The Fair at Sorochintsi

VII

But here are miracles, gentlemen!

From a Little Russian comedy

A strange incident had taken place at the fair: there were rumors all over the place that the red jacket had been seen somewhere among the wares. The old woman who sold pretzels thought she saw the devil in the shape of a pig, bending over the wagons as though looking for something. The news soon flew to every corner of the now resting camp, and everyone would have thought it a crime to disbelieve it, in spite of the fact that the pretzel seller, whose stall was next to the drinking booth, had been staggering about all day and could not walk straight. To this was added the story—by now greatly exaggerated—of the wonder seen by the district clerk in the dilapidated barn; so toward night people were all huddling together; their peace of mind was destroyed, and everyone was too terrified to close an eye; while those who were not cast in a heroic mold, and had secured a night’s lodging in a hut, made their way homeward. Among the latter were Cherevik with his daughter and his friend Tsibulya, and they, together with the friends who had offered to keep them company, were responsible for the loud knocking that had so alarmed Khivrya. Tsibulya was already a little exhilarated. This could be seen from his twice driving around the yard with his wagon before he could find the hut. His guests, too, were all rather merry, and they unceremoniously pushed into the hut before their host. Our Cherevik’s wife sat as though on thorns, when they began rummaging in every corner of the hut.

“Well, gossip,” cried Tsibulya as he entered, “you are still shaking with fever?”

“Yes, I am not well,” answered Khivrya, looking uneasily toward the boards on the rafters.

“Come, wife, get the bottle out of the wagon!” said Tsibulya to his wife, who had come in with him, “we will empty it with these good folk, for the damned women have given us such a scare that one is ashamed to admit it. Yes, friends, there was really no sense in our coming here!” he went on, taking a pull out of an earthenware jug. “I don’t mind betting a new cap that the women thought they would have a laugh at us. Why, if it were Satan—who’s Satan? Spit on him! If he stood here before me this very minute, I’ll be a son of a bitch if I wouldn’t make a fig at him!”

“Why did you turn so pale, then?” cried one of the visitors, who was a head taller than any of the rest and tried on every occasion to display his valor.

“I?… Bless you! Are you dreaming?”

The visitors laughed; the boastful hero smiled complacently.

“As though he could turn pale now!” put in another; “his cheeks are as red as a poppy; he is not a Tsibulya now, but a beet—or, rather, the red jacket itself that frightened us all so.”

The bottle went the round of the table, and made the visitors more exhilarated than ever. At this point Cherevik, greatly disturbed about the red jacket, which would not let his inquisitive mind rest, appealed to his friend:

“Come, friend, kindly tell me! I keep asking about this damned jacket and can get no answer from anyone!”

“Eh, friend, it’s not a thing to talk about at night; however, to satisfy you and these good friends” (saying this he turned toward his guests) “who want, I see, to know about these strange doings as much as you do. Well, so be it. Listen!”

Here he scratched his shoulder, mopped his face with the skirt of his coat, leaned both arms on the table, and began:

“Once upon a time a devil was kicked out of hell, what for I cannot say…”

“How so, friend?” Cherevik interrupted. “How could it be that a devil was turned out of hell?”

“I can’t help it, crony, if he was turned out, he was—as a peasant turns a dog out of his hut. Perhaps a whim came over him to do a good deed—and so they showed him the door. And the poor devil was so homesick, so homesick for hell that he was ready to hang himself. Well, what could he do about it? In his trouble he took to drink. He settled in the broken-down barn which you have seen at the bottom of the hill and which no good man will pass now without making the sign of the cross as a safeguard; and the devil became such a rake you would not find another like him among the fellows: he sat day and night in the tavern!”

At this point Cherevik interrupted again:

“Goodness knows what you are saying, friend! How could anyone let a devil into a tavern? Why, thank God, he has claws on his paws and horns on his head.”

“Ah, that was just it—he had a cap and gloves on. Who could recognize him? Well, he kept it up till he had drunk away all he had with him. They gave him credit for a long time, but at last they would give no more. The devil had to pawn his red jacket for less than a third of its value to the Jew who sold vodka in those days at Sorochintsy. He pawned it and said to him: ‘Mind now, Jew, I shall come to you for my jacket in a year’s time; take care of it!’ And he disappeared and no more was seen of him. The Jew examined the coat thoroughly: the cloth was better than anything you could get in Mirgorod, and the red of it glowed like fire, so that one could not take one’s eyes off it! And it seemed to the Jew a long time to wait till the end of the year. He scratched his earlocks and got nearly five gold pieces for it from a gentleman who was passing by. The Jew forgot all about the date set. But all of a sudden one evening a man turns up: ‘Come, Jew, hand me over my jacket!’ At first the Jew did not know him, but afterward when he had had a good look at him, he pretended he had never seen him before. ‘What jacket? I have no jacket. I know nothing about your jacket!’ The other walked away; only, when the Jew locked himself up in his room and, after counting over the money in his chests, flung a sheet around his shoulders and began saying his prayers in Jewish fashion, all at once he heard a rustle… and there were pigs’ snouts looking in at every window.”

At that moment an indistinct sound not unlike the grunt of a pig was audible; everyone turned pale. Drops of sweat stood out on Tsibulya’s face.

“What was it?” cried the panic-stricken Cherevik.

“Nothing,” answered Tsibulya, trembling all over.

“Eh?” responded one of the guests.

“Did you speak?”

“No!”

“Who was it grunted?”

“God knows why we are so flustered! It’s nothing!”

They all turned about fearfully and began rummaging in the corners. Khivrya was more dead than alive.

“Oh, you are a bunch of women!” she shouted. “You are not fit to be Cossacks and men! You ought to sit spinning yarn! Maybe someone misbehaved, God forgive him, or someone’s bench creaked, and you are all in a fluster as though you were out of your heads!”

This put our heroes to shame and made them pull themselves together. Tsibulya took a pull at the jug and went on with his story.

“The Jew fainted from terror; but the pigs with legs as long as stilts climbed in at the windows and so revived him in an instant with a three-thonged whip, making him skip higher than this ceiling. The Jew fell at their feet and confessed everything…. Only the jacket could not be restored in a hurry. The gentleman had been robbed of it on the road by a gypsy who sold it to a peddler woman, and she brought it back again to the fair at Sorochintsy; but no one would buy anything from her after that. The woman wondered and wondered and at last saw what it was: there was no doubt the red jacket was at the bottom of it; it was not for nothing that she had felt stifled when she put it on. Without stopping to think she flung it in the fire—the devilish thing would not burn!… ‘Ah, that’s a gift from the devil!’ she thought. The woman managed to thrust it into the wagon of a peasant who had come to the fair to sell his butter. The silly fellow was delighted; but no one would ask for his butter. ‘Ah, it’s an evil hand foisted that red jacket on me!’ He took his ax and chopped it into bits; he looked at it—and each bit joined up to the next till it was whole again! Crossing himself, he went at it with the ax again; he flung the bits all over the place and went away. But ever since then, just at the time of the fair, the devil walks all over the market place with the face of a pig, grunting and collecting the pieces of his jacket. Now they say there is only the left sleeve missing. People have been shy of the place ever since, and it is ten years since the fair has been held on it. But in an evil hour the assessor…”

The rest of the sentence died away on the speaker’s lips: there was a loud rattle at the window, the panes fell tinkling on the floor, and a frightening pig’s snout peered in through the window, rolling its eyes as though asking, “What are you doing here, folks?”