Worlds Apart

by Alexander Levitsky

  The gate creaked and they went into the yard.

  “Well, Granny,” said the philosopher, following the old woman, “how would it be, as they say … upon my soul, I feel as though somebody were driving a cart in my stomach: not a morsel has passed my lips all day.”

  “What next will he want!” said the old woman. “No, I’ve nothing for you, and the oven’s not been heated today.”

  “But we’d pay for it all,” the philosopher went on, “tomorrow morning, in hard cash. Yes!” he added in an undertone. “The devil a bit you’ll get!”

  “Go in, go in! and be satisfied with what you’re given. Fine young gentlemen the devil has brought us!”

  Khoma the philosopher was thrown into utter dejection by these words; but his nose suddenly aware of the odour of dried fish, he glanced at the trousers of the theologian who was walking at his side, and saw a huge fish-tail sticking out of his pocket. The theologian had already succeeding in filching a whole crucian from a waggon. And as he had done this simply from habit, and, quite forgetting his crucian, was already looking about for anything else he could carry off, having no mind to miss even a broken wheel, the philosopher slipped his hand into his friend’s pocket, as though it were his own, and pulled out the crucian.

  The old woman put the students in their separate places: the rhetorician she kept in the cottage, the theologian she locked in an empty closet, the philosopher she assigned a sheep-pen, also empty.

  The latter, on finding himself alone, instantly devoured the crucian, examined the hurdle walls of the pen, kicked an inquisitive pig that woke up and thrust its snout in from the next pen, and turned over on his right side to fall into a sound sleep. All of a sudden the low door opened, and the old woman bending down stepped into the pen.

  “What is it, Granny, what do you want?” said the philosopher.

  But the old woman came towards him with outstretched arms.

  “Aha, ha!” thought the philosopher. “No, my dear, you are too old!”

  He moved a little aside, but the old woman unceremoniously approached him again.

  “Listen, Granny!” said the philosopher. “It’s a fast time now; and I am a man who wouldn’t sin in a fast for a thousand gold pieces.”

  But the old woman spread her arms and tried to catch him without saying a word.

  The philosopher was frightened, especially when he noticed a strange glint in her eyes. “Granny, what is it? Go—go away—God bless you!” he cried.

  The old woman tried to clutch him in her arms without uttering a word.

  He leapt to his feet, intending to escape; but the old woman stood in the doorway, fixing her glittering eyes on him and again began approaching him.

  The philosopher tried to push her back with his hands, but to his surprise found that his arms would not rise, his legs would not move, and he perceived with horror that even his voice would not obey him; words hovered on his lips without a sound. He heard nothing but the beating of his heart. He saw the old woman approach him. She folded his arms, bent his head down, leapt with the swiftness of a cat upon his back, and struck him with a broom on the side; and he, prancing like a horse, carried her on his shoulders. All this happened so quickly that the philosopher scarcely knew what he was doing. He clutched his knees in both hands, trying to stop his legs from moving, but to his extreme amazement they were lifted against his will and executed capers more swiftly than a Circassian racer. Only when they had left the farm, and the wide plain lay stretched before them with a forest black as coal on one side, he said to himself, “Aha! she’s a witch!”

  The waning crescent of the moon was shining in the sky. The timid radiance of midnight lay mistily over the earth, light as transparent veil. The forests, the meadows, the sky, the dales, all seemed as though slumbering with open eyes; not a breeze fluttered anywhere; there was a damp warmth in the freshness of the night; the shadows of the trees and bushes fell on the sloping plain in pointed wedge shapes like comets. Such was the night when Khoma Brut, the philosopher, set off galloping with a mysterious rider on his back. He was aware of an exhausting, unpleasant, yet voluptuous sensation assailing his heart. He bent his head and saw that the grass which had been almost under his feet seemed growing at a depth far away, and that above it lay water, transparent as a mountain stream, and the grass seemed to be at the bottom of a clear sea, limpid to its very depths; anyway, he clearly saw in it his own reflection with the old woman sitting on his back. He saw shining there a sun instead of a moon; he heard the bluebells ringing as the bent their little heads; he saw a water-nymph float out from behind the reeds, there was the gleam of her leg and back, rounded and supple, all brightness and shimmering. She turned towards him and now her face came nearer, with eyes clear, sparkling, keen, with singing that pierced to the heart; now it was on the surface, and shaking with sparkling laughter it moved away; and now she turned on her back, and her cloudlike breasts, milk-white like faience, gleamed in the sun at the edges of their white, soft and supple roundness. Little bubbles of water like beads bedewed them. She was all quivering and laughing in the water …

