And she broke off with a strange laugh. "A funny story came into my head: I remembered how they were burying my husband. They buried him alive . . . How I wanted to laugh! . . . Listen, listen!" And instead of speaking, she began to sing a song:
A blood-drenched cart is driving by,
In that cart a Cossack lies,
Pierced his heart, empty his glance,
In his right hand he holds a lance,
And from this lance the blood runs down,
A river of blood pours on the ground.
Above the stream a maple bows,
Above the maple caws a crow.
Over the Cossack his mother cries.
Don't weep, mother, dry your eyes!
For your son has wed a wife,
The fairest young girl of his life.
In the wide field a house of clay,
No windows to let in the day.
And that's the end of all our song.
The fish and crayfish did a dance . . .
And if you don't love me, may your mother catch a chill!
So all songs had become confused in her. For a day, for two days, she has been living in her house, will hear nothing about Kiev, and does not pray, flees from people, and wanders from morning till late at night in the dark oak groves. Sharp twigs scratch her white face and shoulders; the wind tousles her unbraided tresses; old leaves rustle under her feet—she pays no heed to anything. At the hour when the sunset is fading and the stars have not yet appeared, the moon does not shine, but it is already frightening to walk in the forest: unbaptized children clamber up the trees, clutching at the branches; they sob, guffaw, roll in a tangle on the road and in the spreading nettles; maidens who destroyed their souls run out of the Dnieper's waves one after another; the hair streams from their green heads onto their shoulders, water runs loudly burbling down their long hair onto the ground; and a maiden shines through the water as through a shirt of glass; her lips smile strangely, her cheeks flush, her eyes lure one's soul out. . . she would burn up with love, she would kiss you to death . . .Flee, Christian man! her mouth is ice, her bed the cold water; she will tickle you all over and drag you into the river. Katerina pays no heed to anyone; the madwoman has no fear of water nymphs, she runs about late at night with her knife out, searching for her father.
Early in the morning a visitor arrived, of comely appearance, in a red jacket, and inquired about Master Danilo; he hears it all, wipes his tearful eyes with his sleeve, and heaves his shoulders. Says he went to war together with the late Burulbash; together they fought the Crimeans and the Turks; would never have expected that such would be the end of Master Danilo. The visitor tells of many other things and wishes to see Mistress Katerina.
At first Katerina did not listen to anything the visitor said; in the end she began to listen as if reasonably to his words. He talked of having lived together with Master Danilo as brother with brother; of hiding from the Crimeans once under a dam . . . Katerina kept listening, not taking her eyes off him.
"She'll come round!" the lads thought, looking at her. "This visitor will cure her! She's already listening reasonably!"
The visitor meanwhile began telling how Master Danilo had told him, in a moment of frank conversation: "Look here, brother Koprian, if by the will of God I'm no longer in this world, take my wife and let her be your wife . . ."
Katerina pierced him terribly with her eyes. "Ah!" she cried out, "it's him! it's my father!" and she rushed at him with her knife.
He fought for a long time, trying to tear the knife away from her. At last he tore it away, swung—and a terrible deed was done: a father killed his mad daughter. The amazed Cossacks were about to fall upon him; but the sorcerer had already leaped on his horse and vanished from sight.
XIV
AN UNHEARD-OF wonder appeared near Kiev. All the nobles and hetmans gathered to marvel at this wonder: the ends of the earth suddenly became visible far away. The Liman showed blue in the distance, and beyond the Liman spread the Black Sea. Experienced men recognized the Crimea, rising mountain-like from the sea, and the swampy Sivash. To the left could be seen the Galician land. 12
"And what is that?" the assembled folk inquired of the old people, pointing to the gray and white peaks showing far away in the sky and looking more like clouds.
"Those are the Carpathian Mountains!" said the old people. "There are some among them on which the snow never melts and the clouds perch and stay overnight."
Here a new marvel appeared: the clouds flew off of the highest mountain, and on its peak appeared a mounted man, in full knightly armor, with his eyes shut, and he could be seen as if he were standing up close to them.
