‘Why, what is it, silly woman?’
‘Oh, my goodness! Why, you’ve gone quite grey!’
‘Aha! why, she’s right!’ Spirid pronounced, looking attentively at the philosopher. ‘Why, you have really gone as grey as our old Yavtuh.’
The philosopher, hearing this, ran headlong to the kitchen, where he had noticed on the wall a fly-blown triangular bit of looking-glass before which were stuck forget-me-nots, periwinkles and even wreaths of marigolds, testifying to its importance for the toilet of the finery-loving coquette. With horror he saw the truth of their words: half of his hair had in fact turned white.
Homa Brut hung his head and abandoned himself to reflection. ‘I will go to the master,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll tell him all about it and explain that I cannot go on reading. Let him send me back to Kiev straight away.’
With these thoughts in his mind he bent his steps towards the porch of the house.
The sotnik was sitting almost motionless in his parlour. The same hopeless grief which the philosopher had seen in his face before was still apparent. Only his cheeks were more sunken. It was evident that he had taken very little food, or perhaps had not eaten at all. The extraordinary pallor of his face gave it a look of stony immobility.
‘Good day!’ he pronounced on seeing Homa, who stood, cap in hand, at the door. ‘Well, how goes it with you? All satisfactory?’
‘It’s satisfactory, all right; such devilish doings, that one can but pick up one’s cap and take to one’s heels.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Why, your daughter, your honour … Looking at it reasonably, she is, to be sure, of noble birth, nobody is going to gainsay it; only, saving your presence, God rest her soul …’
‘What of my daughter?’
‘She had dealings with Satan. She gives one such horrors that there’s no reading scripture at all.’
‘Read away! read away! She did well to send for you; she took much care, poor darling, about her soul and tried to drive away all evil thoughts with prayers.’
‘That’s as you like to say, your honour; upon my soul, I cannot go on with it!’
‘Read away!’ the sotnik persisted in the same persuasive voice, ‘you have only one night left; you will do a Christian deed and I will reward you.’
‘But whatever rewards … Do as you please, your honour, but I will not read!’ Homa declared resolutely.
‘Listen, philosopher!’ said the sotnik, and his voice grew firm and menacing. ‘I don’t like these pranks. You can behave like that in your seminary; but with me it is different. When I flog, it’s not the same as your rector’s flogging. Do you know what good leather whips are like?’
‘I should think I do!’ said the philosopher, dropping his voice; ‘everybody knows what leather whips are like: in a large dose, it’s quite unendurable.’
‘Yes, but you don’t know yet how my lads can lay them on!’ said the sotnik, menacingly, rising to his feet, and his face assumed an imperious and ferocious expression that betrayed the unbridled violence of his character, only subdued for the time by sorrow.
‘Here they first give a sound flogging, then sprinkle with vodka, and begin over again. Go along, go along, finish your task! If you don’t – you’ll never get up again. If you do – a thousand gold pieces!’
‘Oho, ho! he’s a stiff one!’ thought the philosopher as he went out: ‘he’s not to be trifled with. Wait a bit, friend; I’ll cut and run, so that you and your hounds will never catch me.’
And Homa made up his mind to run away. He only waited for the hour after dinner when all the servants were accustomed to lie about in the hay in the barns and to give vent to such snores and wheezing that the backyard sounded like a factory.
The time came at last. Even Yavtuh closed his eyes as he lay stretched out in the sun. With fear and trembling, the philosopher stealthily made his way into the pleasure garden, from which he fancied he could more easily escape into the open country without being observed. As is usual with such gardens, it was dreadfully neglected and overgrown, and so made an extremely suitable setting for any secret enterprise. Except for one little path, trodden by the servants on their tasks, it was entirely hidden in a dense thicket of cherry-trees, elders and burdock, which thrust up their tall stems covered with clinging pinkish burs. A network of wild hop was flung over this medley of trees and bushes of varied hues, forming a roof over them, clinging to the fence and falling, mingled with wild bell-flowers, from it in coiling snakes. Beyond the fence, which formed the boundary of the garden, there came a perfect forest of rank grass and weeds, which looked as though no one cared to peep enviously into it, and as though any scythe would be broken to bits trying to mow down the stout stubbly stalks.
When the philosopher tried to get over the fence, his teeth chattered and his heart beat so violently that he was frightened at it. The skirts of his long coat seemed to stick to the ground as though someone had nailed them down. As he climbed over, he fancied he heard a voice shout in his ears with a deafening hiss: ‘Where are you off to?’ The philosopher dived into the long grass and fell to running, frequently stumbling over old roots and trampling upon moles. He saw that when he came out of the rank weeds he would have to cross a field, and that beyond it lay a dark thicket of blackthorn, in which he thought he would be safe. He expected after making his way through it to find the road leading straight to Kiev. He ran across the field at once and found himself in the thicket.
