Foreword

Sorochyntsi Fair

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

St. John’s Eve

May Night, or the Drowned Maiden

I. Hanna

II. The Head

III. An Unexpected Rival. The Conspiracy

IV. The Lads are Making Merry

V. The Drowned Maiden

VI. The Awakening

The Lost Letter

Part Two

Foreword

Christmas Eve

A Terrible Vengeance

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka and His Aunt

I. Ivan Fyodorovich Shponka

II. The Road

III. The Aunt

IV. Dinner

V. The Aunt’s New Scheme

A Bewitched Place

Mirgorod

Old World Landowners

Taras Bulba

Viy

The Tale of How Ivan Ivanovich Quarrelled with Ivan Nikiforovich

The devil is very much like a petty gentleman who is trying to push his way into society.

You know, it seems to me that the ladies in this world are not entirely innocent.

But where is that joy? Where is that tumultuous life, that noise, that eternal merriment which reigned in the villages of Ukraine?

The very finest things are always done quite by accident.

And if you want to know what a true heart is, you will find it in those simple folk.

Foreword

“What strange novelty is this: ‘Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka’? What kind of ‘Evenings’ are these? And thrown into the world by some beekeeper! Thank goodness! Not enough geese have been plucked for quills, and not enough rags wasted on paper! Not enough people, of every rank and rabble, have stained their fingers with ink! What a strange desire for a beekeeper to drag himself along after the others! Truly, printed paper has spread so much that one can’t quickly think of what to wrap up in it.”

My prophetic soul heard, heard all these speeches a month ago! That is, I say, for one of us, a farm dweller, to stick his nose out of his backwater into the great world—good heavens! It’s the same as, sometimes you happen to enter the chambers of a great lord: everyone surrounds you and starts to mock you. It would be nothing if it were just the higher servants—no, some ragamuffin boy, a mere nobody to look at, who rummages in the back yard, even he will pester you; and they all start stamping their feet from every side. “Where, where, why? Get along, peasant, get along!…” I tell you… But what’s the use of talking! It’s easier for me to travel to Mirgorod twice a year, where neither the assistant judge from the district court nor the respectable priest has seen me for five years now, than to show myself in that great world. And if you have shown up—whether you weep or not, you must answer.

With us, my dear readers, begging your pardon (you might even get angry that a beekeeper talks to you informally, as if to some matchmaker or crony of his)—with us, on the farms, it has long been the custom: as soon as the fieldwork is over, the peasant climbs onto the stove to rest for the whole winter, and our brother hides his bees in the dark cellar, when you see neither cranes in the sky nor pears on the trees any longer—then, as soon as evening falls, a light is sure to glimmer somewhere at the end of the street, laughter and songs are heard from afar, a balalaika jingles, and sometimes a violin, chatter, noise… That is our evening gathering (vechernitsi)! They, if you please, are similar to your balls; but not exactly. If you go to balls, it is specifically to twirl your legs and yawn into your hand; but with us, a crowd of girls gathers in one hut, not at all for a ball, but with spindles and combs; and at first, they seem to be busy with work: the spindles hum, songs flow, and each one does not lift her eyes sideways; but as soon as the lads burst into the hut with a fiddler—a shouting starts, mischief is set afoot, dancing begins, and such antics take place that they cannot be described.

But best of all is when they crowd together in a tight group and start telling riddles or just rambling talk. My God! What things they tell! What old stories they dig up! What horrors they bring! But nowhere, perhaps, were so many wonders told as at the evening gatherings at the beekeeper Rudy Panko’s place. Why the folk nicknamed me Rudy Panko (Ginger Panko)—by God, I cannot say. My hair seems to be more grey than ginger now. But with us, don’t take offence, it is the custom: once people give someone a nickname, it stays forever and ever.

People used to gather on the eve of a holiday, good folk coming to visit the beekeeper’s hut, they would sit down at the table—and then I just ask you to listen. And to tell you the truth, these people were not of the simple sort, not some farm peasants. Indeed, maybe for someone even higher than a beekeeper, they would do the honour of a visit. For example, do you know Foma Grigorievich, the deacon of the Dikanka church? Oh, what a head! What stories he could tell! You will find two of them in this little book. He never wore the motley gown you will see on many village deacons; but drop by his place even on a weekday, and he will always receive you in a frock-coat of thin cloth, the colour of chilled potato jelly, for which he paid nearly six rubles an arshin in Poltava. As for his boots, no one in the whole village would ever say they smelled of tar; but everyone knows that he polished them with the finest lard, which, I think, some peasant would gladly put in his own porridge. No one would also say that he ever wiped his nose with the hem of his frock-coat, as some people of his rank do; instead, he would take out a neatly folded white handkerchief from his bosom, embroidered all along the edges with red threads, and having fixed what needed fixing, would fold it again, as usual, into a twelfth of its size, and put it back in his bosom.

