II

When the sun had sunk below the horizon, the corpse was carried into the

church. The philosopher supported one corner of the black-draped coffin

upon his shoulder, and felt an ice-cold shiver run through his body. The

colonel walked in front of him, with his right hand resting on the edge

of the coffin.

The wooden church, black with age and overgrown with green lichen, stood

quite at the end of the village in gloomy solitude; it was adorned with

three round cupolas. One saw at the first glance that it had not been

used for divine worship for a long time.

Lighted candles were standing before almost every icon. The coffin was

set down before the altar. The old colonel kissed his dead daughter once

more, and then left the church, together with the bearers of the bier,

after he had ordered his servants to look after the philosopher and to

take him back to the church after supper.

The coffin-bearers, when they returned to the house, all laid their

hands on the stove. This custom is always observed in Little Russia by

those who have seen a corpse.

The hunger which the philosopher now began to feel caused him for a

while to forget the dead girl altogether. Gradually all the domestics of

the house assembled in the kitchen; it was really a kind of club, where

they were accustomed to gather. Even the dogs came to the door, wagging

their tails in order to have bones and offal thrown to them.

If a servant was sent on an errand, he always found his way into the

kitchen to rest there for a while, and to smoke a pipe. All the Cossacks

of the establishment lay here during the whole day on and under the

benches--in fact, wherever a place could be found to lie down in.

Moreover, everyone was always leaving something behind in the

kitchen--his cap, or his whip, or something of the sort. But the numbers

of the club were not complete till the evening, when the groom came in

after tying up his horses in the stable, the cowherd had shut up his

cows in their stalls, and others collected there who were not usually

seen in the day-time. During supper-time even the tongues of the laziest

were set in motion. They talked of all and everything--of the new pair

of breeches which someone had ordered for himself, of what might be in

the centre of the earth, and of the wolf which someone had seen. There

were a number of wits in the company--a class which is always

represented in Little Russia.

The philosopher took his place with the rest in the great circle which

sat round the kitchen door in the open-air. Soon an old woman with a red

cap issued from it, bearing with both hands a large vessel full of hot

"galuchkis," which she distributed among them. Each drew out of his

pocket a wooden spoon, or a one-pronged wooden fork. As soon as their

jaws began to move a little more slowly, and their wolfish hunger was

somewhat appeased, they began to talk. The conversation, as might be

expected, turned on the dead girl.

"Is it true," said a young shepherd, "is it true--though I cannot

understand it--that our young mistress had traffic with evil spirits?"

"Who, the young lady?" answered Dorosch, whose acquaintance the

philosopher had already made in the kibitka. "Yes, she was a regular

witch! I can swear that she was a witch!"

"Hold your tongue, Dorosch!" exclaimed another--the one who, during the

journey, had played the part of a consoler. "We have nothing to do with

that. May God be merciful to her! One ought not to talk of such things."

But Dorosch was not at all inclined to be silent; he had just visited

the wine-cellar with the steward on important business, and having

stooped two or three times over one or two casks, he had returned in a

very cheerful and loquacious mood.

"Why do you ask me to be silent?" he answered. "She has ridden on my own

shoulders, I swear she has."

"Say, uncle," asked the young shepherd, "are there signs by which to

recognise a sorceress?"

"No, there are not," answered Dorosch; "even if you knew the Psalter by

heart, you could not recognise one."

"Yes, Dorosch, it is possible; don't talk such nonsense," retorted the

former consoler. "It is not for nothing that God has given each some

special peculiarity; the learned maintain that every witch has a little

tail."

"Every old woman is a witch," said a grey-headed Cossack quite

seriously.

"Yes, you are a fine lot," retorted the old woman who entered at that

moment with a vessel full of fresh "galuchkis." "You are great fat

pigs!"

A self-satisfied smile played round the lips of the old Cossack whose

name was Javtuch, when he found that his remark had touched the old

woman on a tender point. The shepherd burst into such a deep and loud

explosion of laughter as if two oxen were lowing together.

