The door of one of the houses creaked on its hinges, and an old woman
wrapped in a sheepskin appeared. "Who is there?" she exclaimed, coughing
loudly.
"Let us spend the night here, mother; we have lost our way, our stomachs
are empty, and we do not want to spend the night out of doors."
"But what sort of people are you?"
"Quite harmless people; the theologian Khalava, the philosopher Brutus,
and the rhetorician Gorobetz."
"It is impossible," answered the old woman. "The whole house is full of
people, and every corner occupied. Where can I put you up? You are big
and heavy enough to break the house down. I know these philosophers and
theologians; when once one takes them in, they eat one out of house and
home. Go farther on! There is no room here for you!"
"Have pity on us, mother! How can you be so heartless? Don't let
Christians perish. Put us up where you like, and if we eat up your
provisions, or do any other damage, may our hands wither up, and all the
punishment of heaven light on us!"
The old woman seemed a little touched. "Well," she said after a few
moments' consideration, "I will let you in; but I must put you in
different rooms, for I should have no quiet if you were all together at
night."
"Do just as you like; we won't say any more about it," answered the
students.
The gates moved heavily on their hinges, and they entered the
court-yard.
"Well now, mother," said the philosopher, following the old woman, "if
you had a little scrap of something! By heavens! my stomach is as empty
as a drum. I have not had a bit of bread in my mouth since early this
morning!"
"Didn't I say so?" replied the old woman. "There you go begging at once.
But I have no food in the house, nor any fire."
"But we will pay for everything," continued the philosopher.
"We will pay early to-morrow in cash."
"Go on and be content with what you get. You are fine fellows whom the
devil has brought here!"
Her reply greatly depressed the philosopher Thomas; but suddenly his
nose caught the odour of dried fish; he looked at the breeches of the
theologian, who walked by his side, and saw a huge fish's tail sticking
out of his pocket. The latter had already seized the opportunity to
steal a whole fish from one of the carts standing in the court-yard. He
had not done this from hunger so much as from the force of habit. He had
quite forgotten the fish, and was looking about to see whether he could
not find something else to appropriate. Then the philosopher put his
hand in the theologian's pocket as though it were his own, and laid hold
of his prize.
The old woman found a special resting-place for each student; the
rhetorician she put in a shed, the theologian in an empty store-room,
and the philosopher in a sheep's stall.
As soon as the philosopher was alone, he devoured the fish in a
twinkling, examined the fence which enclosed the stall, kicked away a
pig from a neighbouring stall, which had inquiringly inserted its nose
through a crevice, and lay down on his right side to sleep like a
corpse.
Then the low door opened, and the old woman came crouching into the
stall.
"Well, mother, what do you want here?" asked the philosopher.
She made no answer, but came with outstretched arms towards him.
The philosopher shrank back; but she still approached, as though she
wished to lay hold of him. A terrible fright seized him, for he saw the
old hag's eyes sparkle in an extraordinary way. "Away with you, old
witch, away with you!" he shouted. But she still stretched her hands
after him.
He jumped up in order to rush out, but she placed herself before the
door, fixed her glowing eyes upon him, and again approached him. The
philosopher tried to push her away with his hands, but to his
astonishment he found that he could neither lift his hands nor move his
legs, nor utter an audible word. He only heard his heart beating, and
saw the old woman approach him, place his hands crosswise on his breast,
and bend his head down. Then with the agility of a cat she sprang on his
shoulders, struck him on the side with a broom, and he began to run like
a race-horse, carrying her on his shoulders.
All this happened with such swiftness, that the philosopher could
scarcely collect his thoughts. He laid hold of his knees with both hands
in order to stop his legs from running; but to his great astonishment
they kept moving forward against his will, making rapid springs like a
Caucasian horse.
Not till the house had been left behind them and a wide plain stretched
before them, bordered on one side by a black gloomy wood, did he say to
himself, "Ah! it is a witch!"
The half-moon shone pale and high in the sky. Its mild light, still more
subdued by intervening clouds, fell like a transparent veil on the
earth. Woods, meadows, hills, and valleys--all seemed to be sleeping
with open eyes; nowhere was a breath of air stirring. The atmosphere was
moist and warm; the shadows of the trees and bushes fell sharply defined
on the sloping plain. Such was the night through which the philosopher
Thomas Brutus sped with his strange rider.