Here, from among the folk marveling with fear, one leaped on his horse and, looking wildly around, as if trying to see whether anyone was pursuing him, hastily rode off as fast as his horse could go. It was the sorcerer. Why was he so frightened? Staring in fear at the wondrous knight, he had recognized his face as the same one that had appeared to him unbidden as he performed his incantations. He himself could not understand why everything in him became confused at this sight, and, fearfully looking back, he raced his horse on until evening overtook him and the stars peeped out. Here he turned toward home, perhaps to inquire of the unclean powers what this marvel was. He was just about to jump his horse over a narrow stream that branched out across his path, when the speeding horse suddenly stopped, turned its muzzle to him, and— oh, wonder!—laughed! Two rows of white teeth flashed terribly in the darkness. The hair on the sorcerer's head stood on end. He cried out wildly, wept frenziedly, and urged his horse straight on to Kiev. He fancied that everything on all sides rushed to catch him: around him the dark forest trees, as if alive, wagging their black beards and reaching out long branches, tried to strangle him; the stars seemed to run ahead of him, pointing the sinner out to everyone; the road itself, he fancied, raced after him. The desperate sorcerer flew to Kiev, to the holy places.
XV
A HERMIT SAT alone in his cave before a lamp, not taking his eyes from the holy book. It was already many years since he had shut himself away in his cave. He had already made himself a coffin out of boards in which he slept instead of a bed. The holy elder closed his book and began to pray . . . Suddenly a man of strange, terrible appearance rushed in. At first the holy hermit was astonished and recoiled on seeing this man. He was trembling all over like an aspen leaf; his eyes rolled wildly; a terrible fire poured fearfully from his eyes; his ugly face filled the soul with trembling.
"Father, pray! pray!" he cried desperately, "pray for a lost soul!" and he collapsed on the ground.
The holy hermit crossed himself, took out the book, opened it—and recoiled in horror, letting the book fall.
"No, unheard-of sinner, there is no mercy for you! Flee from here! I cannot pray for you!"
"No?" the sinner shouted like a madman.
"Look: the holy letters of the book are filled with blood. Never has there been such a sinner in the world!"
"You mock me, Father!"
"Go, cursed sinner! I do not mock you! Fear is coming over me. It is not good for a man to be with you!"
"No, no! you mock me, do not say ... I see your mouth stretch: the two rows of your old teeth are showing white! . . ."
And, like one crazed, he rushed at the holy hermit and killed him. Something groaned deeply, the groaning went across the field into the forest. From beyond the forest rose dry, bony arms with long claws; they shook and vanished. And now he felt no fear, he felt nothing. Everything seemed somehow vague to him.
There was a ringing in his ears and in his head, as from drunkenness; and everything before his eyes appeared covered with cobwebs. Leaping on his horse, he headed straight for Kanev, thinking to go from there through Cherkassy to the Tartars, right to the Crimea, himself not knowing why. He rode for one day, for another, but there was no Kanev. It was the right road; it should have been here long ago, but Kanev was nowhere to be seen. Church tops gleamed in the d
istance. But that was not Kanev, it was Shumsk. The sorcerer was astonished to see that he had gone in a completely different direction. He urged his horse back to Kiev, and a day later a city appeared—not Kiev but Galich, a city still further from Kiev than Shumsk, and not far now from the Hungarians. Not knowing what to do, he turned his horse back again, but again felt he was going ever further in the contrary direction. No man in the world could tell what was in the sorcerer's soul; and if anyone had looked into it and seen what went on there, he would not have slept the whole night long and would never have laughed again. It was not anger, or fear, or wicked vexation. There is no word in the world that could name it. He was burnt, scorched, he would have trampled the whole world under his horse's hooves, or taken the whole country from Kiev to Galich, its people and all, and drowned it in the Black Sea. But it was not from anger that he would have done so; no, he did not know why himself. He shuddered all over when just ahead of him the Carpathian Mountains appeared, and tall Krivan, its crown covered with a gray cloud as with a cap; and his horse raced on and was already roaming in the mountains. All at once the clouds cleared, and before him in terrible majesty appeared the rider . . . The sorcerer tries to stop, he pulls hard at the reins; the horse whinnies wildly, tossing its mane and racing toward the knight. Now the sorcerer fancies that everything in him is frozen, that the motionless rider stirs and all at once opens his eyes; he sees the sorcerer racing toward him and laughs. Like thunder the wild laughter spilled over the mountains and rang in the sorcerer's heart, shaking everything within it. He fancied someone strong got into him and went about inside him, hammering on his heart and nerves ... so terribly did this laughter resound in him!
