The Night Before Christmas (2 page)

“What else would you like? Look at him: gets near the honey and demands a spoon to eat it with. Get away from me: your hands are hard like iron, and you reek of smoke. I think you got me all covered in soot.” And again she took up her mirror.

“Oh, she doesn't love me,” thought the wretched blacksmith. “She just toys with me, and I'm sitting here like a damn fool and can't take my eyes off her. Nothing I wouldn't give just to know her heart, whether she's in love with anyone. But she doesn't care, she just sits there, torturing me, while I see no sunshine for my wretchedness; no one will ever love her as much as I do.”

“Is it true your mother's a witch?” Oksana asked him, and laughed so sweetly that the blood ran faster in Vakula's veins.

“What do I care for my mother? You are my father
and mother. If the Tsar summoned me tomorrow and said, ‘Vakula, here's a smithy made of gold with silver hammers in it—take it,' I'd say, ‘I want no gold or silver—just give me my Oksana.'”

“How sly you are! But my father is no fool, either. You'll see: he'll never marry your mother. But where is everyone? It's time to go caroling, and I'm getting bored.”

“Are they so much fun?”

“More fun than you, that's for sure. Ah, I hear someone knocking, it must be them.”

“She's just mocking me,” thought poor Vakula. “She cares for me as little as for a rusted horseshoe. Well, at least I won't let anyone else mock me! Let's see who's winning her favor. I'll show him . . .”

A loud voice and the sound of knocking interrupted his thoughts.

“I'll get it,” Vakula said, and ready to punch the first man who crossed the threshold, he went to open the door.

*   *   *

T
he frost was increasing. Up in the sky it had become so cold that the devil couldn't keep still and hopped
from hoof to hoof, blowing on his numb fingers—understandable behavior in someone who spends his days in front of an enormous fire roasting sinners, just as our housewives roast sausages for Christmas.

The witch, too, felt the chill and, putting out her leg like a skater, descended through the cold air straight into her chimney as though down an icy hill. The devil followed her, and a moment later the two were crouching in her roomy oven among the pots.

The witch peeked outside to make sure her son, Vakula, hadn't brought guests. Seeing only coal sacks piled in the middle of the room, she climbed out, straightened her clothes, and a second later no one would have guessed that she had just enjoyed a ride on a broom.

Vakula's mother was no more than forty years old and was neither good nor bad looking (though, of course, it's difficult to look good at forty). Yet she so masterfully charmed gentlemen of a certain age that many local Cossacks paid her visits (admittedly, beauty wasn't first on their lists). And not one of them thought for a moment that he had rivals! A respectable citizen heading for church on Sunday or for the tavern in
inclement weather often decided to stop by Solokha's, even if it meant a considerable detour. When Solokha attended a holiday service, clad in a blue frock coat over a colorful skirt with a silk apron, the deacon would cough and click his tongue, while the village head would smooth down his moustache, thinking, “Not bad, devil take me, not bad at all!”

Although Solokha was courteous with all the local Cossacks, a nosy observer would have noted that she was at her most cordial with old Chub. Chub was a widower. No less than eight stacks of wheat filled his front yard; two yokes of oxen mooed each time a cow or a bull walked past their stable; a goat bleated from the roof of his house like a traffic policeman, admonishing turkeys and chickens and showing his behind to the village boys. Chub's trunks were full of broadcloth and rich old garments—his late wife was into fashion. Besides the usual sunflower, poppy, and cabbage, his vegetable garden grew two rows of tobacco every year. All this Solokha planned to add to her own holdings, and she liked to imagine what shape Chub's property would take when it passed into her hands. To prevent it from falling into her son Vakula's
possession, should he decide to marry Oksana, she resorted to the favorite strategy of all forty-year-old flirts: she pitted Vakula against Chub as often as she could.

Solokha's sly tricks inspired local gossip that she was a witch. A village youngster saw her tail, as big as a spindle; as recently as last Thursday she had run across someone's path in the shape of a black cat; according to the priest's wife, Solokha had walked into her house as a pig, crowed like a rooster, grabbed the priest's hat, and run off. The village shepherd reported he saw a witch walk into the manger, milk the cows, and then rub his lips with a substance so vile that he was spitting it for a week. All these reports were highly doubtful, for, as we know, only Sorochintsy's property assessor can spot a witch, which is why the respectable Cossacks ignored all the yakking.

Solokha began to tidy up her house without touching the coal sacks: Vakula brought them in, he could take them out. As for the devil, when he was about to go down the chimney he happened to glance back and notice Chub and
kum
already at a considerable distance from home. Instantly he flew over and began to
dig up snowdrifts on both sides of the road, creating a blizzard. The air became white and thick with hurtling snow—any passerby risked getting his eyes, nose, and mouth clogged within seconds. The devil, pleased with his work, returned to the chimney. He was certain the blizzard would force Chub to turn back. On catching Vakula with his daughter, Chub was sure to give the blacksmith such a thrashing that for a long time he'd be unable to paint insulting caricatures.

*   *   *

I
ndeed, as soon as the blizzard began, Chub bitterly regretted his decision and cursed himself,
kum
, and the devil. Chub's cursing, truth be told, wasn't altogether sincere. He welcomed the blizzard as a respectable excuse to turn back, which is what they promptly did. The wind now blew at their back, but they still couldn't see anything.

