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. Petró 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.... Petró 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 point, 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 Petró 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 endeavour 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.
Pidórka began to tell him some passing gipsies had stolen Ivas; but
Petró 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 greybeard
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 gipsies and Moscow pedlars. No! then
one used to dress himself as a Jew, another as the Devil: they would
begin by kissing each other, and end 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, wineglass
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, jests, arose, as if at a fair.
In a word, the old folks could not recall so merry a wedding.
Pidórka 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 Pidórka
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 revery, 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 Pidórka do? She consulted the sorceress; and they poured
out fear, and brewed stomach-ache,[11]--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.
[11] "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. _Sónvashnitza_ 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.
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 Petró 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?
Pidórka 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
Pidórka 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. Petró 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 Pidórka'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.[12] 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 Pidórka, 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 were 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.
[12] Three inches and a half.
I do not remember what happened next. Pidórka 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 dispatched
her to the same place whither Petró had gone; but a Cossack from Kiev
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 Pidórka, 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 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 your
grandfathers. And in vain did Father Athanasii go through all the
village with holy water, and chase the Devil through 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
neighbouring oak-wood, and flew through the air with wild cries.
THE DEVIL'S WAGER
BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
It was the hour of the night when there be none stirring save
church-yard ghosts--when all doors are closed except the gates of
graves, and all eyes shut but the eyes of wicked men.
When there is no sound on the earth except the ticking of the
grasshopper, or the croaking of obscene frogs in the pool.
And no light except that of the blinking stars, and the wicked and
devilish wills-o'-the-wisp, as they gambol among the marshes, and lead
good men astray.
When there is nothing moving in heaven except the owl, as he flappeth
along lazily; or the magician, as he rideth on his infernal
broomstick, whistling through the air like the arrows of a Yorkshire
archer.
It was at this hour (namely, at twelve o'clock of the night,) that two
beings went winging through the black clouds, and holding converse
with each other.
Now the first was Mercurius, the messenger, not of gods (as the
heathens feigned), but of demons; and the second, with whom he held
company, was the soul of Sir Roger de Rollo, the brave knight. Sir
Roger was Count of Chauchigny, in Champagne; Seigneur of Santerre,
Villacerf and autre lieux. But the great die as well as the humble;
and nothing remained of brave Roger now, but his coffin and his
deathless soul.
And Mercurius, in order to keep fast the soul, his companion, had
bound him round the neck with his tail; which, when the soul was
stubborn, he would draw so tight as to strangle him wellnigh, sticking
into him the barbed point thereof; whereat the poor soul, Sir Rollo,
would groan and roar lustily.
Now they two had come together from the gates of purgatory, being
bound to those regions of fire and flame where poor sinners fry and
roast in saecula saeculorum.
"It is hard," said the poor Sir Rollo, as they went gliding through
the clouds, "that I should thus be condemned for ever, and all for
want of a single ave."
"How, Sir Soul?" said the demon. "You were on earth so wicked, that
not one, or a million of aves, could suffice to keep from hell-flame a
creature like thee; but cheer up and be merry; thou wilt be but a
subject of our lord the Devil, as am I; and, perhaps, thou wilt be
advanced to posts of honour, as am I also:" and to show his authority,
he lashed with his tail the ribs of the wretched Rollo.
"Nevertheless, sinner as I am, one more ave would have saved me; for
my sister, who was Abbess of St. Mary of Chauchigny, did so prevail,
by her prayer and good works, for my lost and wretched soul, that
every day I felt the pains of purgatory decrease; the pitchforks
which, on my first entry, had never ceased to vex and torment my poor
carcass, were now not applied above once a week; the roasting had
ceased, the boiling had discontinued; only a certain warmth was kept
up, to remind me of my situation."
"A gentle stew," said the demon.
"Yea, truly, I was but in a stew, and all from the effects of the
prayers of my blessed sister. But yesterday, he who watched me in
purgatory told me, that yet another prayer from my sister, and my
bonds should be unloosed, and I, who am now a devil, should have been
a blessed angel."
"And the other ave?" said the demon.
"She died, sir--my sister died--death choked her in the middle of the
prayer." And hereat the wretched spirit began to weep and whine
piteously; his salt tears falling over his beard, and scalding the
tail of Mercurius the devil.
"It is, in truth, a hard case," said the demon; "but I know of no
remedy save patience, and for that you will have an excellent
opportunity in your lodgings below."
"But I have relations," said the Earl; "my kinsman Randal, who has
inherited my lands, will he not say a prayer for his uncle?"
"Thou didst hate and oppress him when living."
"It is true; but an ave is not much; his sister, my niece, Matilda--"
"You shut her in a convent, and hanged her lover."
"Had I not reason? besides, has she not others?"
"A dozen, without a doubt."
"And my brother, the prior?"
