|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 23
Recovering himself, he took his grandfather's hunting-whip from the
wall, and was about to belabor Peter's back with it, when Pidorka's
little six-year-old brother Ivas rushed up from somewhere or other, and,
grasping his father's legs with his little hands, screamed out, "Daddy,
daddy! don't beat Petrus!" What was to be done? A father's heart is not
made of stone. Hanging the whip again upon the wall, he led him quietly
from the house. "If you ever show yourself in my cottage again, or even
under the windows, look out, Petro! by Heaven, your black moustache will
disappear; and your black locks, though wound twice about your ears,
will take leave of your pate, or my name is not Terentiy Korzh." So
saying, he gave him a little taste of his fist in the nape of his neck,
so that all grew dark before Petrus, and he flew headlong. So there was
an end of their kissing. Sorrow seized upon our doves; and a rumor was
rife in the village, that a certain Pole, all embroidered with gold,
with moustaches, sabres, spurs, and pockets jingling like the bells of
the bag with which our sacristan Taras goes through the church every
day, had begun to frequent Korzh's house. Now, it is well known why the
father is visited when there is a black-browed daughter about. So, one
day, Pidorka burst into tears, and clutched the hand of her Ivas. "Ivas,
my dear! Ivas, my love! fly to Petrus, my child of gold, like an arrow
from a bow. Tell him all: I would have loved his brown eyes, I would
have kissed his white face, but my fate decrees not so. More than one
towel have I wet with burning tears. I am sad, I am heavy at heart. And
my own father is my enemy. I will not marry that Pole, whom I do not
love. Tell him they are preparing a wedding, but there will be no music
at our wedding: ecclesiastics will sing instead of pipes and kobzas.
[Footnote: Eight-stringed musical instrument.] I shall not dance with my
bridegroom: they will carry me out. Dark, dark will be my dwelling,--of
maple wood; and, instead of chimneys, a cross will stand upon the roof."
Petro stood petrified, without moving from the spot, when the innocent
child lisped out Pidorka's words to him. "And I, unhappy man, thought to
go to the Crimea and Turkey, win gold and return to thee, my beauty! But
it may not be. The evil eye has seen us. I will have a wedding, too,
dear little fish, I too; but no ecclesiastics will be at that wedding.
The black crow will caw, instead of the pope, over me; the smooth field
will be my dwelling; the dark blue clouds my roof-tree. The eagle will
claw out my brown eyes: the rain will wash the Cossack's bones, and the
whirlwinds will dry them. But what am I? Of whom, to whom, am I
complaining? 'T is plain, God willed it so. If I am to be lost, then so
be it!" and he went straight to the tavern.
My late grandfather's aunt was somewhat surprised on seeing Petrus in
the tavern, and at an hour when good men go to morning mass; and she
stared at him as though in a dream, when he demanded a jug of brandy,
about half a pailful. But the poor fellow tried in vain to drown his
woe. The vodka stung his tongue like nettles, and tasted more bitter
than wormwood. He flung the jug from him upon the ground. "You have
sorrowed enough, Cossack," growled a bass voice behind him. He looked
round--Basavriuk! Ugh, what a face! His hair was like a brush, his eyes
like those of a bull. "I know what you lack: here it is." Then he
jingled a leather purse which hung from his girdle, and smiled
diabolically. Petro shuddered. "He, he, he! yes, how it shines!" he
roared, shaking out ducats into his hand: "he, he, he! and how it
jingles! And I only ask one thing for a whole pile of such shiners."--
"It is the Evil One!" exclaimed Petro: "Give them here! I'm ready for
anything!" They struck hands upon it. "See here, Petro, you are ripe
just in time: to-morrow is St. John the Baptist's day. Only on this one
night in the year does the fern blossom. Delay not. I will await thee at
midnight in the Bear's ravine."
I do not believe that chickens await the hour when the woman brings
their corn with as much anxiety as Petrus awaited the evening. And, in
fact, he looked to see whether the shadows of the trees were not
lengthening, if the sun were not turning red towards setting; and the
longer he watched, the more impatient he grew. How long it was!
Evidently, God's day had lost its end somewhere. And now the sun is
gone. The sky is red only on one side, and it is already growing dark.
It grows colder in the fields. It gets dusky and more dusky, and at last
quite dark. At last! With heart almost bursting from his bosom, he set
out on his way, and cautiously descended through the dense woods into
the deep hollow called the Bear's ravine. Basavriuk was already waiting
there. It was so dark, that you could not see a yard before you. Hand in
hand they penetrated the thin marsh, clinging to the luxuriant thorn
bushes, and stumbling at almost every step. At last they reached an open
spot. Petro looked about him: he had never chanced to come there before.
Here Basavriuk halted.
"Do you see, before you stand three hillocks? There are a great many
sorts of flowers upon them. But may some power keep you from plucking
even one of them. But as soon as the fern blossoms, seize it, and look
not round, no matter what may seem to be going on behind thee."
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|