  Did he see this or did he not? Was he awake or dreaming? But what was that? The wind of music? It is ringing and ringing and eddying and coming closer and piercing his heart with an insufferable thrill …

  “What does it mean?” the philosopher wondered, looking down as he flew along full speed. He was bathed in sweat, and aware of a fiendishly voluptuous feeling, he felt a stabbing, exhaustingly terrible delight. It often seemed to him as though his heart had melted away, and with terror he clutched at it. Worn out, desperate, he began trying to recall all the prayers he knew. He went through all the exorcisms against evil spirits, and all at once felt somewhat refreshed; he felt that his step was growing slower, the witch’s hold upon his back seemed feebler, thick grass brushed him, and now he saw nothing extraordinary in it. The clear crescent moon was shining in the sky.

  “Good!” the philosopher Khoma thought to himself, and he began repeating the exorcisms almost aloud. At last, quick as lightning, he sprang from under the old woman and in his turn leapt on her back. The old woman, with a tiny tripping step, ran so fast that her rider could scarcely breathe. The earth flashed by under him; everything was clear in the moonlight, though the moon was not full; the ground was smooth, but everything flashed by so rapidly that it was confused and indistinct. He snatched up a piece of wood that lay on the road and began whacking the old woman with all his might. She uttered wild howls; at first they were angry and menacing, then they grew fainter, sweeter, clearer, then rang out gently like delicate silver bells that stabbed him to the heart; and the thought flashed through his mind: was it really an old woman?

  “Oh, I’m done in!” she murmured, and sank exhausted to the ground.

  He stood up and looked into her face (there was the glow of sunrise and the golden domes of the Kiev churches were gleaming in the distance): before him lay a lovely creature with luxuriant tresses all in disorder and eyelashes as long as arrows. Senseless she tossed her bare white arms and moaned, looking upwards with eyes full of tears.

  Khoma trembled like a leaf on a tree; he was overcome by pity and a strange emotion and timidity, feelings he could not himself explain. He set off running full speed. His heart throbbed uneasily, and he could not account for the strange new feeling that had taken possession of him. He did not want to go back to the farm; he hastened to Kiev, pondering all the way on this incomprehensible adventure.

  There was scarcely a student left in the town. All had scattered about the countryside, either to situations or simply without them, because in the villages of the Ukraine they could get cheese cakes, cheese, sour cream, and dumplings as big as a hat without paying a kopek for them. The big rambling house in which the students were lodged was absolutely empty, and although the philosopher rummaged in every corner and even felt in all the holes and cracks in the roof, he could not find a bit of bacon or even a stale roll such as were commonly hidden there b
y the students.

  The philosopher, however, soon found means to improve his lot: he walked whistling three times through the market, finally winked at a young widow in a yellow bonnet who was selling ribbons, buckshot and assorted wheels, and was that very day regaled with wheat dumplings, a chicken … in short, there is no telling what was on the table laid before him in a little hut in the middle of a cherry orchard.

  That same evening the philosopher was seen in a pot-house; he was lying on the bench, smoking a pipe as his habit was, and in the sight of all he flung the Jew who kept the house a gold coin. A mug stood before him. He looked at the people that came in and went out with eyes full of quiet satisfaction, and thought no more of his extraordinary adventure.