And one of the guests… Well, that one was such a young lord that he could be immediately dressed up as an assessor or a sub-commissioner. He would place his finger in front of himself and, looking at its tip, start telling a story—elaborate and cunning, like in printed books! Sometimes you listen and listen, and then contemplation strikes you. You don’t understand anything, even if you kill me. Where did he pick up such words! Foma Grigorievich once invented a clever anecdote about him: he told how a schoolboy who was learning literacy from some deacon came home to his father and became such a Latinizer that he even forgot our Orthodox language. He turned all words into “us.” His shovel was lopatus, his woman babus. Well, it happened once they went to the field together. The Latinizer saw a rake and asked his father: “What is this called in your way, Father?” And he stepped, mouth agape, onto the prongs. Before his father could answer, the handle swung up, lifted, and—whack!—hit him on the forehead. “Cursed grabli!” the schoolboy shouted, grabbing his forehead and jumping up an arshin, “How painfully they strike, may the devil push their father off a bridge!” So there! He remembered the name, my dear boy!

Such an anecdote did not please the fanciful storyteller. Without saying a word, he rose from his seat, spread his legs in the middle of the room, tilted his head slightly forward, reached his hand into the back pocket of his pea-green coat, pulled out a round lacquered snuffbox, tapped the painted face of some Moslem general with his finger, and, taking a considerable portion of tobacco ground with ash and leaves of lovage, brought it in an arc to his nose and inhaled the entire pinch on the fly, without even touching his thumb—and still not a word; but as he reached into the other pocket and pulled out a blue checkered paper handkerchief, only then did he mutter to himself what was probably another proverb: “Do not cast pearls before swine”… “Now there’s going to be a quarrel,” I thought, noticing that Foma Grigorievich’s fingers were already folding up to make a fig sign. Fortunately, my old woman thought to put a hot knish (a kind of bun) with butter on the table. Everyone got to work. Foma Grigorievich’s hand, instead of showing the fig, reached for the knish, and, as is always customary, they began to praise the skilled hostess.

We had one more storyteller; but he (it’s better not to recall him at night) dug up such terrible stories that the hair stood on end. I purposely did not include them here. I might frighten good people so much that everyone, God forgive me, will start fearing the beekeeper like the devil. Let it be better that, if I live, God willing, until the new year and publish another little book, then it will be possible to terrify people with visitors from the other world and the wonders that occurred in the old days in our Orthodox land. Among them, it may be, you will find tales from the beekeeper himself, the ones he told his grandchildren. As long as you listen and read, I, perhaps—if only that cursed laziness would stop bothering me—could collect enough for ten such books.

Yes, I almost forgot the most important thing: when you, gentlemen, drive to see me, take the straight main road to Dikanka. I deliberately put it on the first page so you can reach our farm sooner. I think you have heard enough about Dikanka. And truly, the house there is cleaner than any beekeeper’s shed. And there’s no need to talk about the garden: you certainly won’t find one like it in your Petersburg. When you arrive in Dikanka, just ask the first boy you meet, who is herding geese in a soiled shirt: “Where does the beekeeper Rudy Panko live?” “Right there!” he will say, pointing his finger, and, if you wish, he will lead you right to the farm. I ask, however, not to lay your hands too far back and, as they say, fintit (show off), because the roads on our farms are not as smooth as those in front of your mansions. Three years ago, Foma Grigorievich, coming from Dikanka, did manage to land in a ditch with his new taratayka (small carriage) and bay mare, despite driving himself and wearing store-bought spectacles over his own eyes at times.

But when you honour us with a visit, we will serve you melons such as you may never have eaten in your life; and I swear, you won’t find better honey on the farms. Imagine that when you bring in the honeycomb—a fragrance goes through the whole room, you can’t imagine what kind: clear as a tear or precious crystal, like the kind in earrings. And what pies my old woman will feed you! What pies, if only you knew: sugar, pure sugar! And the butter just flows down your lips when you start to eat. You think, truly: what aren’t these women masters of! Have you ever, gentlemen, drunk pear kvass with blackthorn berries, or Varenukha (hot spiced vodka) with raisins and plums? Or have you sometimes happened to eat putrya (a kind of millet porridge) with milk? My God, what dishes there are in the world! You start eating—it’s delicious, that’s all. Indescribable sweetness! Last year… But why, really, have I started rambling so much?… Just come, come quickly; and we will feed you so well that you will tell everyone you meet.

The Beekeeper Rudy Panko.