This conversation excited in the philosopher a great curiosity, and a

wish to obtain more exact information regarding the colonel's daughter.

In order to lead the talk back to the subject, he turned to his next

neighbour and said, "I should like to know why all the people here think

that the young lady was a witch. Has she done harm to anyone, or killed

them by witchcraft?"

"Yes, there are reports of that kind," answered a man, whose face was as

flat as a shovel. "Who does not remember the huntsman Mikita, or

the----"

"What has the huntsman Mikita got to do with it?" asked the philosopher.

"Stop; I will tell you the story of Mikita," interrupted Dorosch.

"No, I will tell it," said the groom, "for he was my godfather."

"I will tell the story of Mikita," said Spirid.

"Yes, yes, Spirid shall tell it," exclaimed the whole company; and

Spirid began.

"You, Mr Philosopher Thomas, did not know Mikita. Ah! he was an

extraordinary man. He knew every dog as though he were his own father.

The present huntsman, Mikola, who sits three places away from me, is not

fit to hold a candle to him, though good enough in his way; but compared

to Mikita, he is a mere milksop."

"You tell the tale splendidly," exclaimed Dorosch, and nodded as a sign

of approval.

Spirid continued.

"He saw a hare in the field quicker than you can take a pinch of snuff.

He only needed to whistle 'Come here, Rasboy! Come here, Bosdraja!' and

flew away on his horse like the wind, so that you could not say whether

he went quicker than the dog or the dog than he. He could empty a quart

pot of brandy in the twinkling of an eye. Ah! he was a splendid

huntsman, only for some time he always had his eyes fixed on the young

lady. Either he had fallen in love with her or she had bewitched him--in

short, he went to the dogs. He became a regular old woman; yes, he

became the devil knows what--it is not fitting to relate it."

"Very good," remarked Dorosch.

"If the young lady only looked at him, he let the reins slip out of his

hands, called Bravko instead of Rasboy, stumbled, and made all kinds of

mistakes. One day when he was currycombing a horse, the young lady came

to him in the stable. 'Listen, Mikita,' she said. 'I should like for

once to set my foot on you.' And he, the booby, was quite delighted, and

answered, 'Don't only set your foot there, but sit on me altogether.'

The young lady lifted her white little foot, and as soon as he saw it,

his delight robbed him of his senses. He bowed his neck, the idiot, took

her feet in both hands, and began to trot about like a horse all over

the place. Whither they went he could not say; he returned more dead

than alive, and from that time he wasted away and became as dry as a

chip of wood. At last someone coming into the stable one day found

instead of him only a handful of ashes and an empty jug; he had burned

completely out. But it must be said he was a huntsman such as the world

cannot match."

When Spirid had ended his tale, they all began to vie with one another

in praising the deceased huntsman.

"And have you heard the story of Cheptchicha?" asked Dorosch, turning to

Thomas.

"No."

"Ha! Ha! One sees they don't teach you much in your seminary. Well,

listen. We have here in our village a Cossack called Cheptoun, a fine

fellow. Sometimes indeed he amuses himself by stealing and lying without

any reason; but he is a fine fellow for all that. His house is not far

away from here. One evening, just about this time, Cheptoun and his wife

went to bed after they had finished their day's work. Since it was fine

weather, Cheptchicha went to sleep in the court-yard, and Cheptoun in

the house--no! I mean Cheptchicha went to sleep in the house on a bench

and Cheptoun outside----"

"No, Cheptchicha didn't go to sleep on a bench, but on the ground,"

interrupted the old woman who stood at the door.

Dorosch looked at her, then at the ground, then again at her, and said

after a pause, "If I tore your dress off your back before all these

people, it wouldn't look pretty."

The rebuke was effectual. The old woman was silent, and did not

interrupt again.

Dorosch continued.