  Meanwhile rumours were circulating everywhere that the daughter of one of the richest Cossack sotniks [an officer of a company of a hundred Cossacks], who lived nearly fifty versts from Kiev, had returned one day from a walk terribly injured, hardly able to crawl home to her father’s house, was on the verge of death, and had expressed a wish that one of the Kiev seminarists, Khoma Brut, should read the prayers over her and the psalms for three days after her death. The philosopher heard of this from the rector himself, who summoned him to his room and informed him that he was to set off on the journey without any delay, that the noble sotnik had sent servants and a carriage to fetch him.

  The philosopher shuddered from an unaccountable feeling which he could not have explained to himself. A dark presentiment told him that something evil was awaiting him. Without knowing why, he bluntly declared that he would not go.

  “Listen, Domine Khoma!” said the rector. (on some occasions he expressed himself very courteously with those under his authority.) “Who the devil is asking you whether you want to go or not? All I have to tell you is that if you go on jibing and making difficulties, I’ll order you a good flogging on your back and the rest of you.”

  The philosopher, scratching behind his ear, went out without uttering a word, proposing at the first suitable opportunity to put his trust in his heels.

  [However Khoma was unable to avoid the sotnik’s request and was compelled to present himself at the sotnik’s residence and pray for three succesive nights over the young woman’s corpse. Following is Gogol’s depiction of the final night]:

  Everything was the same, everything wore the same sinister familiar aspect. He stood still for a minute. The horrible witch’s coffin was still standing motionless in the middle of the church.

  “I won’t be afraid; by God, I will not!” he said and, drawing a circle around himself as before, he began recalling all his spells and exorcisms. There was an awful stillnes; the candles spluttered and flooded the whole church with light. The philosopher turned one page, then turned another and noticed that he was not reading what was written in the book. With horror he crossed himself and began chanting. This gave him a little more courage; the reading made progress, and the pages turned rapidly one after the other.

  All of a sudden … in the midst of the stillness … the iron lid of the coffin burst with a crash and the corpse rose up. It was more terrible than the first time. Its teeth clacked horribly against each other, its lips twitched convulsively, and incantations came from them in wild shrieks. A whirlwind swept through the church, the icons fell to the ground, broken glass came flying down from the windows. The doors were burst from their hinges and a countless multitude of monstrous beings trooped into the church of God. A terrible noise of wings and scratching claws filled the church. Everything flew and raced about looking for the philosopher.

  All trace of drink had disappeared, and Khoma’s head was quite clear now. He kept crossing himself and repeating prayers at random. And all the while he heard the fiends whirring round him, almost touching him with their loathsome tails and the tips of their wings. He had not the courage to look at them; he only saw a huge monster, the whole width of the wall, standing in the shade of its matted locks as of a forest; through the tangle of hair two eyes glared horribly with eyebrows slightly lifted. Above it something was hanging in the air like an immense bubble with a thousand claws and scorpion-stings protruding from the centre; black earth hung in clods on them. They were all looking at him, seeking him, but could not see him, surrounded by his mysterious circle. “Bring Viy! Fetch Viy!” he heard the corpse cry.

  And suddenly, a stillness fell upon the church; the wolves’ howling was heard in the distance, and soon there was the thud of heavy footsteps resounding through the church. With a sidelong glance he saw they were bringing a squat, thickset, bandy-legged figure. He was covered all over with black earth. His arms and legs grew out like strong sinewy roots. He trod heavily, stumbling at every step. His long eyelids hung down to the very ground. Khoma saw with horror that his face was of iron. He was supported under the arms and led straight to the spot where Khoma was standing.

  “Lift up my eyelids. I do not see!” said Viy in a voice that seemed to come from underground—and all the company flew to raise his eyelids.

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

  “There he is!” shouted Viy, and thrust an iron finger at him. And the whole horde pounced upon the philosopher. He fell expiring to the ground, and his soul fled from his body in terror.

  There was the sound of a cock crowing. It was the second cock-crow; the first had been missed by the gnomes. In panic they rushed to the doors and windows to fly out in utmost haste; but they stuck in the doors and windows and remained there.

