and the
longer he watched, the more impatient he grew. How long it was!
Evidently, God's day had lost its end somewhere. And now the sun is
gone. The sky is red only on one side, and it is already growing dark.
It grows colder in the fields. It gets dusky and more dusky, and at last
quite dark. At last! With heart almost bursting from his bosom, he set
out on his way, and cautiously descended through the dense woods into
the deep hollow called the Bear's ravine. Basavriuk was already waiting
there. It was so dark, that you could not see a yard before you. Hand in
hand they penetrated the thin marsh, clinging to the luxuriant thorn
bushes, and stumbling at almost every step. At last they reached an open
spot. Petro looked about him: he had never chanced to come there before.
Here Basavriuk halted.

"Do you see, before you stand three hillocks? There are a great many
sorts of flowers upon them. But may some power keep you from plucking
even one of them. But as soon as the fern blossoms, seize it, and look
not round, no matter what may seem to be going on behind thee."

Petro wanted to ask--and behold he was no longer there. He approached
the three hillocks--where were the flowers? He saw nothing. The wild
steppe-grass darkled around, and stifled everything in its luxuriance.
But the lightning flashed; and before him stood a whole bed of flowers,
all wonderful, all strange: and there were also the simple fronds of
fern. Petro doubted his senses, and stood thoughtfully before them, with
both hands upon his sides.

"What prodigy is this? one can see these weeds ten times in a day: what
marvel is there about them? was not devil's-face laughing at me?"

Behold! the tiny flower-bud crimsons, and moves as though alive. It is a
marvel, in truth. It moves, and grows larger and larger, and flushes
like a burning coal. The tiny star flashes up, something bursts softly,
and the flower opens before his eyes like a flame, lighting the others
about it. "Now is the time," thought Petro, and extended his hand. He
sees hundreds of shaggy hands reach from behind him, also for the
flower; and there is a running about from place to place, in the rear.
He half shut his eyes, plucked sharply at the stalk, and the flower
remained in his hand. All became still. Upon a stump sat Basavriuk, all
blue like a corpse. He moved not so much as a finger. His eyes were
immovably fixed on something visible to him alone: his mouth was half
open and speechless. All about, nothing stirred. Ugh! it was horrible!--
But then a whistle was heard, which made Petro's heart grow cold within
him; and it seemed to him that the grass whispered, and the flowers
began to talk among themselves in delicate voices, like little silver
bells; the trees rustled in waving contention;--Basavriuk's face
suddenly became full of life, and his eyes sparkled. "The witch has just
returned," he muttered between his teeth. "See here, Petro: a beauty
will stand before you in a moment; do whatever she commands; if not--you
are lost for ever." Then he parted the thorn-bush with a knotty stick,
and before him stood a tiny izba, on chicken's legs, as they say.
Basavriuk smote it with his fist, and the wall trembled. A large black
dog ran out to meet them, and with a whine, transforming itself into a
cat, flew straight at his eyes. "Don't be angry, don't be angry, you old
Satan!" said Basavriuk, employing such words as would have made a good
man stop his ears. Behold, instead of a cat, an old woman with a face
wrinkled like a baked apple, and all bent into a bow: her nose and chin
were like a pair of nut-crackers. "A stunning beauty!" thought Petro;
and cold chills ran down his back. The witch tore the flower from his
hand, bent over, and muttered over it for a long time, sprinkling it
with some kind of water. Sparks flew from her mouth, froth appeared on
her lips.

"Throw it away," she said, giving it back to Petro.

Petro threw it, and what wonder was this? the flower did not fall
straight to the earth, but for a long while twinkled like a fiery ball
through the darkness, and swam through the air like a boat: at last it
began to sink lower and lower, and fell so far away, that the little
star, hardly larger than a poppy-seed, was barely visible. "Here!"
croaked the old woman, in a dull voice: and Basavriuk, giving him a
spade, said: "Dig here, Petro: here you will see more gold than you or
Korzh ever dreamed of."

Petro spat on his hands, seized the spade, applied his foot, and turned
up the earth, a second, a third, a fourth time. . . . There was something
hard: the spade clinked, and would go no farther. Then his eyes began to
distinguish a small, iron-bound coffer. He tried to seize it; but the
chest began to sink into the earth, deeper, farther, and deeper still:
and behind him he heard a laugh, more like a serpent's hiss. "No, you
shall not see the gold until you procure human blood," said the witch,
and led up to him a child of six, covered with a white sheet, indicating
by a sign that he was to cut off his head. Petro was stunned. A trifle,
indeed, to cut off a man's, or even an innocent child's, head for no
reason whatever! In wrath he tore off the sheet enveloping his head, and
behold! before him stood Ivas. And the poor child crossed his little
hands, and hung his head. . . . Petro flew upon the witch with the knife
like a madman, and was on the point of laying hands on her. . . .