"In the cradle which hung in the middle of the room lay a one-year-old

child. I do not know whether it was a boy or a girl. Cheptchicha had

lain down, and heard on the other side of the door a dog scratching and

howling loud enough to frighten anyone. She was afraid, for women are

such simple folk that if one puts out one's tongue at them behind the

door in the dark, their hearts sink into their boots. 'But,' she thought

to herself, 'I must give this cursed dog one on the snout to stop his

howling!' So she seized the poker and opened the door. But hardly had

she done so than the dog rushed between her legs straight to the cradle.

Then Cheptchicha saw that it was not a dog but the young lady; and if it

had only been the young lady as she knew her it wouldn't have mattered,

but she looked quite blue, and her eyes sparkled like fiery coals. She

seized the child, bit its throat, and began to suck its blood.

Cheptchicha shrieked, 'Ah! my darling child!' and rushed out of the

room. Then she saw that the house-door was shut and rushed up to the

attic and sat there, the stupid woman, trembling all over. Then the

young lady came after her and bit her too, poor fool! The next morning

Cheptoun carried his wife, all bitten and wounded, down from the attic,

and the next day she died. Such strange things happen in the world. One

may wear fine clothes, but that does not matter; a witch is and remains

a witch."

After telling his story, Dorosch looked around him with a complacent

air, and cleaned out his pipe with his little finger in order to fill it

again. The story of the witch had made a deep impression on all, and

each of them had something to say about her. One had seen her come to

the door of his house in the form of a hayrick; from others she had

stolen their caps or their pipes; she had cut off the hair-plaits of

many girls in the village, and drunk whole pints of the blood of others.

At last the whole company observed that they had gossiped over their

time, for it was already night. All looked for a sleeping place--some in

the kitchen and others in the barn or the court-yard.

"Now, Mr Thomas, it is time that we go to the dead," said the

grey-headed Cossack, turning to the philosopher. All four--Spirid,

Dorosch, the old Cossack, and the philosopher--betook themselves to the

church, keeping off with their whips the wild dogs who roamed about the

roads in great numbers and bit the sticks of passers-by in sheer malice.

Although the philosopher had seized the opportunity of fortifying

himself beforehand with a stiff glass of brandy, yet he felt a certain

secret fear which increased as he approached the church, which was lit

up within. The strange tales he had heard had made a deep impression on

his imagination. They had passed the thick hedges and trees, and the

country became more open. At last they reached the small enclosure round

the church; behind it there were no more trees, but a huge, empty plain

dimly visible in the darkness. The three Cossacks ascended the steep

steps with Thomas, and entered the church. Here they left the

philosopher, expressing their hope that he would successfully accomplish

his duties, and locked him in as their master had ordered.

He was left alone. At first he yawned, then he stretched himself, blew

on both hands, and finally looked round him. In the middle of the church

stood the black bier; before the dark pictures of saints burned the

candles, whose light only illuminated the icons, and cast a faint

glimmer into the body of the church; all the corners were in complete

darkness. The lofty icons seemed to be of considerable age; only a

little of the original gilt remained on their broken traceries; the

faces of the saints had become quite black and looked uncanny.

Once more the philosopher cast a glance around him. "Bother it!" said he

to himself. "What is there to be afraid about? No living creature can

get in, and as for the dead and those who come from the 'other side,' I

can protect myself with such effectual prayers that they cannot touch me

with the tips of their fingers. There is nothing to fear," he repeated,

swinging his arms. "Let us begin the prayers!"

As he approached one of the side-aisles, he noticed two packets of

candles which had been placed there.

"That is fine," he thought. "I must illuminate the whole church, till it

is as bright as day. What a pity that one cannot smoke in it."

He began to light the candles on all the wall-brackets and all the

candelabra, as well as those already burning before the holy pictures;

soon the whole church was brilliantly lit up. Only the darkness in the

roof above seemed still denser by contrast, and the faces of the saints

peering out of the frames looked as unearthly as before. He approached

the bier, looked nervously at the face of the dead girl, could not help

shuddering slightly, and involuntarily closed his eyes. What terrible

and extraordinary beauty!

