‘For God’s sake, let us come in and get warm!’ they heard in a trembling deep bass. ‘Who lives here? For mercy’s sake! We’ve lost our way.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Raissa, afraid to look at the window.
‘The post,’ answered a second voice.
‘You’ve succeeded with your devil’s tricks,’ said Savely with a wave of his hand. ‘No mistake; I am right! Well, you’d better look out!’
The sexton jumped on to the bed in two skips, stretched himself on the feather mattress, and sniffing angrily, turned with his face to the wall. Soon he felt a draught of cold air on his back. The door creaked and the tall figure of a man, plastered over with snow from head to foot, appeared in the doorway. Behind him could be seen a second figure as white.
‘Am I to bring in the bags?’ asked the second in a hoarse bass voice.
‘You can’t leave them there.’ Saying this, the first figure began untying his hood, but gave it up, and pulling it off impatiently with his cap, angrily flung it near the stove. Then taking off his greatcoat, he threw that down beside it, and, without saying good-evening, began pacing up and down the hut.
He was a fair-haired, young postman wearing a shabby uniform and black rusty-looking high boots. After warming himself by walking to and fro, he sat down at the table, stretched out his muddy feet towards the sacks and leaned his chin on his fist. His pale face, reddened in places by the cold, still bore vivid traces of the pain and terror he had just been through. Though distorted by anger and bearing traces of recent suffering, physical and moral, it was handsome in spite of the melting snow on the eyebrows, moustaches, and short beard.
‘It’s a dog’s life!’ muttered the postman, looking round the walls and seeming hardly able to believe that he was in the warmth. ‘We were nearly lost! If it had not been for your light, I don’t know what would have happened. Goodness only knows when it will all be over! There’s no end to this dog’s life! Where have we come?’ he asked, dropping his voice and raising his eyes to the sexton’s wife.
‘To the Gulyaevsky Hill on General Kalinovsky’s estate,’ she answered, startled and blushing.
‘Do you hear, Stepan?’ The postman turned to the driver, who was wedged in the doorway with a huge mail-bag on his shoulders. ‘We’ve got to Gulyaevsky Hill.’
‘Yes... we’re a long way out.’ Jerking out these words like a hoarse sigh, the driver went out and soon after returned with another bag, then went out once more and this time brought the postman’s sword on a big belt, of the pattern of that long flat blade with which Judith is portrayed by the bedside of Holofernes in cheap woodcuts. Laying the bags along the wall, he went out into the outer room, sat down there and lighted his pipe.
‘Perhaps you’d like some tea after your journey?’ Raissa inquired.
‘How can we sit drinking tea?’ said the postman, frowning. ‘We must make haste and get warm, and then set off, or we shall be late for the mail train. We’ll stay ten minutes and then get on our way. Only be so good as to show us the way.’
‘What an infliction it is, this weather!’ sighed Raissa.
‘H’m, yes.... Who may you be?’
‘We? We live here, by the church.... We belong to the clergy.... There lies my husband. Savely, get up and say good-evening! This used to be a separate parish till eighteen months ago. Of course, when the gentry lived here there were more people, and it was worth while to have the services. But now the gentry have gone, and I need not tell you there’s nothing for the clergy to live on. The nearest village is Markovka, and that’s over three miles away. Savely is on the retired list now, and has got the watchman’s job; he has to look after the church....’
And the postman was immediately informed that if Savely were to go to the General’s lady and ask her for a letter to the bishop, he would be given a good berth. ‘But he doesn’t go to the General’s lady because he is lazy and afraid of people. We belong to the clergy all the same...’ added Raissa.
‘What do you live on?’ asked the postman.
‘There’s a kitchen garden and a meadow belonging to the church. Only we don’t get much from that,’ sighed Raissa. ‘The old skinflint, Father Nikodim, from the next village celebrates here on St. Nicolas’ Day in the winter and on St. Nicolas’ Day in the summer, and for that he takes almost all the crops for himself. There’s no one to stick up for us!’
‘You are lying,’ Savely growled hoarsely. ‘Father Nikodim is a saintly soul, a luminary of the Church; and if he does take it, it’s the regulation!’
‘You’ve a cross one!’ said the postman, with a grin. ‘Have you been married long?’
‘It was three years ago the last Sunday before Lent. My father was sexton here in the old days, and when the time came for him to die, he went to the Consistory and asked them to send some unmarried man to marry me that I might keep the place. So I married him.’
‘Aha, so you killed two birds with one stone!’ said the postman, looking at Savely’s back. ‘Got wife and job together.’
Savely wriggled his leg impatiently and moved closer to the wall. The postman moved away from the table, stretched, and sat down on the mail-bag. After a moment’s thought he squeezed the bags with his hands, shifted his sword to the other side, and lay down with one foot touching the floor.
