The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol (31 page)

Those who came to relieve the philosopher found him barely alive.
He was leaning back against the wall, goggle-eyed, and stared fixedly at the Cossacks who where shaking him.
They practically carried him out and had to support him all the way.
Coming to the master’s yard, he roused himself and asked to be given a pint of vodka.
After drinking it, he smoothed the hair on his head and said:

“There’s all sorts of trash in this world!
And such horrors happen as—oh, well …” At that the philosopher waved his hand.

The circle that had gathered around him hung their heads on hearing such words.
Even the young boy whom all the servants considered their rightful representative when it came to such matters as cleaning the stables or toting water, even this poor boy also stood gaping.

Just then a not entirely old wench passed by in a tight-fitting apron that displayed her round and firm shape, the old cook’s assistant,
a terrible flirt, who always found something to pin to her cap—a bit of ribbon, or a carnation, or even a scrap of paper if there was nothing else.

“Greetings, Khoma!” she said, seeing the philosopher.
“Ai-yai-yai!
what’s happened to you?” she cried out, clasping her hands.

“What do you mean, foolish woman?”

“Ah, my God!
But you’ve gone all gray!”

“Oh-oh!
And it’s the truth she’s telling!” said Spirid, studying him intently.
“You’ve really gone all gray like our old Yavtukh.”

On hearing this, the philosopher rushed headlong to the kitchen, where he had noticed a triangular piece of mirror glued to the wall and stained by flies, in front of which forget-me-nots, periwinkles, and even a garland of marigolds were stuck, showing that it was intended for the stylish flirt’s toilette.
He saw with horror the truth of their words: half of his hair had indeed turned white.

Khoma Brut hung his head and gave himself over to reflection.

“I’ll go to the master,” he said finally, “tell him everything, and explain that I don’t want to read anymore.
Let him send me back to Kiev right now.”

In such thoughts, he directed his steps toward the porch of the master’s house.

The chief was sitting almost motionless in his room; the same hopeless sorrow that the philosopher had met on his face earlier remained there still.
Only his cheeks were much more sunken than before.
It was clear that he had taken very little food, or perhaps not touched anything at all.
His extraordinary pallor gave him a sort of stony immobility.

“Greetings, poor lad,” he said, seeing Khoma, who stood hat in hand in the doorway.
“Well, how is it with you?
Everything fine?”

“Fine, fine indeed.
Such devilish goings-on, I’d like to just grab my hat and flee wherever my legs will take me.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s your daughter, sir … Reasonably considering, of course, she’s of noble birth; nobody will maintain the contrary; only, not to anger you by saying so, God rest her soul …”

“What about my daughter?”

“She’s had some dealings with Satan.
Giving me such horrors that I can’t read any scriptures.”

“Read, read!
It was not for nothing that she called you.
She was worried about her soul, my little dove, and wished to drive away all wicked thoughts by prayer.”

“Have it your way, sir—by God, it’s too much for me!”

“Read, read!” the chief went on in the same admonitory voice.
“You’ve got one night left now.
You’ll do a Christian deed, and I’ll reward you.”

“Rewards or no rewards … As you like, sir, only I won’t read!” Khoma said resolutely.

“Listen, philosopher!” said the chief, and his voice grew strong and menacing, “I don’t like these notions.
You can do that in your seminary, but not with me: I’ll give you such a thrashing as your rector never gave.
Do you know what a good leather whip is?”

“How could I not!” said the philosopher, lowering his voice.
“Everybody knows what a leather whip is: an insufferable thing in large quantities.”

“Yes.
Only you still don’t know what a scotching my boys can deliver!” the chief said menacingly, getting to his feet, and his face acquired an imperious and ferocious expression that revealed all his unbridled character, only temporarily lulled by sorrow.
“First they’ll scotch you for me, then douse you with vodka, then start over.
Go, go!
do your business!
If you don’t, you won’t get up; if you do—a thousand pieces of gold!”

“Oh-ho-ho!
Some customer!” the philosopher thought, going out.
“No joking with this one.
Just you wait, brother: I’ll cut and run so fast your dogs will never catch me.”