He turned away and tried to go to one side, but the strange curiosity

and peculiar fascination which men feel in moments of fear, compelled

him to look again and again, though with a similar shudder. And in truth

there was something terrible about the beauty of the dead girl. Perhaps

she would not have inspired so much fear had she been less beautiful;

but there was nothing ghastly or deathlike in the face, which wore

rather an expression of life, and it seemed to the philosopher as though

she were watching him from under her closed eyelids. He even thought he

saw a tear roll from under the eyelash of her right eye, but when it was

half-way down her cheek, he saw that it was a drop of blood.

He quickly went into one of the stalls, opened his book, and began to

read the prayers in a very loud voice in order to keep up his courage.

His deep voice sounded strange to himself in the grave-like silence; it

aroused no echo in the silent and desolate wooden walls of the church.

"What is there to be afraid of?" he thought to himself. "She will not

rise from her bier, since she fears God's word. She will remain quietly

resting. Yes, and what sort of a Cossack should I be, if I were afraid?

The fact is, I have drunk a little too much--that is why I feel so

queer. Let me take a pinch of snuff. It is really excellent--first-rate!"

At the same time he cast a furtive glance over the pages of the

prayer-book towards the bier, and involuntarily he said to himself,

"There! See! She is getting up! Her head is already above the edge of

the coffin!"

But a death-like silence prevailed; the coffin was motionless, and all

the candles shone steadily. It was an awe-inspiring sight, this church

lit up at midnight, with the corpse in the midst, and no living soul

near but one. The philosopher began to sing in various keys in order to

stifle his fears, but every moment he glanced across at the coffin, and

involuntarily the question came to his lips, "Suppose she rose up after

all?"

But the coffin did not move. Nowhere was there the slightest sound nor

stir. Not even did a cricket chirp in any corner. There was nothing

audible but the slight sputtering of some distant candle, or the faint

fall of a drop of wax.

"Suppose she rose up after all?"

He raised his head. Then he looked round him wildly and rubbed his eyes.

Yes, she was no longer lying in the coffin, but sitting upright. He

turned away his eyes, but at once looked again, terrified, at the

coffin. She stood up; then she walked with closed eyes through the

church, stretching out her arms as though she wanted to seize someone.

She now came straight towards him. Full of alarm, he traced with his

finger a circle round himself; then in a loud voice he began to recite

the prayers and formulas of exorcism which he had learnt from a monk who

had often seen witches and evil spirits.

She had almost reached the edge of the circle which he had traced; but

it was evident that she had not the power to enter it. Her face wore a

bluish tint like that of one who has been several days dead.

Thomas had not the courage to look at her, so terrible was her

appearance; her teeth chattered and she opened her dead eyes, but as in

her rage she saw nothing, she turned in another direction and felt with

outstretched arms among the pillars and corners of the church in the

hope of seizing him.

At last she stood still, made a threatening gesture, and then lay down

again in the coffin.

The philosopher could not recover his self-possession, and kept on

gazing anxiously at it. Suddenly it rose from its place and began

hurtling about the church with a whizzing sound. At one time it was

almost directly over his head; but the philosopher observed that it

could not pass over the area of his charmed circle, so he kept on

repeating his formulas of exorcism. The coffin now fell with a crash in

the middle of the church, and remained lying there motionless. The

corpse rose again; it had now a greenish-blue colour, but at the same

moment the distant crowing of a cock was audible, and it lay down again.

The philosopher's heart beat violently, and the perspiration poured in

streams from his face; but heartened by the crowing of the cock, he

rapidly repeated the prayers.

As the first light of dawn looked through the windows, there came a

deacon and the grey-haired Javtuk, who acted as sacristan, in order to

release him. When he had reached the house, he could not sleep for a

long time; but at last weariness overpowered him, and he slept till

noon. When he awoke, his experiences of the night appeared to him like a

dream. He was given a quart of brandy to strengthen him.

At table he was again talkative and ate a fairly large sucking pig

almost without assistance. But none the less he resolved to say nothing

of what he had seen, and to all curious questions only returned the

answer, "Yes, some wonderful things happened."