‘It’s a dog’s life,’ he muttered, putting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t wish a wild Tatar such a life.’
Soon everything was still. Nothing was audible except the sniffing of Savely and the slow, even breathing of the sleeping postman, who uttered a deep prolonged ‘h-h-h’ at every breath. From time to time there was a sound like a creaking wheel in his throat, and his twitching foot rustled against the bag.
Savely fidgeted under the quilt and looked round slowly. His wife was sitting on the stool, and with her hands pressed against her cheeks was gazing at the postman’s face. Her face was immovable, like the face of someone frightened and astonished.
‘Well, what are you gaping at?’ Savely whispered angrily.
‘What is it to you? Lie down!’ answered his wife without taking her eyes off the flaxen head.
Savely angrily puffed all the air out of his chest and turned abruptly to the wall. Three minutes later he turned over restlessly again, knelt up on the bed, and with his hands on the pillow looked askance at his wife. She was still sitting motionless, staring at the visitor. Her cheeks were pale and her eyes were glowing with a strange fire. The sexton cleared his throat, crawled on his stomach off the bed, and going up to the postman, put a handkerchief over his face.
‘What’s that for?’ asked his wife.
‘To keep the light out of his eyes.’
‘Then put out the light!’
Savely looked distrustfully at his wife, put out his lips towards the lamp, but at once thought better of it and clasped his hands.
‘Isn’t that devilish cunning?’ he exclaimed. ‘Ah! Is there any creature slyer than womenkind?’
‘Ah, you long-skirted devil!’ hissed his wife, frowning with vexation. ‘You wait a bit!’
And settling herself more comfortably, she stared at the postman again.
It did not matter to her that his face was covered. She was not so much interested in his face as in his whole appearance, in the novelty of this man. His chest was broad and powerful, his hands were slender and well formed, and his graceful, muscular legs were much comelier than Savely’s stumps. There could be no comparison, in fact.
‘Though I am a long-skirted devil,’ Savely said after a brief interval, ‘they’ve no business to sleep here.... It’s government work; we shall have to answer for keeping them. If you carry the letters, carry them, you can’t go to sleep.... Hey! you!’ Savely shouted into the outer room. ‘You, driver. What’s your name? Shall I show you the way? Get up; postmen mustn’t sleep!’
And Savely, thoroughly roused, ran up to the postman and tugged him by the sleeve.
‘Hey, your honour, if you
must go, go; and if you don’t, it’s not the thing.... Sleeping won’t do.’
The postman jumped up, sat down, looked with blank eyes round the hut, and lay down again.
‘But when are you going?’ Savely pattered away. ‘That’s what the post is for-to get there in good time, do you hear? I’ll take you.’
The postman opened his eyes. Warmed and relaxed by his first sweet sleep, and not yet quite awake, he saw as through a mist the white neck and the immovable, alluring eyes of the sexton’s wife. He closed his eyes and smiled as though he had been dreaming it all.
‘Come, how can you go in such weather!’ he heard a soft feminine voice; ‘you ought to have a sound sleep and it would do you good!’
‘And what about the post?’ said Savely anxiously. ‘Who’s going to take the post? Are you going to take it, pray, you?’
The postman opened his eyes again, looked at the play of the dimples on Raissa’s face, remembered where he was, and understood Savely. The thought that he had to go out into the cold darkness sent a chill shudder all down him, and he winced.
‘I might sleep another five minutes,’ he said, yawning. ‘I shall be late, anyway....’
‘We might be just in time,’ came a voice from the outer room. ‘All days are not alike; the train may be late for a bit of luck.’
The postman got up, and stretching lazily began putting on his coat.
Savely positively neighed with delight when he saw his visitors were getting ready to go.
‘Give us a hand,’ the driver shouted to him as he lifted up a mail-bag.
The sexton ran out and helped him drag the post-bags into the yard. The postman began undoing the knot in his hood. The sexton’s wife gazed into his eyes, and seemed trying to look right into his soul.
‘You ought to have a cup of tea...’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t say no... but, you see, they’re getting ready,’ he assented. ‘We are late, anyway.’
‘Do stay,’ she whispered, dropping her eyes and touching him by the sleeve.
The postman got the knot undone at last and flung the hood over his elbow, hesitating. He felt it comfortable standing by Raissa.
‘What a... neck you’ve got!...’ And he touched her neck with two fingers. Seeing that she did not resist, he stroked her neck and shoulders.
‘I say, you are...’
‘You’d better stay... have some tea.’
‘Where are you putting it?’ The driver’s voice could be heard outside. ‘Lay it crossways.’
‘You’d better stay.... Hark how the wind howls.’