  When the priest went in, he stopped short at the sight of this defamation of God’s holy place, and dared not serve the requiem on such a spot. And so the church was left for ever, with monsters stuck in the doors and windows, was overgrown with trees, roots, rough grass and wild thorns, and no one can now find the way to it.

  [… A brief epilogue follows. A.L]

  Nevsky Prospekt

  There is no finer sight than Nevsky Prospect, at least not in St. Petersburg; it epitomizes the whole city. No aspect of this thoroughfare fails to dazzle—the fairest of our capital! I know not a single one of the pale officials who live there would exchange Nevsky Prospect for anything on earth. Not only those who are twenty-five years old, with fine moustaches and surprisingly well-made frock coats, but even those with white hairs sprouting on their chins and with heads as smooth as silver dishes, they too find Nevsky Prospect a source of great delight. And women! Oh, for women Nevsky Prospect is an even greater attraction! And who could resist it! As soon as you set foot on Nevsky Prospect you’re aware of the fairground atmosphere. Even if you have some important, pressing business to attend to, once there you’ll most likely forget about business of any kind. This is the only place where people put in an appearance for reasons other than expediency, where they have not been driven to by necessity and the business interests which motivate all St. Petersburg. It seems that a man encountered on Nevsky Prospect is less greedy than on Morskaia (Marine), Gorokhovaia (Pease), Liteinaia (Foundry) or Meshchanskaia (Bourgeois) or any other street, where acquisitiveness, profits and necessity are written all over the faces of the people walking along or flying past in their carriages. Nevsky Prospect is St. Petersburg’s main artery of communication. An inhabitant of the Petersburg or Vyborg district who has not visited his friend from Peski (The Sands) or the Moscow Gate neighborhood for years can be sure of meeting him here. No street-guide or information bureau could provide you with such trustworthy information as Nevsky Prospect. Almighty Nevsky Prospect! The only entertainment for the poor people of Petersburg out for a stroll! How cleanly the pavements are swept and, Lord! how many feet have left their mark there! The clumsy, muddy boots of the retired soldier, under whose weight the very granite seems to crack, and the dainty, ethereal shoes of the young lady who turns her pretty head towards the shining shop windows like a sunflower turning towards the sun, and the jingling saber of the hopeful ensign, which leaves a deep scratch in it—both the power of s
trength and the power of weakness batter it. The fleeting phantasmagoria that is enacted there in the course of a single day! How many changes it undergoes between one day and the next!

  Let’s begin with early morning, when all of Petersburg smells of hot, freshly-baked loaves and is packed with old women in tattered dresses and coats making their forays on the churches and sympathetic passersby. Then Nevsky Prospect is empty: thickset shop owners and their salesmen are still asleep in their Dutch shirts or are soaping their noble cheeks and drinking coffee; beggars are gathering around the cafe doors, where a sleepy shop boy, who the day before had flown like a gadfly, carrying cups of chocolate, now creeps with broom in hand and tieless, and tosses the beggars stale pies and leftovers. The needy people trudge through the streets; sometimes Russian peasants, dashing to work in lime-covered boots which even the Yekaterinsky (Catherine’s) canal, so renowned for its purity, could never wash clean. It’s usually not done for Russian ladies to walk there at this time because Russians love to express themselves in such spicy terms as they would likely never hear even in the theater. Sometimes a sleepy official trudges along with a brief-case under his arm if the way to his office takes him across Nevsky Prospect. One can say definitely that at this time of day, that is up to twelve noon, Nevsky Prospect constitutes a means rather than an end for people: it gradually fills up with people preoccupied with their jobs, their worries and anxieties, who are totally oblivious of it. A Russian peasant speaks about ten kopeks or seven copper farthings, old men and women gesticulate with their hands or converse with each other, sometimes with rather uninhibited gestures, but nobody listens to them or laughs at them, except perhaps for the little boys in cotton smocks, carrying empty bottles or newly-made boots in their hands, running along Nevsky Prospect like lightning. At this time of day, no matter what you’re wearing, even if you have a cap on your head instead of a hat, or if your collar comes up too high above your tie—nobody will notice.