The philosopher was one of those men who, when they have had a good

meal, are uncommonly amiable. He lay down on a bench, with his pipe in

his mouth, looked blandly at all, and expectorated every minute.

But as the evening approached, he became more and more pensive. About

supper-time nearly the whole company had assembled in order to play

"krapli." This is a kind of game of skittles, in which, instead of

bowls, long staves are used, and the winner has the right to ride on the

back of his opponent. It provided the spectators with much amusement;

sometimes the groom, a huge man, would clamber on the back of the

swineherd, who was slim and short and shrunken; another time the groom

would present his own back, while Dorosch sprang on it shouting, "What a

regular ox!" Those of the company who were more staid sat by the

threshold of the kitchen. They looked uncommonly serious, smoked their

pipes, and did not even smile when the younger ones went into fits of

laughter over some joke of the groom or Spirid.

Thomas vainly attempted to take part in the game; a gloomy thought was

firmly fixed like a nail in his head. In spite of his desperate efforts

to appear cheerful after supper, fear had overmastered his whole being,

and it increased with the growing darkness.

"Now it is time for us to go, Mr Student!" said the grey-haired Cossack,

and stood up with Dorosch. "Let us betake ourselves to our work."

Thomas was conducted to the church in the same way as on the previous

evening; again he was left alone, and the door was bolted behind him.

As soon as he found himself alone, he began to feel in the grip of his

fears. He again saw the dark pictures of the saints in their gilt

frames, and the black coffin, which stood menacing and silent in the

middle of the church.

"Never mind!" he said to himself. "I am over the first shock. The first

time I was frightened, but I am not so at all now--no, not at all!"

He quickly went into a stall, drew a circle round him with his finger,

uttered some prayers and formulas for exorcism, and then began to read

the prayers for the dead in a loud voice and with the fixed resolution

not to look up from the book nor take notice of anything.

He did so for an hour, and began to grow a little tired; he cleared his

throat and drew his snuff-box out of his pocket, but before he had taken

a pinch he looked nervously towards the coffin.

A sudden chill shot through him. The witch was already standing before

him on the edge of the circle, and had fastened her green eyes upon him.

He shuddered, looked down at the book, and began to read his prayers and

exorcisms aloud. Yet all the while he was aware how her teeth chattered,

and how she stretched out her arms to seize him. But when he cast a

hasty glance towards her, he saw that she was not looking in his

direction, and it was clear that she could not see him.

Then she began to murmur in an undertone, and terrible words escaped her

lips--words that sounded like the bubbling of boiling pitch. The

philosopher did not know their meaning, but he knew that they signified

something terrible, and were intended to counteract his exorcisms.

After she had spoken, a stormy wind arose in the church, and there was a

noise like the rushing of many birds. He heard the noise of their wings

and claws as they flapped against and scratched at the iron bars of the

church windows. There were also violent blows on the church door, as if

someone were trying to break it in pieces.

The philosopher's heart beat violently; he did not dare to look up, but

continued to read the prayers without a pause. At last there was heard

in the distance the shrill sound of a cock's crow. The exhausted

philosopher stopped and gave a great sigh of relief.

Those who came to release him found him more dead than alive; he had

leant his back against the wall, and stood motionless, regarding them

without any expression in his eyes. They were obliged almost to carry

him to the house; he then shook himself, asked for and drank a quart of

brandy. He passed his hand through his hair and said, "There are all

sorts of horrors in the world, and such dreadful things happen that----"

Here he made a gesture as though to ward off something. All who heard

him bent their heads forward in curiosity. Even a small boy, who ran on

everyone's errands, stood by with his mouth wide open.

Just then a young woman in a close-fitting dress passed by. She was the

old cook's assistant, and very coquettish; she always stuck something in

her bodice by way of ornament, a ribbon or a flower, or even a piece of

paper if she could find nothing else.

"Good day, Thomas," she said, as she saw the philosopher. "Dear me! what

has happened to you?" she exclaimed, striking her hands together.