And Khoma resolved to escape without fail.
He only waited till the time after dinner, when the household people all had the habit of getting into the hay under the sheds and producing, open-mouthed, such a snoring and piping that the yard came to resemble a factory.
This time finally came.
Even Yavtukh stretched out in the sun, his eyes closed.
In fear and trembling, the philosopher quietly went to the garden, from where it seemed to him it would be easier and less conspicuous to escape into the fields.
This garden, as commonly happens, was terribly overgrown and thus highly
conducive to any secret undertaking.
Except for one path beaten down on household necessity, the rest was hidden by thickly spreading cherry trees, elders, burdock that stuck its tall stalks with clingy pink knobs way up.
Hops covered the top of this whole motley collection of trees and bushes like a net, forming a roof above them that spread over to the wattle fence and hung down it in twining snakes along with wild field bluebells.
Beyond the wattle fence that served as a boundary to the garden, there spread a whole forest of weeds which no one seemed to be interested in, and a scythe would have broken to pieces if it had decided to put its blade to their thick, woody stems.

As the philosopher went to step over the wattle fence, his teeth chattered and his heart pounded so hard that it frightened him.
The skirt of his long chlamys seemed stuck to the ground, as if someone had nailed it down.
As he was stepping over, it seemed to him that some voice rattled in his ears with a deafening whistle: “Where to, where to?” The philosopher flitted into the weeds and broke into a run, constantly stumbling over old roots and crushing moles underfoot.
He could see that once he got through the weeds, all he had to do was run across a field, beyond which darkled a thicket of blackthorn, where he reckoned he would be safe, and passing through which he supposed he would come to the road straight to Kiev.
He ran across the field at once and wound up amid the dense blackthorns.
He got through the blackthorns, leaving pieces of his frock coat on every sharp thorn in lieu of a toll, and found himself in a small hollow.
A pussy willow spread its hanging branches almost to the ground.
A small spring shone pure as silver.
The philosopher’s first business was to lie down and drink his fill, because he felt unbearably thirsty.

“Good water!” he said, wiping his mouth.
“I could rest here.”

“No, better keep running.
You might have somebody after you.”

These words came from above his ears.
He turned: before him stood Yavtukh.

“Yavtukh, you devil!” the philosopher thought to himself.
“I could just take you by the legs and … and beat your vile mug in, and whatever else you’ve got, with an oak log.”

“You oughtn’t to have made such a detour,” Yavtukh went on.
“Much better to take the path I did: straight past the stables.
And it’s too bad about the frock coat.
Good broadcloth.
How much did you pay per yard?
Anyhow, we’ve had a nice walk, it’s time for home.”

The philosopher, scratching himself, trudged after Yavtukh.
“The accursed witch will give me a hot time now,” he thought.
“Though what’s with me, really?
What am I afraid of?
Am I not a Cossack?
I did read for two nights, God will help with the third.
The accursed witch must have done a good deal of sinning for the unclean powers to stand by her like that.”

These reflections occupied him as he entered the master’s yard.
Having encouraged himself with such observations, he persuaded Dorosh, who, through his connection with the steward, occasionally had access to the master’s cellar, to fetch a jug of rotgut, and the two friends, sitting under the shed, supped not much less than half a bucket, so that the philosopher, suddenly getting to his feet, shouted: “Musicians!
We must have musicians!”—and, without waiting for the musicians, broke into a trepak in the cleared spot in the middle of the yard.
He danced until it came time for the afternoon snack, when the household people, standing in a circle around him, as is usual in such cases, finally spat and went away, saying, “Look how long the man’s been dancing!” Finally the philosopher went right to sleep, and only a good dousing with cold water could wake him up for supper.
Over supper he talked about what a Cossack is and how he should not be afraid of anything in the world.

“It’s time,” said Yavtukh, “let’s go.”

“Bite on a nail, you accursed hog!” thought the philosopher, and getting to his feet, said:

“Let’s go.”

On the way, the philosopher constantly glanced to right and left and tried to talk a little with his guides.
But Yavtukh kept mum; Dorosh himself was untalkative.
The night was infernal.
Far off a whole pack of wolves howled.
And even the dogs’ barking was somehow frightening.