"What did you promise for the girl?" . . . thundered Basavriuk; and like a
shot he was on his back. The witch stamped her foot: a blue flame
flashed from the earth; it illumined it all inside, and it was as if
moulded of crystal; and all that was within the earth became visible, as
if in the palm of the hand. Ducats, precious stones in chests and
kettles, were piled in heaps beneath the very spot they stood on. His
eyes burned, . . . his mind grew troubled. . . . He grasped the knife like
a madman, and the innocent blood spurted into his eyes. Diabolical
laughter resounded on all sides. Misshaped monsters flew past him in
herds. The witch, fastening her hands in the headless trunk, like a wolf
drank its blood. . . . All went round in his head. Collecting all his
strength, he set out to run. Everything turned red before him. The trees
seemed steeped in blood, and burned and groaned. The sky glowed and
glowered. . . . Burning points, like lightning, flickered before his eyes.
Utterly exhausted, he rushed into his miserable hovel, and fell to the
ground like a log. A death-like sleep overpowered him.

Two days and two nights did Petro sleep, without once awakening. When he
came to himself, on the third day, he looked long at all the corners of
his hut; but in vain did he endeavor to recollect; his memory was like a
miser's pocket, from which you cannot entice a quarter of a kopek.
Stretching himself, he heard something clash at his feet. He looked, . . .
two bags of gold. Then only, as if in a dream, he recollected that he
had been seeking some treasure, that something had frightened him in the
woods. . . . But at what price he had obtained it, and how, he could by no
means understand.

Korzh saw the sacks,--and was mollified. "Such a Petrus, quite unheard
of! yes, and did I not love him? Was he not to me as my own son?" And
the old fellow carried on his fiction until it reduced him to tears.
Pidorka began to tell him how some passing gypsies had stolen Ivas; but
Petro could not even recall him--to such a degree had the Devil's
influence darkened his mind! There was no reason for delay. The Pole was
dismissed, and the wedding-feast prepared; rolls were baked, towels and
handkerchiefs embroidered; the young people were seated at table; the
wedding-loaf was cut; banduras, cymbals, pipes, kobzi, sounded, and
pleasure was rife . . .

A wedding in the olden times was not like one of the present day. My
grandfather's aunt used to tell--what doings!--how the maidens--in
festive head-dresses of yellow, blue, and pink ribbons, above which they
bound gold braid; in thin chemisettes embroidered on all the seams with
red silk, and strewn with tiny silver flowers; in morocco shoes, with
high iron heels--danced the gorlitza as swimmingly as peacocks, and as
wildly as the whirlwind; how the youths--with their ship-shaped caps
upon their heads, the crowns of gold brocade, with a little slit at the
nape where the hair-net peeped through, and two horns projecting, one in
front and another behind, of the very finest black lambskin; in
kuntushas of the finest blue silk with red borders--stepped forward one
by one, their arms akimbo in stately form, and executed the gopak; how
the lads--in tall Cossack caps, and light cloth svitkas, girt with
silver embroidered belts, their short pipes in their teeth--skipped
before them, and talked nonsense. Even Korzh could not contain himself,
as he gazed at the young people, from getting gay in his old age.
Bandura in hand, alternately puffing at his pipe and singing, a brandy-
glass upon his head, the gray-beard began the national dance amid loud
shouts from the merry-makers. What will not people devise in merry mood!
They even began to disguise their faces. They did not look like human
beings. They are not to be compared with the disguises which we have at
our weddings nowadays. What do they do now? Why, imitate gypsies and
Moscow pedlers. No! then one used to dress himself as a Jew, another as
the Devil: they would begin by kissing each other, and ended by seizing
each other by the hair. . . . God be with them! you laughed till you held
your sides. They dressed themselves in Turkish and Tartar garments. All
upon them glowed like a conflagration, . . . and then they began to joke
and play pranks. . . . Well, then away with the saints! An amusing thing
happened to my grandfather's aunt, who was at this wedding. She was
dressed in a voluminous Tartar robe, and, wine-glass in hand, was
entertaining the company. The Evil One instigated one man to pour vodka
over her from behind. Another, at the same moment, evidently not by
accident, struck a light, and touched it to her; . . . the flame flashed
up; poor aunt, in terror, flung her robe from her, before them all. . . .
Screams, laughter, jest, arose, as if at a fair. In a word, the old
folks could not recall so merry a wedding.

