The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol (27 page)

“Yes, it’s a dark night.”

The rhetorician stepped to one side and tried to feel for the road on all fours, but his hands kept ending up in fox holes.
Everywhere there was nothing but steppe where it seemed no one passed.
The travelers made another effort to move forward a bit, but everywhere was the same wilderness.
The philosopher tried shouting, but his voice was completely muffled on all sides and met no response.
Only a little later came a faint wailing that resembled the howling of a wolf.

“Well, what do we do now?” said the philosopher.

“Why, we stay and spend the night in the fields!” said the theologian, and he went to his pocket to get his tinderbox and light up his pipe again.
But the philosopher could not agree to that.
He had always been in the habit of packing away a ten-pound hunk of bread and some four pounds of lard before going to bed and this
time felt a sort of unbearable solitude in his stomach.
Besides, for all his merry disposition, the philosopher was somewhat afraid of wolves.

“No, Khalyava, we can’t,” he said.
“What, lie down and stretch out like some dog without fortifying ourselves?
Let’s try again, maybe we’ll happen onto some dwelling and manage to get at least a glass of vodka for the night.”

At the word
vodka
the theologian spat to one side and observed:

“Sure, there’s no point staying in the fields.”

The students went on and, to their greatest joy, fancied they heard a distant barking.
Figuring out the direction, they listened, set off more cheerfully and, after going a little further, saw a light.

“A farmstead!
By God, a farmstead!” said the philosopher.

His anticipation did not disappoint him: in a short while they indeed saw a small farmstead that consisted of just two cottages sharing the same yard.
There was light in the windows.
A dozen plum trees stuck up by the paling.
Peeking through cracks in the boards of the gates, the students saw a yard filled with ox carts.
Just then stars appeared here and there in the sky.

“Watch out, brothers, don’t hang back!
We must get a night’s lodging at all costs!”

The three learned men knocked at the gate with one accord and shouted:

“Open up!”

The door of one cottage creaked, and a minute later the students saw before them an old woman in a sheepskin coat.

“Who’s there?” she cried with a muffled cough.

“Let us in for the night, granny.
We’ve lost our way.
It’s as bad out in the fields as it is in a hungry belly.”

“And what sort of folk are you?”

“We’re harmless folk: the theologian Khalyava, the philosopher Brut, and the rhetorician Gorobets.”

“Can’t do it,” the old woman grumbled.
“I’ve got a yard full of people, and every corner of the cottage is taken.
Where will I put you?
And such big and hefty folk at that!
My cottage will fall apart if I take in the likes of you.
I know these philosophers and theologians.
Once you start taking in those drunkards, there soon won’t
be any house.
Away!
Away with you!
There’s no room for you here!”

“Have mercy, granny!
Can it be that Christian souls must perish for no reason at all?
Put us up wherever you like.
And if we somehow do something or other—let our arms wither, and whatever else God only knows.
There!”

The old woman seemed to soften a little.

“Very well,” she said, as if considering, “I’ll let you in.
Only I’ll make you all sleep in different places, for my heart won’t be at peace if you lie together.”

“That’s as you will, we won’t object,” replied the students.

The gates creaked and they went into the yard.

“Well, granny,” said the philosopher, following the old woman, “and what if, as they say … by God, it’s as if wheels are turning in my stomach.
We haven’t had a sliver in our mouths since morning.”

“See what he’s after!” the old woman said.
“I’ve got nothing, nothing like that, and I didn’t start the stove all day.”

“And tomorrow,” the philosopher went on, “we’ll pay for it all, well and good, in cash.
Yes,” he went on softly, “the devil of a cent you’ll get!”

“Go on, go on!
and be content with what you’ve got.
Such tender young sirs the devil’s brought us!”

The philosopher Khoma became utterly despondent at these words.
But suddenly his nose caught the scent of dried fish.
He glanced at the trousers of the theologian walking beside him and saw an enormous fish tail sticking out of his pocket: the theologian had already managed to snatch a whole carp off a wagon.
And since he had done it not for any profit but simply from habit, and, having forgotten his carp completely, was looking around for something else to filch, not intending to overlook even a broken wheel, the philosopher Khoma put his hand into his pocket as if it were his very own and pulled out the carp.