A strange, oppressive, and yet sweet sensation took possession of his
heart. He looked down and saw how the grass beneath his feet seemed to
be quite deep and far away; over it there flowed a flood of
crystal-clear water, and the grassy plain looked like the bottom of a
transparent sea. He saw his own image, and that of the old woman whom he
carried on his back, clearly reflected in it. Then he beheld how,
instead of the moon, a strange sun shone there; he heard the deep tones
of bells, and saw them swinging. He saw a water-nixie rise from a bed of
tall reeds; she turned to him, and her face was clearly visible, and she
sang a song which penetrated his soul; then she approached him and
nearly reached the surface of the water, on which she burst into
laughter and again disappeared.
Did he see it or did he not see it? Was he dreaming or was he awake? But
what was that below--wind or music? It sounded and drew nearer, and
penetrated his soul like a song that rose and fell. "What is it?" he
thought as he gazed into the depths, and still sped rapidly along.
The perspiration flowed from him in streams; he experienced
simultaneously a strange feeling of oppression and delight in all his
being. Often he felt as though he had no longer a heart, and pressed his
hand on his breast with alarm.
Weary to death, he began to repeat all the prayers which he knew, and
all the formulas of exorcism against evil spirits. Suddenly he
experienced a certain relief. He felt that his pace was slackening; the
witch weighed less heavily on his shoulders, and the thick herbage of
the plain was again beneath his feet, with nothing especial to remark
about it.
"Splendid!" thought the philosopher Thomas, and began to repeat his
exorcisms in a still louder voice.
Then suddenly he wrenched himself away from under the witch, and sprang
on her back in his turn. She began to run, with short, trembling steps
indeed, but so rapidly that he could hardly breathe. So swiftly did she
run that she hardly seemed to touch the ground. They were still on the
plain, but owing to the rapidity of their flight everything seemed
indistinct and confused before his eyes. He seized a stick that was
lying on the ground, and began to belabour the hag with all his might.
She uttered a wild cry, which at first sounded raging and threatening;
then it became gradually weaker and more gentle, till at last it sounded
quite low like the pleasant tones of a silver bell, so that it
penetrated his innermost soul. Involuntarily the thought passed through
his mind:
"Is she really an old woman?"
"Ah! I can go no farther," she said in a faint voice, and sank to the
earth.
He knelt beside her, and looked in her eyes. The dawn was red in the
sky, and in the distance glimmered the gilt domes of the churches of
Kieff. Before him lay a beautiful maiden with thick, dishevelled hair
and long eyelashes. Unconsciously she had stretched out her white, bare
arms, and her tear-filled eyes gazed at the sky.
Thomas trembled like an aspen-leaf. Sympathy, and a strange feeling of
excitement, and a hitherto unknown fear overpowered him. He began to run
with all his might. His heart beat violently, and he could not explain
to himself what a strange, new feeling had seized him. He did not wish
to return to the village, but hastened towards Kieff, thinking all the
way as he went of his weird, unaccountable adventure.
There were hardly any students left in the town; they were all scattered
about the country, and had either taken tutors' posts or simply lived
without occupation; for at the farms in Little Russia one can live
comfortably and at ease without paying a farthing. The great
half-decayed building in which the seminary was established was
completely empty; and however much the philosopher searched in all its
corners for a piece of lard and bread, he could not find even one of the
hard biscuits which the seminarists were in the habit of hiding.
But the philosopher found a means of extricating himself from his
difficulties by making friends with a certain young widow in the
market-place who sold ribbons, etc. The same evening he found himself
being stuffed with cakes and fowl; in fact it is impossible to say how
many things were placed before him on a little table in an arbour shaded
by cherry-trees.
Later on the same evening the philosopher was to be seen in an
ale-house. He lay on a bench, smoked his pipe in his usual way, and
threw the Jewish publican a gold piece. He had a jug of ale standing
before him, looked on all who went in and out in a cold-blooded,
self-satisfied way, and thought no more of his strange adventure.
* * * * *
About this time a report spread about that the daughter of a rich
colonel, whose estate lay about fifty versts distant from Kieff, had
returned home one day from a walk in a quite broken-down condition. She
had scarcely enough strength to reach her father's house; now she lay
dying, and had expressed a wish that for three days after her death the
prayers for the dead should be recited by a Kieff seminarist named
Thomas Brutus.