Pidorka and Petrus began to live like a gentleman and lady. There was
plenty of everything, and everything was handsome. . . . But honest people
shook their heads when they looked at their way of living. "From the
Devil no good can come," they unanimously agreed. "Whence, except from
the tempter of orthodox people, came this wealth? Where else could he
get such a lot of gold? Why, on the very day that he got rich, did
Basavriuk vanish as if into thin air?" Say, if you can, that people
imagine things! In fact, a month had not passed, and no one would have
recognized Petrus. Why, what had happened to him? God knows. He sits in
one spot, and says no word to any one: he thinks continually, and seems
to be trying to recall something. When Pidorka succeeds in getting him to
speak, he seems to forget himself, carries on a conversation, and even
grows cheerful; but if he inadvertently glances at the sacks, "Stop,
stop! I have forgotten," he cries, and again plunges into reverie, and
again strives to recall something. Sometimes when he has sat long in a
place, it seems to him as though it were coming, just coming back to
mind, . . . and again all fades away. It seems as if he is sitting in the
tavern: they bring him vodka; vodka stings him; vodka is repulsive to
him. Some one comes along, and strikes him on the shoulder; . . . but
beyond that everything is veiled in darkness before him. The
perspiration streams down his face, and he sits exhausted in the same
place.

What did not Pidorka do? She consulted the sorceress; and they poured
out fear, and brewed stomach ache,[Footnote: "To pour out fear," is done
with us in case of fear; when it is desired to know what caused it,
melted lead or wax is poured into water, and the object whose form it
assumes is the one which frightened the sick person; after this, the
fear departs. Sonyashnitza is brewed for giddiness, and pain in the
bowels. To this end, a bit of stump is burned, thrown into a jug, and
turned upside down into a bowl filled with water, which is placed on the
patient's stomach: after an incantation, he is given a spoonful of this
water to drink.]--but all to no avail. And so the summer passed. Many a
Cossack had mowed and reaped: many a Cossack, more enterprising than the
rest, had set off upon an expedition. Flocks of ducks were already
crowding our marshes, but there was not even a hint of improvement.

It was red upon the steppes. Ricks of grain, like Cossacks' caps, dotted
the fields here and there. On the highway were to be encountered wagons
loaded with brushwood and logs. The ground had become more solid, and in
places was touched with frost. Already had the snow begun to besprinkle
the sky, and the branches of the trees were covered with rime like
rabbit-skin. Already on frosty days the red-breasted finch hopped about
on the snow-heaps like a foppish Polish nobleman, and picked out grains
of corn; and children, with huge sticks, chased wooden tops upon the
ice; while their fathers lay quietly on the stove, issuing forth at
intervals with lighted pipes in their lips, to growl, in regular
fashion, at the orthodox frost, or to take the air, and thresh the grain
spread out in the barn. At last the snow began to melt, and the ice rind
slipped away: but Petro remained the same; and, the longer it went on,
the more morose he grew. He sat in the middle of the cottage as though
nailed to the spot, with the sacks of gold at his feet. He grew shy, his
hair grew long, he became terrible; and still he thought of but one
thing, still he tried to recall something, and got angry and ill-
tempered because he could not recall it. Often, rising wildly from his
seat, he gesticulates violently, fixes his eyes on something as though
desirous of catching it: his lips move as though desirous of uttering
some long-forgotten word--and remain speechless. Fury takes possession
of him: he gnaws and bites his hands like a man half crazy, and in his
vexation tears out his hair by the handful, until, calming down, he
falls into forgetfulness, as it were, and again begins to recall, and is
again seized with fury and fresh tortures. . . . What visitation of God is
this?