"Well, what is it, you silly creature?"

"Good heavens! You have grown quite grey!"

"Yes, so he has!" said Spirid, regarding him more closely. "You have

grown as grey as our old Javtuk."

When the philosopher heard that, he hastened into the kitchen, where he

had noticed on the wall a dirty, three-cornered piece of looking-glass.

In front of it hung some forget-me-nots, evergreens, and a small

garland--a proof that it was the toilette-glass of the young coquette.

With alarm he saw that it actually was as they had said--his hair was

quite grizzled.

He sank into a reverie; at last he said to himself, "I will go to the

colonel, tell him all, and declare that I will read no more prayers. He

must send me back at once to Kieff." With this intention he turned

towards the door-steps of the colonel's house.

The colonel was sitting motionless in his room; his face displayed the

same hopeless grief which Thomas had observed on it on his first

arrival, only the hollows in his cheeks had deepened. It was obvious

that he took very little or no food. A strange paleness made him look

almost as though made of marble.

"Good day," he said as he observed Thomas standing, cap in hand, at the

door. "Well, how are you getting on? All right?"

"Yes, sir, all right! Such hellish things are going on, that one would

like to rush away as far as one's feet can carry one."

"How so?"

"Your daughter, sir.... When one considers the matter, she is, of

course, of noble descent--no one can dispute that; but don't be angry,

and may God grant her eternal rest!"

"Very well! What about her?"

"She is in league with the devil. She inspires one with such dread that

all prayers are useless."

"Pray! Pray! It was not for nothing that she sent for you. My dove was

troubled about her salvation, and wished to expel all evil influences by

means of prayer."

"I swear, gracious sir, it is beyond my power."

"Pray! Pray!" continued the colonel in the same persuasive tone. "There

is only one night more; you are doing a Christian work, and I will

reward you richly."

"However great your rewards may be, I will not read the prayers any

more, sir," said Thomas in a tone of decision.

"Listen, philosopher!" said the colonel with a menacing air. "I will not

allow any objections. In your seminary you may act as you like, but here

it won't do. If I have you knouted, it will be somewhat different to the

rector's canings. Do you know what a strong 'kantchuk'(2) is?"

(2) Small scourge.

"Of course I do," said the philosopher in a low voice; "a number of them

together are insupportable."

"Yes, I think so too. But you don't know yet how hot my fellows can make

it," replied the colonel threateningly. He sprang up, and his face

assumed a fierce, despotic expression, betraying the savagery of his

nature, which had been only temporarily modified by grief. "After the

first flogging they pour on brandy and then repeat it. Go away and

finish your work. If you don't obey, you won't be able to stand again,

and if you do, you will get a thousand ducats."

"That is a devil of a fellow," thought the philosopher to himself, and

went out. "One can't trifle with him. But wait a little, my friend; I

will escape you so cleverly, that even your hounds can't find me!"

He determined, under any circumstances, to run away, and only waited

till the hour after dinner arrived, when all the servants were

accustomed to take a nap on the hay in the barn, and to snore and puff

so loudly that it sounded as if machinery had been set up there. At last

the time came. Even Javtuch stretched himself out in the sun and closed

his eyes. Tremblingly, and on tiptoe, the philosopher stole softly into

the garden, whence he thought he could escape more easily into the open

country. This garden was generally so choked up with weeds that it

seemed admirably adapted for such an attempt. With the exception of a

single path used by the people of the house, the whole of it was covered

with cherry-trees, elder-bushes, and tall heath-thistles with fibrous

red buds. All these trees and bushes had been thickly overgrown with

ivy, which formed a kind of roof. Its tendrils reached to the hedge and

fell down on the other side in snake-like curves among the small, wild

field-flowers. Behind the hedge which bordered the garden was a dense

mass of wild heather, in which it did not seem probable that anyone

would care to venture himself, and the strong, stubborn stems of which

seemed likely to baffle any attempt to cut them.