The rider seized the sorcerer with a terrible hand and lifted him up in the air. Instantly the sorcerer died and opened his eyes after death. But he was now a dead man and had the gaze of a dead man. Neither the living nor the resurrected have such a terrible gaze. He rolled his dead eyes in all directions and saw dead men rising from Kiev, from the land of Galicia, and from the Carpathians, their faces as like his as two drops of water.
Pale, pale, one taller than another, one bonier than another, they stood around the rider, who held this terrible plunder in his hand. The knight laughed once more and threw him down into the abyss. And all the dead men leaped down into the abyss, picked the dead man up, and sank their teeth into him. Yet another, taller than all of them, more terrible than all of them, wanted to rise out of the earth; but he could not, he had not the strength to do it, so great had he grown in the ground; and if he had done it, he would have overturned the Carpathians, the Seven Cities, and the land of the Turks; he stirred just slightly, and the quaking from it went all over the world. And many houses fell. And many people were crushed.
A swishing is often heard in the Carpathians, the sound as of a thousand mill wheels turning in the water. It is the dead men gnawing the dead man, in the abyss without issue, which no man has ever seen, fearing to pass near it. It happens not seldom in the world that the earth shakes from one end to the other: learned people say it is because somewhere by the sea there is a mountain out of which flames burst and burning rivers flow. But the old men who live in Hungary and the land of Galicia know better and say that the earth shakes because there is a dead man grown great and huge in it who wants to rise.
XVI
IN THE TOWN of Glukhov people gathered around the old bandore player and listened for an hour as the blind man played his bandore. No bandore player had ever sung such wonderful songs or sung them so well. First he sang about the old hetmans, about Sagaidachny and Khmelnitsky. 13 Times were different then: the Cossacks were in their glory; their steeds trampled down their enemies, and no one dared to mock them. The old man sang merry songs, too, and kept glancing around at the people as if he could see; and his fingers, with little bone picks attached to them, flew like flies over the strings, and it seemed the strings played of themselves; and the people around him, the old ones with their heads hanging, and the young ones looking up at the old man, dared not even whisper to one another.
"Wait," said the old man, "I'll sing to you about a deed of yore." The people moved closer still, and the blind man sang:
Under Master Stepan, 14 prince of the Seven Cities—and the prince of the Seven Cities was also king of the Polacks— there lived two Cossacks, Ivan and Petro. They lived as brother lives with brother. "Look, Ivan, whatever you gain, it's all half and half: when one of us is merry, the other is merry; when one of us grieves, we both grieve; if one of us gets some plunder, the plunder's divided in two; if one falls into captivity, the other sells everything and pays the ransom, or else he, too, goes into captivity." And truly, whatever the Cossacks got, they divided everything in two; and if they stole cattle or horses, they divided everything in two.
King Stepan made war on the Turks. For three weeks he fought the Turks and was still unable to drive them off. And the Turks had a pasha, one who with a dozen janissaries could cut down a whole regiment. So King Stepan announced that if some brave man could be found who would bring him this pasha dead or alive, he would pay him alone as much as he paid his whole army. "Let's go after the pasha, brother!" said brother Ivan to Petro. And the Cossacks went, one in one direction, the other in another.