And the postman, not yet quite awake, not yet quite able to shake off the intoxicating sleep of youth and fatigue, was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire for the sake of which mail-bags, postal trains... and all things in the world, are forgotten. He glanced at the door in a frightened way, as though he wanted to escape or hide himself, seized Raissa round the waist, and was just bending over the lamp to put out the light, when he heard the tramp of boots in the outer room, and the driver appeared in the doorway. Savely peeped in over his shoulder. The postman dropped his hands quickly and stood still as though irresolute.
‘It’s all ready,’ said the driver. The postman stood still for a moment, resolutely threw up his head as though waking up completely, and followed the driver out. Raissa was left alone.
‘Come, get in and show us the way!’ she heard.
One bell sounded languidly, then another, and the jingling notes in a long delicate chain floated away from the hut.
When little by little they had died away, Raissa got up and nervously paced to and fro. At first she was pale, then she flushed all over. Her face was contorted with hate, her breathing was tremulous, her eyes gleamed with wild, savage anger, and, pacing up and down as in a cage, she looked like a tigress menaced with red-hot iron. For a moment she stood still and looked at her abode. Almost half of the room was filled up by the bed, which stretched the length of the whole wall and consisted of a dirty feather-bed, coarse grey pillows, a quilt, and nameless rags of various sorts. The bed was a shapeless ugly mass which suggested the shock of hair that always stood up on Savely’s head whenever it occurred to him to oil it. From the bed to the door that led into the cold outer room stretched the dark stove surrounded by pots and hanging clouts. Everything, including the absent Savely himself, was dirty, greasy, and smutty to the last degree, so that it was strange to see a woman’s white neck and delicate skin in such surroundings.
Raissa ran up to the bed, stretched out her hands as though she wanted to fling it all about, stamp it underfoot, and tear it to shreds. But then, as though frightened by contact with the dirt, she leapt back and began pacing up and down again.
When Savely returned two hours later, worn out and covered with snow, she was undressed and in bed. Her eyes were closed, but from the slight tremor that ran over her face he guessed that she was not asleep. On his way home he had vowed inwardly to wait till next day and not to touch her, but he could not resist a biting taunt at her.
‘Your witchery was all in vain: he’s gone off,’ he said, grinning with malignant joy.
His wife remained mute, but her chin quivered. Savely undressed slowly, clambered over his wife, and lay down next to the wall.
‘To-morrow I’ll let Father Nikodim know what sort of wife you are!’ he muttered, curling himself up.
Raissa turned her face to him and her eyes gleamed.
‘The job’s enough for you, and you can look for a wife in the forest, blast you!’ she said. ‘I am no wife for you, a clumsy lout, a slug-a-bed, God forgive me!’
‘Come, come... go to sleep!’
‘How miserable I am!’ sobbed his wife. ‘If it weren’t for you, I might have married a merchant or some gentleman! If it weren’t for you, I should love my husband now! And you haven’t been buried in the snow, you haven’t been frozen on the highroad, you Herod!’
Raissa cried for a long time. At last she drew a deep sigh and was still. The storm still raged without. Something wailed in the stove, in the chimney, outside the walls, and it seemed to Savely that the wailing was within him, in his ears. This evening had completely confirmed him in his suspicions about his wife. He no longer doubted that his wife, with the aid of the Evil One, controlled the winds and the post sledges. But to add to his grief, this mysteriousness, this supernatural, weird power gave the woman beside him a peculiar, incomprehensible charm of which he had not been conscious before. The fact that in his stupidity he unconsciously threw a poetic glamour over her made her seem, as it were, whiter, sleeker, more unapproachable.
‘Witch!’ he muttered indignantly. ‘Tfoo, horrid creature!’
Yet, waiting till she was quiet and began breathing evenly, he touched her head with his finger... held her thick plait in his hand for a minute. She did not feel it. Then he grew bolder and stroked her neck.
‘Leave off!’ she shouted, and prodded him on the nose with her elbow with such violence that he saw stars before his eyes.
The pain in his nose was soon over, but the torture in his heart remaine.
The Spectre Bridegroom by Irving Washington
He that supper for is dight,
He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!
Yestreen to chamber I him led,
This night Gray-steel has made his bed!
SIR EGER, SIR GRAHAME, and SIR GRAY-STEEL.
On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany that lies not far from the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood many, many years since the castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs; above which, however, its old watch-tower may still be seen struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head and look down upon the neighboring country.
The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen+, and inherited the relics of the property and all the pride, of his ancestors. T
hough the warlike disposition of his predecessors had much impaired the family possessions, yet the baron still endeavoured to keep up some show of former state.
The times were peaceable, and the German nobles in general had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles’ nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient residences in the valleys; still, the baron remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy all the old family feuds, so that he was on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had happened between their great-great-grandfathers.
* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place in Paris.
All Destiny MoON Fiction: A Mix of Old & New Short Stories Page 11