As the philosopher was about to climb over the hedge, his teeth

chattered, and his heart beat so violently that he felt frightened at

it. The skirts of his long cloak seemed to cling to the ground as though

they had been fastened to it by pegs. When he had actually got over the

hedge he seemed to hear a shrill voice crying behind him "Whither?

Whither?"

He jumped into the heather and began to run, stumbling over old roots

and treading on unfortunate moles. When he had emerged from the heather

he saw that he still had a wide field to cross, behind which was a

thick, thorny underwood. This, according to his calculation, must

stretch as far as the road leading to Kieff, and if he reached it he

would be safe. Accordingly he ran over the field and plunged into the

thorny copse. Every sharp thorn he encountered tore a fragment from his

coat. Then he reached a small open space; in the centre of it stood a

willow, whose branches hung down to the earth, and close by flowed a

clear spring bright as silver. The first thing the philosopher did was

to lie down and drink eagerly, for he was intolerably thirsty.

"Splendid water!" he said, wiping his mouth. "This is a good place to

rest in."

"No, better run farther; perhaps we are being followed," said a voice

immediately behind him.

Thomas started and turned; before him stood Javtuch.

"This devil of a Javtuch!" he thought. "I should like to seize him by

the feet and smash his hang-dog face against the trunk of a tree."

"Why did you go round such a long way?" continued Javtuch. "You had much

better have chosen the path by which I came; it leads directly by the

stable. Besides, it is a pity about your coat. Such splendid cloth! How

much did it cost an ell? Well, we have had a long enough walk; it is

time to go home."

The philosopher followed Javtuch in a very depressed state.

"Now the accursed witch will attack me in earnest," he thought. "But

what have I really to fear? Am I not a Cossack? I have read the prayers

for two nights already; with God's help I will get through the third

night also. It is plain that the witch must have a terrible load of

guilt upon her, else the evil one would not help her so much."

Feeling somewhat encouraged by these reflections, he returned to the

court-yard and asked Dorosch, who sometimes, by the steward's

permission, had access to the wine-cellar, to fetch him a small bottle

of brandy. The two friends sat down before a barn and drank a pretty

large one. Suddenly the philosopher jumped up and said, "I want

musicians! Bring some musicians!"

But without waiting for them he began to dance the "tropak" in the

court-yard. He danced till tea-time, and the servants, who, as is usual

in such cases, had formed a small circle round him, grew at last tired

of watching him, and went away saying, "By heavens, the man can dance!"

Finally the philosopher lay down in the place where he had been dancing,

and fell asleep. It was necessary to pour a bucket of cold water on his

head to wake him up for supper. At the meal he enlarged on the topic of

what a Cossack ought to be, and how he should not be afraid of anything

in the world.

"It is time," said Javtuch; "let us go."

"I wish I could put a lighted match to your tongue," thought the

philosopher; then he stood up and said, "Let us go."

On their way to the church, the philosopher kept looking round him on

all sides, and tried to start a conversation with his companions; but

both Javtuch and Dorosch remained silent. It was a weird night. In the

distance wolves howled continually, and even the barking of the dogs had

something unearthly about it.

"That doesn't sound like wolves howling, but something else," remarked

Dorosch.

Javtuch still kept silence, and the philosopher did not know what answer

to make.

They reached the church and walked over the old wooden planks, whose

rotten condition showed how little the lord of the manor cared about God

and his soul. Javtuch and Dorosch left the philosopher alone, as on the

previous evenings.

There was still the same atmosphere of menacing silence in the church,

in the centre of which stood the coffin with the terrible witch inside

it.

"I am not afraid, by heavens, I am not afraid!" he said; and after

drawing a circle round himself as before, he began to read the prayers

and exorcisms.

An oppressive silence prevailed; the flickering candles filled the

church with their clear light. The philosopher turned one page after

another, and noticed that he was not reading what was in the book. Full

of alarm, he crossed himself and began to sing a hymn. This calmed him

somewhat, and he resumed his reading, turning the pages rapidly as he

did so.

Suddenly in the midst of the sepulchral silence the iron lid of the

coffin sprang open with a jarring noise, and the dead witch stood up.