“Stop. We've lost the road,” Chub yelled out to
kum
. “You go look for it over there, and I'll look over here.” The road, however, was nowhere to be found. The only discovery
kum
made, plowing back and forth
through the deep snow, was the tavern. It excited him so much that he forgot about Chub and the deacon's party and hurried inside, shaking off the snow.

In the meantime, Chub found the road and, soon afterward, his house. He yelled out to
kum
but got no response. The house was half buried in snow. Chub banged loudly on the door, summoning his daughter. But then he heard the blacksmith bark, “What do you want?”

Chub stepped back into the snow. “This can't be my house,” he thought. “The blacksmith wouldn't dare come here. On the other hand, it's not his house, either. I know: it's lame Levchenko's, he recently took a young wife. His house looks like mine. But Levchenko is at the deacon's party, so why is the blacksmith here? Aha, I see: he visits Levchenko's wife!”

“Who are you, and what business have you here?” Vakula repeated more sternly, stepping closer to the indistinct shape.

“I'm not telling him who I am,” thought Chub, “or the mean bastard will slug me.”

“I'm just a poor caroler, dear host,” he replied, changing his voice.

“Go to the devil with your carols. Go on now!”

Chub was of a mind to oblige, but he also felt annoyance at being ordered by the blacksmith and felt the need to talk back, as though the devil himself were provoking him.

“What are you yelling for? It's Christmas Eve. I came to sing carols, is all.”

“Words aren't enough to send you off, eh?” And Chub received a painful jab on the shoulder.

“Jeez, you really lay it on,” Chub grumbled, stepping back, and immediately received another blow on the back.

“Off with you,” barked the blacksmith, and slammed the door shut.

“He thinks I won't find a way to rein him in? I'll go straight to the chief, he'll take care of that oaf, no matter he's a blacksmith and a painter. My back is probably all black and blue. Hmm. If he's here, that means he's not home; Solokha must be alone and lonesome. Hmm. Perhaps we could . . . a little. Hmm.” The potential rewards awaiting him at Solokha's made the bruises and the cold seem less painful, and one could
see through the snow that covered his face like shaving foam an anticipatory half smile.

*   *   *

D
uring the devil's brief excursion out of and back to the chimney, his little side pouch got untied—and the moon slid out and rose slowly into the sky. The whole world changed. The blizzard died down, the ground lit up like a silvery desert, and even the cold seemed warmer. Bands of girls and boys carrying sacks with treats poured into the streets, and Christmas carols filled the air. What a gorgeous night! How can one describe the fun of mingling with the carolers? It's nice and warm under the sheepskin, the cold paints the young cheeks brighter, and the devil himself goads youngsters into mischief.

A group of laughing girls with full sacks ran into Oksana's house and surrounded the beauty, deafening Vakula with laughter and chatter. Everyone wanted to report what happened during their caroling and to show her their booty. Oksana seemed to enjoy herself thoroughly, to Vakula's annoyance, although he
used
to be the liveliest caroler in the village. “Ah, Odarka,” the beauty addressed one of her girlfriends, “you've got new shoes, and such lovely ones, with gold. You are lucky to have a man who can buy you shoes like that.”

“Just say the word, my beauty,” Vakula said at once. “I'll bring you shoes a noblewoman hasn't seen!”

“You? I doubt you can lay your hands on anything I would put on my feet. Maybe you'll get me what the empress wears, eh?”

The girls burst into laughter.

“That's right,” the beauty announced proudly. “All of you, be my witness: if Vakula brings me the Tsarina's shoes, I give you my word I'll marry him right that moment.” The girls led Oksana away, and Vakula followed them, his head hanging low. “Keep on laughing; am I not a laughingstock? I try to reason and can't—my mind is gone. Oksana doesn't love me—so what? Thank God the village is full of girls. She thinks only about clothes; she'll never make a good wife. No, it's time I dropped this nonsense.” But some evil spirit kept pushing Oksana's image and her words about the Tsarina's shoes into his head; it was all he
could think about. Groups of caroling girls and youths proceeded from house to house, but the blacksmith heard and saw nothing of the fun he had once enjoyed more than anyone.

*   *   *

I
n the meantime, the devil had thoroughly relaxed at Solokha's. He covered her arm with kisses, clutched at his heart, sighed and moaned, and finally announced that unless she agreed to satisfy his passion, he'd go and drown himself, ruining his immortal soul. Solokha wasn't that cruel, and besides, they really were birds of a feather. She greatly enjoyed having a train of suitors, but this evening she expected to be alone, since every prominent villager was going to the deacon's. Only now this plan changed: no sooner had the devil declared his passion than they heard the voice of Dikanka's village head demanding to be let in. The hostess rushed to open the door, and the devil promptly jumped into the smallest of the coal sacks.

Having emptied a glass of vodka and shaken off the snow, the village head explained that he hadn't gone to the deacon's because of the sudden
blizzard,
but then the light in Solokha's house gave him the idea that he might spend a pleasant evening in her company. Before he could finish, though, there was a loud knock, and they heard the deacon's voice. “Hide me somewhere, quick.” The village head panicked. “I don't want him to see me.” Solokha pondered hard where to conceal her corpulent admirer, then emptied the coal into the tub and stuffed the village head with all his outer garments into the largest sack.