Viy — Страница 27

He only waited till the time
after dinner, when the household people all had the habit of getting into
the hay under the sheds and producing, open-mouthed, such a snoring and
piping that the yard came to resemble a factory. This time finally came.
Even Yavtukh stretched out in the sun, his eyes closed. In fear and
trembling, the philosopher quietly went to the garden, from where it seemed
to him it would be easier and less conspicuous to escape into the fields.
This garden, as commonly happens, was terribly overgrown and thus highly
conducive to any secret undertaking. Except for one path beaten down on
household necessity, the rest was hidden by thickly spreading cherry trees,
elders, burdock that stuck its tall stalks with clingy pink knobs way up.
Hops covered the top of this whole motley collection of trees and bushes
like a net, forming a roof above them that spread over to the wattle fence
and hung down it in twining snakes along with wild field bluebells. Beyond
the wattle fence that served as a boundary to the garden, there spread a
whole forest of weeds which no one seemed to be interested in, and a scythe
would have broken to pieces if it had decided to put its blade to their
thick, woody stems.
As the philosopher went to step over the wattle fence, his teeth
chattered and his heart pounded so hard that it frightened him. The skirt of
his long chlamys seemed stuck to the ground, as if someone had nailed it
down. As he was stepping over, it seemed to him that some voice rattled in
his ears with a deafening whistle: "Where to, where to?" The philosopher
flitted into the weeds and broke into a run, constantly stumbling over old
roots and crushing moles underfoot. He could see that once he got through
the weeds, all he had to do was run across a field, beyond which darkled a
thicket of blackthorn, where he reckoned he would be safe, and passing
through which he supposed he would come to the road straight to Kiev. He ran
across the field at once and wound up amid the dense blackthorns. He got
through the blackthorns, leaving pieces of his frock coat on every sharp
thorn in lieu of a toll, and found himself in a small hollow. A pussy willow
spread its hanging branches almost to the ground. A small spring shone pure
as silver. The philosopher's first business was to he down and drink his
fill, hecause he felt unbearably thirsty.
"Good water!" he said, wiping his mouth. "I could rest here." "No,
better keep running. You might have somebody after you." These words came
from above his ears. He turned: before him stood Yavtukh.
"Yavtukh, you devil!" the philosopher thought to himself. "I could just
take you by the legs and . . . and beat your vile mug in, and whatever else
you've got, with an oak log.