“Seems like it’s something else howling—that’s not a wolf,” said Dorosh.

Yavtukh kept mum.
The philosopher found nothing to say.

They approached the church and stepped in under its decrepit vaults, which showed how little the owner of the estate cared about God and his own soul.
Yavtukh and Dorosh withdrew as before, and the philosopher remained alone.
Everything was the same.
Everything had the same menacingly familiar look.
He paused for a minute.
In the middle, as ever, stood the motionless coffin of the terrible witch.
“I won’t be afraid, by God, I won’t be afraid!” he said, and, again drawing a circle around himself, he began recalling all his incantations.
The silence was dreadful; the candles flickered, pouring light all over the church.
The philosopher turned one page, then another, and noticed that he was not reading what was in the book at all.
In fear he crossed himself and began to sing.
This cheered him somewhat: the reading went ahead, and pages flashed by one after another.
Suddenly … amidst the silence … the iron lid of the coffin burst with a crack and the dead body rose.
It was still more horrible than the first time.
Its teeth clacked horribly, row against row; its lips twitched convulsively and, with wild shrieks, incantations came rushing out.
Wind whirled through the church, icons fell to the floor, broken glass dropped from the windows.
The doors tore from their hinges, and a numberless host of monsters flew into God’s church.
A terrible noise of wings and scratching claws filled the whole church.
Everything flew and rushed about, seeking the philosopher everywhere.

Khoma’s head cleared of the last trace of drunkenness.
He just kept crossing himself and reading prayers at random.
And at the same time he heard the unclean powers flitting about him, all but brushing him with the tips of their wings and repulsive tails.
He did not have the courage to look at them closely; he only saw the whole wall occupied by a huge monster standing amidst its own tangled hair as in a forest; through the web of hair two eyes stared horribly, the eyebrows raised slightly.
Above it in the air there was something like an immense bubble, with a thousand tongs and scorpion stings reaching from its middle.
Black earth hung on them in lumps.
They all looked at him, searching, unable to see him, surrounded by the mysterious circle.

“Bring Viy!
Go get Viy!” the words of the dead body rang out.

And suddenly there was silence in the church; the wolves’ howling could be heard far away, and soon heavy footsteps rang out in the church; with a sidelong glance he saw them leading in some squat, hefty, splay-footed man.
He was black earth all over.
His earth-covered legs and arms stuck out like strong, sinewy roots.
Heavily he trod, stumbling all the time.
His long eyelids were lowered to the ground.
With horror Khoma noticed that the face on him was made of iron.
He was brought in under the arms and put right by the place where Khoma stood.

“Lift my eyelids, I can’t see!” Viy said in a subterranean voice—and the entire host rushed to lift his eyelids.

“Don’t look!” some inner voice whispered to the philosopher.
He could not help himself and looked.

“There he is!” Viy cried and fixed an iron finger on him.
And all that were there fell upon the philosopher.
Breathless, he crashed to the ground and straightaway the spirit flew out of him in terror.

A cockcrow rang out.
This was already the second cockcrow; the gnomes had missed the first.
The frightened spirits rushed pell-mell for the windows and doors in order to fly out quickly, but nothing doing: and so they stayed there, stuck in the doors and windows.
When the priest came in, he stopped at the sight of such disgrace in God’s sanctuary and did not dare serve a panikhida
⁹
in such a place.
So the church remained forever with monsters stuck in its doors and windows, overgrown with forest, roots, weeds, wild blackthorn; and no one now can find the path to it.

W
HEN RUMORS OF
this reached Kiev and the theologian Khalyava heard, finally, that such had been the lot of the philosopher Khoma, he fell to thinking for a whole hour.
In the meantime great changes had happened with him.
Fortune had smiled on him: upon completing his studies, he had been made bell-ringer of the tallest belfry, and he almost always went about with a bloody nose, because the wooden stairs of the belfry had been put together every which way.

“Have you heard what happened with Khoma?” Tiberiy Gorobets,
by then a philosopher and sporting a fresh mustache, said, coming up to him.

“It’s what God granted him,” said the ringer Khalyava.
“Let’s go to the tavern and commemorate his soul!”