This fact was communicated to the philosopher by the rector of the
seminary himself, who sent for him to his room and told him that he must
start at once, as a rich colonel had sent his servants and a kibitka for
him. The philosopher trembled, and was seized by an uncomfortable
feeling which he could not define. He had a gloomy foreboding that some
evil was about to befall him. Without knowing why, he declared that he
did not wish to go.
"Listen, Thomas," said the rector, who under certain circumstances spoke
very politely to his pupils; "I have no idea of asking you whether you
wish to go or not. I only tell you that if you think of disobeying, I
will have you so soundly flogged on the back with young birch-rods, that
you need not think of having a bath for a long time."
The philosopher scratched the back of his head, and went out silently,
intending to make himself scarce at the first opportunity. Lost in
thought, he descended the steep flight of steps which led to the
court-yard, thickly planted with poplars; there he remained standing for
a moment, and heard quite distinctly the rector giving orders in a loud
voice to his steward, and to another person, probably one of the
messengers sent by the colonel.
"Thank your master for the peeled barley and the eggs," said the rector;
"and tell him that as soon as the books which he mentions in his note
are ready, I will send them. I have already given them to a clerk to be
copied. And don't forget to remind your master that he has some
excellent fish, especially prime sturgeon, in his ponds; he might send
me some when he has the opportunity, as here in the market the fish are
bad and dear. And you, Jantukh, give the colonel's man a glass of
brandy. And mind you tie up the philosopher, or he will show you a clean
pair of heels."
"Listen to the scoundrel!" thought the philosopher. "He has smelt a rat,
the long-legged stork!"
He descended into the court-yard and beheld there a kibitka, which he at
first took for a barn on wheels. It was, in fact, as roomy as a kiln, so
that bricks might have been made inside it. It was one of those
remarkable Cracow vehicles in which Jews travelled from town to town in
scores, wherever they thought they would find a market. Six stout,
strong, though somewhat elderly Cossacks were standing by it. Their
gold-braided coats of fine cloth showed that their master was rich and
of some importance; and certain little scars testified to their valour
on the battle-field.
"What can I do?" thought the philosopher. "There is no escaping one's
destiny." So he stepped up to the Cossacks and said "Good day,
comrades."
"Welcome, Mr Philosopher!" some of them answered.
"Well, I am to travel with you! It is a magnificent vehicle," he
continued as he got into it. "If there were only musicians present, one
might dance in it."
"Yes, it is a roomy carriage," said one of the Cossacks, taking his seat
by the coachman. The latter had tied a cloth round his head, as he had
already found an opportunity of pawning his cap in the ale-house. The
other five, with the philosopher, got into the capacious kibitka, and
sat upon sacks which were filled with all sorts of articles purchased in
the city.
"I should like to know," said the philosopher, "if this equipage were
laden with salt or iron, how many horses would be required to draw it?"
"Yes," said the Cossack who sat by the coachman, after thinking a short
time, "it would require a good many horses."
After giving this satisfactory answer, the Cossack considered himself
entitled to remain silent for the whole of the rest of the journey.
The philosopher would gladly have found out who the colonel was, and
what sort of a character he had. He was also curious to know about his
daughter, who had returned home in such a strange way and now lay dying,
and whose destiny seemed to be mingled with his own; and wanted to know
the sort of life that was lived in the colonel's house. But the Cossacks
were probably philosophers like himself, for in answer to his inquiries
they only blew clouds of tobacco and settled themselves more comfortably
on their sacks.
Meanwhile, one of them addressed to the coachman on the box a brief
command: "Keep your eyes open, Overko, you old sleepy-head, and when you
come to the ale-house on the road to Tchukrailoff, don't forget to pull
up and wake me and the other fellows if we are asleep." Then he began to
snore pretty loud. But in any case his admonition was quite superfluous;
for scarcely had the enormous equipage begun to approach the aforesaid
ale-house, than they all cried with one mouth "Halt! Halt!" Besides
this, Overko's horse was accustomed to stop outside every inn of its own
accord.