He crawled through the prickly bushes, paying a toll of rags from his coat on every thorn, and came out into a little hollow. A willow with spreading branches bent down almost to the earth. A little brook sparkled pure as silver. The first thing the philosopher did was to lie down and drink, for he was insufferably thirsty. ‘Good water!’ he said, wiping his lips; ‘I might rest here!’
‘No, we had better go straight ahead; they’ll be coming to look for you!’
These words rang out above his ears. He looked round – before him was standing Yavtuh. ‘Curse Yavtuh!’ the philosopher thought in his wrath; ‘I could take you and fling you … And I could batter in your ugly face and all of you with an oak post.’
‘You needn’t have gone such a long way round,’ Yavtuh went on, ‘you’d have done better to keep to the road I have come by, straight by the stable. And it’s a pity about your coat. It’s good cloth. What did you pay a yard for it? But we’ve walked far enough; it’s time to go home.’
The philosopher trudged after Yavtuh, scratching himself. ‘Now the cursed witch will give it to me!’ he thought. ‘Though, after all, what am I thinking about? What am I afraid of? Am I not a Cossack? Why, I’ve been through two nights, God will succour me the third also. The cursed witch committed a fine lot of sins, it seems, since the Evil One makes such a fight for her.’
Such were the reflections that absorbed him as he walked into the courtyard. Keeping up his spirits with these thoughts, he asked Dorosh, who through the patronage of the butler sometimes had access to the cellars, to pull out a keg of vodka; and the two friends, sitting in the barn, put away not much less than half a pailful, so that the philosopher, getting on his feet, shouted: ‘Musicians! I must have musicians!’ and without waiting for the latter fell to dancing a jig in a clear space in the middle of the yard. He danced till it was time for the afternoon snack, and the servants who stood round him in a circle, as is the custom on such occasions, at last spat on the ground and walked away, saying: ‘Good gracious, what a time the fellow keeps it up!’ At last the philosopher lay down to sleep on the spot, and a good sousing of cold water was needed to wake him up for supper. At supper he talked of what it meant to be a Cossack, and how he should not be afraid of anything in the world.
‘Time is up,’ said Yavtuh, ‘let us go.’
‘A splinter through your tongue, you damned hog!’ thought the philosopher, and getting to his feet he said: ‘Come along.’
On the way the philosopher kept glancing from side to side and made fain
t attempts at conversation with his companions. But Yavtuh said nothing; and even Dorosh was disinclined to talk. It was a hellish night. A whole pack of wolves was howling in the distance, and even the barking of the dogs had a dreadful sound.
‘I fancy something else is howling; that’s not a wolf,’ said Dorosh. Yavtuh was silent. The philosopher could find nothing to say.
They drew near the church and stepped under the decaying wooden domes that showed how little the owner of the place thought about God and his own soul. Yavtuh and Dorosh withdrew as before, and the philosopher was left alone.
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 stillness; 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 ikons 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. All flew and raced about looking for the philosopher.
All trace of drink had disappeared, and Homa’s head was quite clear now. He kept crossing himself and repeating prayers at random. And all the while he heard the unclean horde 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 stretching 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. Homa saw with horror that his face was of iron. He was supported under the arms and led straight to the spot where Homa 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.
‘Do not 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 all pounced upon the philosopher together. 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 cockcrow; the first had been missed by the gnomes. In panic they rushed pell-mell to the doors and windows to fly out in utmost haste; but they could not; and so they remained there, stuck in the doors and windows.
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 forest trees, roots, rough grass and wild thorns, and no one can now find the way to it.
When the rumours of this reached Kiev, and the theologian, Halyava, heard at last of the fate of the philosopher Homa, he spent a whole hour plunged in thought. Great changes had befallen him during that time. Fortune had smiled on him; on the conclusion of his course of study, he was made bell ringer of the very highest belfry, and he was almost always to be seen with a damaged nose, as the wooden staircase to the belfry had been extremely carelessly made.
‘Have you heard what has happened to Homa?’ Tibery Gorobets, who by now was a philosopher and had a newly-grown moustache, asked, coming up to him.
‘Such was the lot God sent him,’ said Halyava the bell ringer. ‘Let us go to the pot-house and drink to his memory!’
