Viy — Страница 25

But, looking out of the corner of one
eye, he saw that the corpse was trying to catch him in the wrong place and
evidently could not see him. She was growling hollowly, and began to utter
dreadful words with her dead lips; they spluttered hoarsely, like the
gurgling of boiling pitch. He could not have said what they meant, but
something dreadful was contained in them. The philosopher fearfully realized
that she was reciting incantations.
Wind swept through the church at these words, and there was a noise as
of a multitude of fluttering wings. He heard wings beating against the glass
of the church windows and their iron frames, heard claws scratching iron
with a rasping noise and countless powers banging on the doors, trying to
break in. His heart pounded heavily all the while; shutting his eyes, he
kept reading incantations and prayers. At last something suddenly whistled
far away. It was the distant crowing of a cock. The exhausted philosopher
stopped and rested his soul.
Those who came to relieve the philosopher found him barely alive. He
was leaning back against the wall, goggle-eyed, and stared fixedly at the
Cossacks who where shaking him. They practically carried him out and had to
support him all the way. Coming to the master's yard, he roused himself and
asked to be given a pint of vodka. After drinking it, he smoothed the hair
on his head and said:
"There's all sorts of trash in this world! And such horrors happen
as--oh, well. . ." At that the philosopher waved his hand.
The circle that had gathered around him hung their heads on hearing
such words. Even the young boy whom all the servants considered their
rightful representative when it came to such matters as cleaning the stables
or toting water, even this poor boy also stood gaping.
Just then a not entirely old wench passed by in a tight-fitting apron
that displayed her round and firm shape, the old cook's assis-
tant, a terrible flirt, who always found something to pin to her cap--a
bit of ribbon, or a carnation, or even a scrap of paper if there was nothing
else.
"Greetings, Khoma!" she said, seeing the philosopher. "Ai-yai-yai!
what's happened to you?" she cried out, clasping her hands.
"What do you mean, foolish woman?"
"Ah, my God! But you've gone all gray!"
"Oh-oh! And it's the truth she's telling!" said Spirid, studying him
intently. "You've really gone all gray like our old Yavtukh."
On hearing this, the philosopher rushed headlong to the kitchen, where
he had noticed a triangular piece of mirror glued to the wall and stained by
flies, in front of which forget-me-nots, periwinkles, and even a garland of
marigolds were stuck, showing that it was intended for the stylish flirt's
toilette. He saw with horror the truth of their words: half of his hair had
indeed turned white.