In spite of the intense July heat, they all got out and entered a low,
dirty room where a Jewish innkeeper received them in a friendly way as
old acquaintances. He brought in the skirt of his long coat some
sausages, and laid them on the table, where, though forbidden by the
Talmud, they looked very seductive. All sat down at table, and it was
not long before each of the guests had an earthenware jug standing in
front of him. The philosopher Thomas had to take part in the feast, and
as the Little Russians when they are intoxicated always begin to kiss
each other or to weep, the whole room soon began to echo with
demonstrations of affection.
"Come here, come here, Spirid, let me embrace thee!"
"Come here, Dorosch, let me press you to my heart!"
One Cossack, with a grey moustache, the eldest of them all, leant his
head on his hand and began to weep bitterly because he was an orphan and
alone in God's wide world. Another tall, loquacious man did his best to
comfort him, saying, "Don't weep, for God's sake, don't weep! For over
there--God knows best."
The Cossack who had been addressed as Dorosch was full of curiosity, and
addressed many questions to the philosopher Thomas. "I should like to
know," he said, "what you learn in your seminary; do you learn the same
things as the deacon reads to us in church, or something else?"
"Don't ask," said the consoler; "let them learn what they like. God
knows what is to happen; God knows everything."
"No, I will know," answered Dorosch, "I will know what is written in
their books; perhaps it is something quite different from that in the
deacon's book."
"O good heavens!" said the other, "why all this talk? It is God's will,
and one cannot change God's arrangements."
"But I will know everything that is written; I will enter the seminary
too, by heaven I will! Do you think perhaps I could not learn? I will
learn everything, everything."
"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed the consoler, and let his head sink on the
table, for he could no longer hold it upright.
The other Cossacks talked about the nobility, and why there was a moon
in the sky.
When the philosopher Thomas saw the state they were in, he determined to
profit by it, and to make his escape. In the first place he turned to
the grey-headed Cossack, who was lamenting the loss of his parents.
"But, little uncle," he said to him, "why do you weep so? I too am an
orphan! Let me go, children; why do you want me?"
"Let him go!" said some of them, "he is an orphan, let him go where he
likes."
They were about to take him outside themselves, when the one who had
displayed a special thirst for knowledge, stopped them, saying, "No, I
want to talk with him about the seminary; I am going to the seminary
myself."
Moreover, it was not yet certain whether the philosopher could have
executed his project of flight, for when he tried to rise from his
chair, he felt as though his feet were made of wood, and he began to see
such a number of doors leading out of the room that it would have been
difficult for him to have found the right one.
It was not till evening that the company remembered that they must
continue their journey. They crowded into the kibitka, whipped up the
horses, and struck up a song, the words and sense of which were hard to
understand. During a great part of the night, they wandered about,
having lost the road which they ought to have been able to find
blindfolded. At last they drove down a steep descent into a valley, and
the philosopher noticed, by the sides of the road, hedges, behind which
he caught glimpses of small trees and house-roofs. All these belonged to
the colonel's estate.
It was already long past midnight. The sky was dark, though little stars
glimmered here and there; no light was to be seen in any of the houses.
They drove into a large court-yard, while the dogs barked. On all sides
were barns and cottages with thatched roofs. Just opposite the gateway
was a house, which was larger than the others, and seemed to be the
colonel's dwelling. The kibitka stopped before a small barn, and the
travellers hastened into it and laid themselves down to sleep. The
philosopher however attempted to look at the exterior of the house, but,
rub his eyes as he might, he could distinguish nothing; the house seemed
to turn into a bear, and the chimney into the rector of the seminary.
Then he gave it up and lay down to sleep.
When he woke up the next morning, the whole house was in commotion; the
young lady had died during the night. The servants ran hither and
thither in a distracted state; the old women wept and lamented; and a
number of curious people gazed through the enclosure into the
court-yard, as though there were something special to be seen. The
philosopher began now to inspect the locality and the buildings, which
he had not been able to do during the night.
The colonel's house was one of those low, small buildings, such as used
formerly to be constructed in Russia. It was thatched with straw; a
small, high-peaked gable, with a window shaped like an eye, was painted
all over with blue and yellow flowers and red crescent-moons; it rested
on little oaken pillars, which were round above the middle, hexagonal
below, and whose capitals were adorned with quaint carvings. Under this
gable was a small staircase with seats at the foot of it on either side.