The young philosopher, who was beginning to enjoy his privileges with the ardour of an enthusiast, so that his full trousers and his coat and even his cap reeked of spirits and coarse tobacco, instantly signified his readiness.
‘He was a fine fellow, Homa!’ said the bell ringer, as the lame innkeeper set the third mug before him. ‘He was a fine man! And he came to grief for nothing.’
‘I know why he came to grief: it was because he was afraid; if he had not been afraid, the witch could not have done anything to him. You have only to cross yourself and spit just on her tail, and nothing will happen. I know all about it. Why, all the old women who sit in our market in Kiev are all witches.’
To this the bell ringer bowed his head in token of agreement. But, observing that his tongue was incapable of uttering a single word, he cautiously got up from the table, and, lurching to right and to left, went to hide in a remote spot in the rough grass; from the force of habit, however, he did not forget to carry off the sole of an old boot that was lying about on the bench.
THE BURGOMASTER IN BOTTLE
Erckmann-Chatrian
One of the most successful plays staged and constantly revived by Henry Irving and Bram Stoker at the Royal Lyceum Theatre was The Bells. First produced in 1871, the role of Mathias, a respectable Alsatian mayor who murders a Jew for his money and is subsequently haunted by the sound of the bells on his victim’s sleigh, catapulted Irving to stardom, and remained one of his favourite parts for over thirty years. The London production was adapted from the French play Le Juif Polonais (The Polish Jew) by the immensely popular writing duo, Émile Erckmann (1822-1899) and Alexandre Chatrian (1826-1890), who, under the byline Erckmann-Chatrian, penned many historical novels and short stories, the earliest collection of which was titled Histoires et Contes Fantastiques (1849).
When Erckmann-Chatrian’s play The Polish Jew was published in book form in London by Ward, Lock in 1873, together with ten of their earlier fantastic tales, it included a long-forgotten vampire story set in the region where the renowned French vineyards are located. Titled ‘The Burgomaster in Bottle,’ it originally appeared, as ‘Le Bourgmestre en Bouteille,’ in the June 1849 edition of Le Démocrate du Rhin, and was later reprinted, alongside Le Juif Polonais, in Contes Populaires (1866), prior to the bulk of their strange and unusual tales being translated into bestselling English editions during the 1870s, following the success of The Bells.
I HAVE always professed the highest esteem, and even a sort of veneration, for the Rhine’s noble wine; it sparkles like champagne, it warms one like Burgundy, it soothes the throat like Bordeaux, it fires the imagination like the juice of the Spanish grape, it makes us tender and kind like lacryma-christi; and last, but not least, it helps us to dream – it unfolds the extensive fields of fancy before our eyes.
In 1846, towards the end of autumn, I had made up my mind to perform a pilgrimage to Johannisberg. Mounted on a wretched hack, I had arranged two tin flasks along his hollow ribs, and I made the journey by short stages.
What a fine sight a vintage is! One of my flasks was always empty, the other always full; when I
quitted one vineyard, there was the prospect of another before me. But it quite troubled me that I had not any one capable of appreciating it to share this enjoyment with me.
Night was closing in one evening; the sun had just disappeared, but one or two stray rays were still lingering among the large vine-leaves. I heard the trot of a horse behind me. I turned a little to the left to allow him to pass me, and to my great surprise I recognised my friend Hippel, who as soon as he saw me uttered a shout of delight.
You are well acquainted with Hippel, his fleshy nose, his mouth especially adapted to the sense of taste, and his rotund stomach. He looked like old Silenus in the pursuit of Bacchus. We shook hands heartily.
The aim of Hippel’s journey was the same as mine; in his quality of first-rate connoisseur he wanted to confirm his opinion as to the peculiarities of certain growths about which he still entertained some doubts.
So we continued our route together. Hippel was extremely gay; he traced out our route among the Rhingau vineyards. We halted occasionally to devote our attention to our flasks, and to listen to the silence which reigned around us.
The night was far advanced when we reached a little inn perched on the side of a hill. We dismounted. Hippel peeped through a small window nearly level with the ground. A lamp was burning on a table, and by it sat an old woman fast asleep.
‘Hallo!’ cried my comrade; ‘open the door, mother.’
The old woman started, got up and came to the window, and pressed her shrunken face against the panes, You would have taken it for one of those old Flemish portraits in which ochre and bistre predominate.
As soon as the old sybil could distinguish us she made a grimace intended for a smile, and opened the door for us.
‘Come in, gentlemen – come in,’ cried she with a tremulous voice; ‘I will go and wake my son; sit down – sit down.’
‘A feed of corn for our horses and a good supper for ourselves,’ cried Hippel.
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