"A liege subject of my lord the Devil: he never opens his mouth,
except to utter an oath, or to swallow a cup of wine."
"And yet, if but one of these would but say an ave for me, I should be
saved."
"Aves with them are _rarae_ aves," replied Mercurius, wagging his tail
right waggishly; "and, what is more, I will lay thee any wager that no
one of these will say a prayer to save thee."
"I would wager willingly," responded he of Chauchigny; "but what has a
poor soul like me to stake?"
"Every evening, after the day's roasting, my lord Satan giveth a cup
of cold water to his servants; I will bet thee thy water for a year,
that none of the three will pray for thee."
"Done!" said Rollo.
"Done!" said the demon; "and here, if I mistake not, is thy castle of
Chauchigny."
Indeed, it was true. The soul, on looking down, perceived the tall
towers, the courts, the stables, and the fair gardens of the castle.
Although it was past midnight, there was a blaze of light in the
banqueting-hall, and a lamp burning in the open window of the Lady
Matilda.
"With whom shall we begin?" said the demon: "with the baron or the
lady?"
"With the lady, if you will."
"Be it so; her window is open, let us enter."
So they descended, and entered silently into Matilda's chamber.
* * * * *
The young lady's eyes were fixed so intently on a little clock, that
it was no wonder that she did not perceive the entrance of her two
visitors. Her fair cheek rested in her white arm, and her white arm
on the cushion of a great chair in which she sat, pleasantly supported
by sweet thoughts and swan's down; a lute was at her side, and a book
of prayers lay under the table (for piety is always modest). Like the
amorous Alexander, she sighed and looked (at the clock)--and sighed
for ten minutes or more, when she softly breathed the word "Edward!"
At this the soul of the Baron was wroth. "The jade is at her old
pranks," said he to the devil; and then addressing Matilda: "I pray
thee, sweet niece, turn thy thoughts for a moment from that villainous
page, Edward, and give them to thine affectionate uncle."
When she heard the voice, and saw the awful apparition of her uncle
(for a year's sojourn in purgatory had not increased the comeliness of
his appearance), she started, screamed, and of course fainted.
But the devil Mercurius soon restored her to herself. "What's
o'clock?" said she, as soon as she had recovered from her fit: "is he
come?"
"Not thy lover, Maude, but thine uncle--that is, his soul. For the
love of heaven, listen to me: I have been frying in purgatory for a
year past, and should have been in heaven but for the want of a single
ave."
"I will say it for thee tomorrow, uncle."
"Tonight, or never."
"Well, tonight be it:" and she requested the devil Mercurius to give
her the prayer-book, from under the table; but he had no sooner
touched the holy book than he dropped it with a shriek and a yell. "It
was hotter," he said, "than his master Sir Lucifer's own particular
pitchfork." And the lady was forced to begin her ave without the aid
of her missal.
At the commencement of her devotions the demon retired, and carried
with him the anxious soul of poor Sir Roger de Rollo.
The lady knelt down--she sighed deeply; she looked again at the clock,
and began--
"Ave Maria."
When a lute was heard under the window, and a sweet voice singing--
"Hark!" said Matilda.
"Now the toils of day are over,
And the sun hath sunk to rest,
Seeking, like a fiery lover,
The bosom of the blushing west--
"The faithful night keeps watch and ward,
Raising the moon, her silver shield,
And summoning the stars to guard
The slumbers of my fair Mathilde!"
"For mercy's sake!" said Sir Rollo, "the ave first, and next the
song."
So Matilda again dutifully betook her to her devotions, and began--
"Ave Maria gratia plena!" but the music began again, and the prayer
ceased of course.
"The faithful night! Now all things lie
Hid by her mantle dark and dim,
In pious hope I hither hie,
And humbly chant mine ev'ning hymn.
"Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine!
(For never holy pilgrim kneel'd,
Or wept at feet more pure than thine),
My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde!"
"Virgin love!" said the Baron. "Upon my soul, this is too bad!" and he
thought of the lady's lover whom he had caused to be hanged.
But _she_ only thought of him who stood singing at her window.
"Niece Matilda!" cried Sir Roger, agonizedly, "wilt thou listen to the
lies of an impudent page, whilst thine uncle is waiting but a dozen
words to make him happy?"
At this Matilda grew angry: "Edward is neither impudent nor a liar,
Sir Uncle, and I will listen to the end of the song."
"Come away," said Mercurius; "he hath yet got wield, field, sealed,
congealed, and a dozen other rhymes beside; and after the song will
come the supper."
So the poor soul was obliged to go; while the lady listened, and the
page sung away till morning.
* * * * *
"My virtues have been my ruin," said poor Sir Rollo, as he and
Mercurius slunk silently out of the window. "Had I hanged that knave
Edward, as I did the page his predecessor, my niece would have sung
mine ave, and I should have been by this time an angel in heaven."