The walls of the house were supported by similar pillars. Before the
house stood a large pear-tree of pyramidal shape, whose leaves
incessantly trembled. A double row of buildings formed a broad street
leading up to the colonel's house. Behind the barns near the
entrance-gate stood two three-cornered wine-houses, also thatched with
straw; each of the stone walls had a door in it, and was covered with
all kinds of paintings. On one was represented a Cossack sitting on a
barrel and swinging a large pitcher over his head; it bore the
inscription "I will drink all that!" Elsewhere were painted large and
small bottles, a beautiful girl, a running horse, a pipe, and a drum
bearing the words "Wine is the Cossack's joy."
In the loft of one of the barns one saw through a huge round window a
drum and some trumpets. At the gate there stood two cannons. All this
showed that the colonel loved a cheerful life, and the whole place often
rang with sounds of merriment. Before the gate were two windmills, and
behind the house gardens sloped away; through the tree-tops the dark
chimneys of the peasants' houses were visible. The whole village lay on
a broad, even plateau, in the middle of a mountain-slope which
culminated in a steep summit on the north side. When seen from below, it
looked still steeper. Here and there on the top the irregular stems of
the thick steppe-brooms showed in dark relief against the blue sky. The
bare clay soil made a melancholy impression, worn as it was into deep
furrows by rain-water. On the same slope there stood two cottages, and
over one of them a huge apple-tree spread its branches; the roots were
supported by small props, whose interstices were filled with mould. The
apples, which were blown off by the wind, rolled down to the court-yard
below. A road wound round the mountain to the village.
When the philosopher looked at this steep slope, and remembered his
journey of the night before, he came to the conclusion that either the
colonel's horses were very sagacious, or that the Cossacks must have
very strong heads, as they ventured, even when the worse for drink, on
such a road with the huge kibitka.
When the philosopher turned and looked in the opposite direction, he saw
quite another picture. The village reached down to the plain; meadows
stretched away to an immense distance, their bright green growing
gradually dark; far away, about twenty versts off, many other villages
were visible. To the right of these meadows were chains of hills, and in
the remote distance one saw the Dnieper shimmer and sparkle like a
mirror of steel.
"What a splendid country!" said the philosopher to himself. "It must be
fine to live here! One could catch fish in the Dnieper, and in the
ponds, and shoot and snare partridges and bustards; there must be
quantities here. Much fruit might be dried here and sold in the town,
or, better still, brandy might be distilled from it, for fruit-brandy is
the best of all. But what prevents me thinking of my escape after all?"
Behind the hedge he saw a little path which was almost entirely
concealed by the high grass of the steppe. The philosopher approached it
mechanically, meaning at first to walk a little along it unobserved, and
then quite quietly to gain the open country behind the peasants' houses.
Suddenly he felt the pressure of a fairly heavy hand on his shoulder.
Behind him stood the same old Cossack who yesterday had so bitterly
lamented the death of his father and mother, and his own loneliness.
"You are giving yourself useless trouble, Mr Philosopher, if you think
you can escape from us," he said. "One cannot run away here; and
besides, the roads are too bad for walkers. Come to the colonel; he has
been waiting for you for some time in his room."
"Yes, of course! What are you talking about? I will come with the
greatest pleasure," said the philosopher, and followed the Cossack.
The colonel was an elderly man; his moustache was grey, and his face
wore the signs of deep sadness. He sat in his room by a table, with his
head propped on both hands. He seemed about five-and-fifty, but his
attitude of utter despair, and the pallor on his face, showed that his
heart had been suddenly broken, and that all his former cheerfulness had
for ever disappeared.
When Thomas entered with the Cossack, he answered their deep bows with a
slight inclination of the head.
"Who are you, whence do you come, and what is your profession, my good
man?" asked the colonel in an even voice, neither friendly nor austere.
"I am a student of philosophy; my name is Thomas Brutus."
"And who was your father?"
"I don't know, sir."
"And your mother?"
"I don't know either; I know that I must have had a mother, but who she
was, and where she lived, by heavens, I do not know."
The colonel was silent, and seemed for a moment lost in thought. "Where
did you come to know my daughter?"
"I do not know her, gracious sir; I declare I do not know her."
"Why then has she chosen you, and no one else, to offer up prayers for
her?"