The old woman got the students installed: the rhetorician was put in the cottage, the theologian was shut up in an empty closet, the philosopher was assigned to the sheep pen, also empty.

The philosopher, left alone, ate the carp in one minute, examined
the wattled sides of the pen, shoved his foot into the curious snout that a pig had poked through from the next pen, and rolled over on his other side in order to fall into a dead sleep.
Suddenly the low door opened and the old woman, stooping down, came into the pen.

“Well, granny, what do you want?” said the philosopher.

But the old woman came toward him with outspread arms.

“Oh-ho!” thought the philosopher.
“Only no, dearie, you’re obsolete!” He moved slightly further off, but again the old woman unceremoniously came toward him.

“Listen, granny,” said the philosopher, “it’s a fast period,
⁵
and I’m the sort of man who won’t break his fast even for a thousand gold roubles.”

But the old woman kept spreading her arms and grasping for him without saying a word.

The philosopher became frightened, especially when he noticed that her eyes flashed with some extraordinary light.

“Granny!
what is it?
Go, go with God!” he cried.

But the old woman did not say a word and kept grabbing for him with her arms.

He jumped to his feet, intending to flee, but the old woman stood in the doorway, fixing her flashing eyes on him, and again began to come toward him.

The philosopher wanted to push her away with his hands, but noticed to his astonishment that his arms would not rise, nor would his legs move; with horror he discovered that the sound of his voice would not even come from his mouth: the words stirred soundlessly on his lips.
He heard only how his own heart was beating; he saw how the old woman came up to him, folded his arms, bent his neck, jumped with catlike quickness onto his back, struck him on the side with a broom, and he, leaping like a saddle horse, carried her on his back.
All this happened so quickly that the philosopher barely managed to recover his senses and seize both his knees with his hands in an effort to stop his legs; but, to his great amazement, they kept moving against his will and performed leaps quicker than a Circassian racer.
When they passed the farmstead, and a smooth hollow opened out before them, and the coal-black
forest spread out to one side, only then did he say to himself: “Oh-oh, this is a witch!”

A reverse crescent moon shone in the sky.
The timid midnight radiance lay lightly as a transparent blanket and steamed over the earth.
Forest, meadows, sky, valleys—all seemed to be sleeping with open eyes.
Not a flutter of wind anywhere.
There was something damply warm in the night’s freshness.
The shadows of trees and bushes, like comets, fell in sharp wedges over the sloping plain.
Such was the night when the philosopher Khoma Brut galloped with an incomprehensible rider on his back.
He felt some languid, unpleasant, and at the same time sweet feeling coming into his heart.
He lowered his head and saw that the grass, which was almost under his feet, seemed to be growing deep and distant and that over it was water as transparent as a mountain spring, and the grass seemed to be at the deep bottom of some bright, transparent sea; at least he clearly saw his own reflection in it, together with the old woman sitting on his back.
He saw some sun shining there instead of the moon; he heard bluebells tinkle, bending their heads.
He saw a water nymph swim from behind the sedge; her back and leg flashed, round, lithe, made all of a shining and quivering.
She turned toward him, and her face, with its light, sharp, shining eyes, with its soul-invading song, now approached him, was already at the surface, then, shaking with sparkling laughter, withdrew—and then she turned over on her back, and the sun shone through her nebulous breasts, matte as unglazed porcelain, at the edges of their white, tenderly elastic roundness.
Water covered them in tiny bubbles like beads.
She trembles all over and laughs in the water …

Is he seeing it, or is he not?
Is he awake or asleep?
But what now?
Wind or music: ringing, ringing, and whirling, and approaching, and piercing the soul with some unbearable trill …

“What is it?” thought the philosopher Khoma Brut, looking down, as he raced on at top speed.
Sweat streamed from him.
He felt a demonically sweet feeling, he felt some piercing, some languidly terrible pleasure.
It often seemed to him as if his heart were no longer there at all, and in fear he would clutch at it with his hand.
Exhausted, bewildered, he began to recall all the prayers he
ever knew.
He ran through all the exorcisms against spirits—and suddenly felt some relief; he felt his step beginning to become lazier, the witch held somehow more weakly to his back.
Thick grass touched him, and he no longer saw anything extraordinary in it.
The bright crescent shone in the sky.