Petro might still have caught him or he might not have, but Ivan already came back leading the pasha to the king himself with a noose around his neck. "Brave fellow!" said King Stepan and ordered that he be paid as much as the whole army; and he ordered that he be given lands wherever he himself chose and as much cattle as he wanted. As soon as Ivan got his payment from the king, that same day he divided everything equally between himself and Petro. Petro took half of the king's pay, but he could not bear that Ivan should be so honored by the king, and he kept revenge hidden deep in his heart.
The two knights went to the lands granted by the king, beyond the Carpathians. The Cossack Ivan seated his son on his horse and tied him to himself. It was dark—they were still riding. The child fell asleep, and Ivan himself began to doze. Do not doze, Cossack, the mountain roads are dangerous! . . . But a Cossack's horse is such that it knows its way everywhere, never stumbles and never trips. Between the mountains is a chasm; no one has ever seen the bottom of this chasm; as far as the earth is from the sky, so far is it to the bottom of this chasm. On the very edge of this chasm runs the road—two men can ride abreast on it, but three never. The horse with the dozing Cossack began to step carefully. Petro rode beside him all atremble and holding his breath for joy. He looked around and pushed his sworn brother into the chasm. And into the chasm fell the horse with the Cossack and the child.
But the Cossack seized hold of a branch and only the horse fell to the bottom. He began to climb out, his son on his back; there was still a short way to go, he raised his eyes and saw that Petro was aiming his lance at him so as to push him back. "Righteous God, better not to have raised my eyes than to see my own brother aiming a lance to push me back . . . My dear brother! pierce me with the lance, if such is my lot, but take my son! How is the innocent child to blame, that he should die such an evil death?" Petro laughed and pushed him with the lance, and Cossack and child both fell to the bottom. Petro took all the property for himself and began to live like a pasha. No one had such herds of horses as Petro. Nowhere had so many sheep and rams been seen. And Petro died.
When Petro died, God summoned the souls of the two brothers, Petro and Ivan, for judgment. "This man is a great sinner!" God said. "Ivan! I will not easily find a punishment for him; you choose how he shall be punished!" Ivan thought for a long time, devising the punishment, and said at last: "This man did me a great offense: he betrayed his brother like Judas and deprived me of my honorable name and my descendants on earth. And a man without an honorable name and descendants is like a grain of wheat cast into the ground and lost there for nothing. No sprouts—no one will even know that the seed was sown.
"Make it so, God, that his descendants have no happiness on earth! that t
he last one of the family be such an evildoer as the world has never seen! that after each of his evil deeds his grandparents and great-grandparents, finding no peace in the coffin, and suffering torments unknown to the world, rise out of their graves! And that the Judas Petro be unable to rise, and suffer still greater torments from that, and eat dirt in a frenzy and writhe under the ground! And when the hour comes that fulfills the measure of this man's evildoings, raise me, God, on my horse, from that chasm up to the highest mountain, and let him come to me, and I will hurl him from that mountain into the deepest chasm, and let all the dead men, his grandfathers and great-grandfathers, wherever they lived when alive, be drawn from all ends of the earth to gnaw on him for the torments he caused them, and gnaw on him eternally, and I will rejoice looking at his torment! And let the Judas Petro be unable to rise from the ground, and let him strain to gnaw, but gnaw only on himself, and let his bones keep growing bigger, that through this his pain may become greater. This torment will be the most terrible for him: for there is no greater torment for a man than to desire revenge and be unable to get it."
"Terrible is the punishment you have devised, man!" said God. "Let it all be as you have said, but you, too, will sit there eternally on your horse, and as long as you sit there on your horse, there will be no Kingdom of Heaven for you!" And it all happened as was said: to this day a wondrous knight stands on horseback in the Carpathians, gazing on the dead men gnawing the dead man in the bottomless chasm, and he feels the dead man lying under the ground growing and gnawing his own bones in terrible torment and shaking all the earth terribly . . .
The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol Page 13