The philosopher shrugged his shoulders. "God only knows. It is a
well-known fact that grand people often demand things which the most
learned man cannot comprehend; and does not the proverb say, 'Dance,
devil, as the Lord commands!'"
"Aren't you talking nonsense, Mr Philosopher?"
"May the lightning strike me on the spot if I lie."
"If she had only lived a moment longer," said the colonel sadly, "then I
had certainly found out everything. She said, 'Let no one offer up
prayers for me, but send, father, at once to the seminary in Kieff for
the student Thomas Brutus; he shall pray three nights running for my
sinful soul--he knows.' But what he really knows she never said. The
poor dove could speak no more, and died. Good man, you are probably well
known for your sanctity and devout life, and she has perhaps heard of
you."
"What? Of me?" said the philosopher, and took a step backward in
amazement. "I and sanctity!" he exclaimed, and stared at the colonel.
"God help us, gracious sir! What are you saying? It was only last Holy
Thursday that I paid a visit to the tart-shop."
"Well, she must at any rate have had some reason for making the
arrangement, and you must begin your duties to-day."
"I should like to remark to your honour--naturally everyone who knows
the Holy Scripture at all can in his measure--but I believe it would be
better on this occasion to send for a deacon or subdeacon. They are
learned people, and they know exactly what is to be done. I have not got
a good voice, nor any official standing."
"You may say what you like, but I shall carry out all my dove's wishes.
If you read the prayers for her three nights through in the proper way,
I will reward you; and if not--I advise the devil himself not to oppose
me!"
The colonel spoke the last words in such an emphatic way that the
philosopher quite understood them.
"Follow me!" said the colonel.
They went into the hall. The colonel opened a door which was opposite
his own. The philosopher remained for a few minutes in the hall in order
to look about him; then he stepped over the threshold with a certain
nervousness.
The whole floor of the room was covered with red cloth. In a corner
under the icons of the saints, on a table covered with a gold-bordered,
velvet cloth, lay the body of the girl. Tall candles, round which were
wound branches of the "calina," stood at her head and feet, and burned
dimly in the broad daylight. The face of the dead was not to be seen, as
the inconsolable father sat before his daughter, with his back turned to
the philosopher. The words which the latter overheard filled him with a
certain fear:
"I do not mourn, my daughter, that in the flower of your age you have
prematurely left the earth, to my grief; but I mourn, my dove, that I do
not know my deadly enemy who caused your death. Had I only known that
anyone could even conceive the idea of insulting you, or of speaking a
disrespectful word to you, I swear by heaven he would never have seen
his children again, if he had been as old as myself; nor his father and
mother, if he had been young. And I would have thrown his corpse to the
birds of the air, and the wild beasts of the steppe. But woe is me, my
flower, my dove, my light! I will spend the remainder of my life without
joy, and wipe the bitter tears which flow out of my old eyes, while my
enemy will rejoice and laugh in secret over the helpless old man!"
He paused, overpowered by grief, and streams of tears flowed down his
cheeks.
The philosopher was deeply affected by the sight of such inconsolable
sorrow. He coughed gently in order to clear his throat. The colonel
turned and signed to him to take his place at the head of the dead girl,
before a little prayer-desk on which some books lay.
"I can manage to hold out for three nights," thought the philosopher;
"and then the colonel will fill both my pockets with ducats."
He approached the dead girl, and after coughing once more, began to
read, without paying attention to anything else, and firmly resolved not
to look at her face.
Soon there was deep silence, and he saw that the colonel had left the
room. Slowly he turned his head in order to look at the corpse. A
violent shudder thrilled through him; before him lay a form of such
beauty as is seldom seen upon earth. It seemed to him that never in a
single face had so much intensity of expression and harmony of feature
been united. Her brow, soft as snow and pure as silver, seemed to be
thinking; the fine, regular eyebrows shadowed proudly the closed eyes,
whose lashes gently rested on her cheeks, which seemed to glow with
secret longing; her lips still appeared to smile. But at the same time
he saw something in these features which appalled him; a terrible
depression seized his heart, as when in the midst of dance and song
someone begins to chant a dirge. He felt as though those ruby lips were
coloured with his own heart's blood. Moreover, her face seemed
dreadfully familiar.
"The witch!" he cried out in a voice which sounded strange to himself;
then he turned away and began to read the prayers with white cheeks. It
was the witch whom he had killed.