She was this time still more terrible in aspect than at first. Her teeth

chattered loudly and her lips, through which poured a stream of dreadful

curses, moved convulsively. A whirlwind arose in the church; the icons

of the saints fell on the ground, together with the broken window-panes.

The door was wrenched from its hinges, and a huge mass of monstrous

creatures rushed into the church, which became filled with the noise of

beating wings and scratching claws. All these creatures flew and crept

about, seeking for the philosopher, from whose brain the last fumes of

intoxication had vanished. He crossed himself ceaselessly and uttered

prayer after prayer, hearing all the time the whole unclean swarm

rustling about him, and brushing him with the tips of their wings. He

had not the courage to look at them; he only saw one uncouth monster

standing by the wall, with long, shaggy hair and two flaming eyes. Over

him something hung in the air which looked like a gigantic bladder

covered with countless crabs' claws and scorpions' stings, and with

black clods of earth hanging from it. All these monsters stared about

seeking him, but they could not find him, since he was protected by his

sacred circle.

"Bring the Viy(3)! Bring the Viy!" cried the witch.

(3) The king of the gnomes.

A sudden silence followed; the howling of wolves was heard in the

distance, and soon heavy footsteps resounded through the church. Thomas

looked up furtively and saw that an ungainly human figure with crooked

legs was being led into the church. He was quite covered with black

soil, and his hands and feet resembled knotted roots. He trod heavily

and stumbled at every step. His eyelids were of enormous length. With

terror, Thomas saw that his face was of iron. They led him in by the

arms and placed him near Thomas's circle.

"Raise my eyelids! I can't see anything!" said the Viy in a dull, hollow

voice, and they all hastened to help in doing so.

"Don't look!" an inner voice warned the philosopher; but he could not

restrain from looking.

"There he is!" exclaimed the Viy, pointing an iron finger at him; and

all the monsters rushed on him at once.

Struck dumb with terror, he sank to the ground and died.

At that moment there sounded a cock's crow for the second time; the

earth-spirits had not heard the first one. In alarm they hurried to the

windows and the door to get out as quickly as possible. But it was too

late; they all remained hanging as though fastened to the door and the

windows.

When the priest came he stood amazed at such a desecration of God's

house, and did not venture to read prayers there. The church remained

standing as it was, with the monsters hanging on the windows and the

door. Gradually it became overgrown with creepers, bushes, and wild

heather, and no one can discover it now.

* * * * *

When the report of this event reached Kieff, and the theologian Khalava

heard what a fate had overtaken the philosopher Thomas, he sank for a

whole hour into deep reflection. He had greatly altered of late; after

finishing his studies he had become bell-ringer of one of the chief

churches in the city, and he always appeared with a bruised nose,

because the belfry staircase was in a ruinous condition.

"Have you heard what has happened to Thomas?" said Tiberius Gorobetz,

who had become a philosopher and now wore a moustache.

"Yes; God had appointed it so," answered the bell-ringer. "Let us go to

the ale-house; we will drink a glass to his memory."

The young philosopher, who, with the enthusiasm of a novice, had made

such full use of his privileges as a student that his breeches and coat

and even his cap reeked of brandy and tobacco, agreed readily to the

proposal.

"He was a fine fellow, Thomas," said the bell-ringer as the limping

innkeeper set the third jug of beer before him. "A splendid fellow! And

lost his life for nothing!"

"I know why he perished," said Gorobetz; "because he was afraid. If he

had not feared her, the witch could have done nothing to him. One ought

to cross oneself incessantly and spit exactly on her tail, and then not

the least harm can happen. I know all about it, for here, in Kieff, all

the old women in the market-place are witches."

The bell-ringer nodded assent. But being aware that he could not say any

more, he got up cautiously and went out, swaying to the right and left

in order to find a hiding-place in the thick steppe grass outside the

town. At the same time, in accordance with his old habits, he did not

forget to steal an old boot-sole which lay on the ale-house bench.