Pidorka was neither dead nor alive. At first it was horrible to her to
remain alone in the cottage; but, in course of time, the poor woman grew
accustomed to her sorrow. But it was impossible to recognize the Pidorka
of former days. No blush, no smile: she was thin and worn with grief,
and had wept her bright eyes away. Once, some one who evidently took
pity on her advised her to go to the witch who dwelt in the Bear's
ravine, and enjoyed the reputation of being able to cure every disease
in the world. She determined to try this last remedy: word by word she
persuaded the old woman to come to her. This was St. John's Eve, as it
chanced. Petro lay insensible on the bench, and did not observe the new-
comer. Little by little he rose, and looked about him. Suddenly he
trembled in every limb, as though he were on the scaffold: his hair rose
upon his head, . . . and he laughed such a laugh as pierced Pidorka's heart
with fear. "I have remembered, remembered!" he cried in terrible joy;
and, swinging a hatchet round his head, he flung it at the old woman
with all his might. The hatchet penetrated the oaken door two vershok
(three inches and a half). The old woman disappeared; and a child of
seven in a white blouse, with covered head, stood in the middle of the
cottage. . . . The sheet flew off. "Ivas!" cried Pidorka, and ran to him;
but the apparition became covered from head to foot with blood, and
illumined the whole room with red light. . . . She ran into the passage in
her terror, but, on recovering herself a little, wished to help him; in
vain! the door had slammed to behind her so securely that she could not
open it. People ran up, and began to knock: they broke in the door, as
though there was but one mind among them. The whole cottage was full of
smoke; and just in the middle, where Petrus had stood, was a heap of
ashes, from which smoke was still rising. They flung themselves upon the
sacks: only broken potsherds lay there instead of ducats. The Cossacks
stood with staring eyes and open mouths, not daring to move a hair, as
if rooted to the earth, such terror did this wonder inspire in them.

I do not remember what happened next. Pidorka took a vow to go upon a
pilgrimage, collected the property left her by her father, and in a few
days it was as if she had never been in the village. Whither she had
gone, no one could tell. Officious old women would have despatched her
to the same place whither Petro had gone; but a Cossack from Kief
reported that he had seen in a cloister, a nun withered to a mere
skeleton, who prayed unceasingly; and her fellow villagers recognized
her as Pidorka, by all the signs,--that no one had ever heard her utter
a word; that she had come on foot, and had brought a frame for the ikon
of God's mother, set with such brilliant stones that all were dazzled at
the sight.

But this was not the end, if you please. On the same day that the Evil
One made way with Petrus, Basavriuk appeared again; but all fled from
him. They knew what sort of a bird he was,--none else than Satan, who
had assumed human form in order to unearth treasures; and, since
treasures do not yield to unclean hands, he seduced the young. That same
year, all deserted their earth huts, and collected in a village; but,
even there, there was no peace, on account of that accursed Basavriuk.
My late grandfather's aunt said that he was particularly angry with her,
because she had abandoned her former tavern, and tried with all his
might to revenge himself upon her. Once the village elders were
assembled in the tavern, and, as the saying goes, were arranging the
precedence at the table, in the middle of which was placed a small
roasted lamb, shame to say. They chattered about this, that, and the
other,--among the rest about various marvels and strange things. Well,
they saw something; it would have been nothing if only one had seen it,
but all saw it; and it was this: the sheep raised his head; his goggling
eyes became alive and sparkled; and the black, bristling moustache,
which appeared for one instant, made a significant gesture at those
present. All, at once, recognized Basavriuk's countenance in the sheep's
head: my grandfather's aunt thought it was on the point of asking for
vodka. . . . The worthy elders seized their hats, and hastened home.

Another time, the church starost [Footnote: Elder] himself, who was
fond of an occasional private interview with my grandfather's brandy-
glass, had not succeeded in getting to the bottom twice, when he beheld
the glass bowing very low to him. "Satan take you, let us make the sign
of the cross over you!" . . . And the same marvel happened to his better-
half. She had just begun to mix the dough in a huge kneading-trough,
when suddenly the trough sprang up. "Stop, stop! where are you going?"
Putting its arms akimbo, with dignity, it went skipping all about the
cottage. . . . You may laugh, but it was no laughing-matter to our
grandfathers. And in vain did Father Athanasii go through all the
village with holy water, and chase the Devil through all the streets
with his brush; and my late grandfather's aunt long complained that, as
soon as it was dark, some one came knocking at her door, and scratching
at the wall.

Well! All appears to be quiet now, in the place where our village
stands; but it was not so very long ago--my father was still alive--that
I remember how a good man could not pass the ruined tavern, which a
dishonest race had long managed for their own interest. From the smoke-
blackened chimneys, smoke poured out in a pillar, and rising high in the
air, as if to take an observation, rolled off like a cap, scattering
burning coals over the steppe; and Satan (the son of a dog should not be
mentioned) sobbed so pitifully in his lair, that the startled ravens
rose in flocks from the neighboring oak-wood, and flew through the air
with wild cries.






AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

BY

COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI

From "The Invaders." Translated by N. H. Dole.

1887

(Prince Nekhiludof Relates how, during an Expedition in the Caucasus,
he met an Acquaintance from Moscow)

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.