“All right, then!” thought the philosopher Khoma, and he began saying exorcisms almost aloud.
Finally, quick as lightning, he jumped from under the old woman and in his turn leaped on her back.
With her small, quick step the old woman ran so fast that the rider could hardly catch his breath.
The earth just flashed beneath him.
Everything was clear in the moonlight, though the moon was not full.
The valleys were smooth, but owing to the speed everything flashed vaguely and confusedly in his eyes.
He snatched up a billet lying in the road and started beating the old woman as hard as he could with it.
She let out wild screams; first they were angry and threatening, then they turned weaker, more pleasant, pure, and then soft, barely ringing, like fine silver bells, penetrating his soul.
A thought flashed inadvertently in his head: Is this really an old woman?
“Oh, I can’t take any more!” she said in exhaustion and fell to the ground.

He got to his feet and looked into her eyes: dawn was breaking and the golden domes of the Kievan churches shone in the distance.
Before him lay a beauty with a disheveled, luxurious braid and long, pointy eyelashes.
Insensibly, she spread her bare white arms and moaned, looking up with tear-filled eyes.

Khoma trembled like a leaf on a tree: pity and some strange excitement and timidity, incomprehensible to himself, came over him; he broke into a headlong run.
His heart beat uneasily on the way, and he was quite unable to explain to himself this strange new feeling that had come over him.
He no longer wanted to go around to the farmsteads and hastened back to Kiev, pondering this incomprehensible incident as he went.

There were almost no students in the city: they had all gone to the farmsteads, either on conditions, or simply without any conditions, because on Little Russian farmsteads one can eat dumplings, cheese, sour cream, fritters as big as a hat, without paying a penny.
The big, sprawling house where the boarders lodged was decidedly
empty, and thoroughly as the philosopher searched in all the corners, even feeling in all the holes and crannies under the roof, nowhere did he find a piece of bacon or at least an old knish—things usually stashed away by the boarders.

However, the philosopher soon found a solution to his troubles: he strolled, whistling, through the marketplace three times or so, exchanged winks at the very end with some young widow in a yellow cap who sold ribbons, lead shot, and wheels—and that same day was fed wheat dumplings, chicken … in a word, there was no counting what lay before him on the table, set in a small clay house amid cherry trees.
That same evening the philosopher was seen in the tavern: he was lying on a bench smoking his pipe, as was his custom, and in front of everybody tossed a gold piece to the Jew tavern keeper.
Before him stood a mug.
He looked at people coming and going with coolly contented eyes and no longer gave any thought to his extraordinary incident.

M
EANWHILE, THE RUMOR
spread everywhere that the daughter of one of the richest Cossack chiefs, whose farmstead was some thirty-five miles from Kiev, had come home from a walk one day all beaten up, had barely managed to reach her father’s house, was now lying near death, and before her dying hour had expressed the wish that the prayers at her deathbed and for three days after her death be read by one of the Kievan seminarians: Khoma Brut.
The philosopher learned it from the rector himself, who summoned him specially to his room and announced that he must hasten on his way without delay, that the eminent chief had specially sent people and a cart for him.

The philosopher gave a start from some unaccountable feeling which he could not explain to himself.
A dark foreboding told him that something bad lay in store for him.
Not knowing why himself, he announced directly that he would not go.

“Listen,
domine
Khoma!”
⁶
said the rector (on certain occasions he spoke very courteously with his subordinates), “the devil if anyone’s asking you whether you want to go or not.
I’m telling you only this, that if you keep standing on your mettle and being clever, I’ll order you whipped with young birch rods on the back
and other parts—so well that you won’t need to go to the steam-baths.”