The Lost Letter

A TALE TOLD BY THE SEXTON OF THE N…CHURCH

So you want me to tell you another story about Grandad? Certainly, why not amuse you with some more…? Ah, the old days, the old days! What joy, what gladness it brings to the heart when one hears of what was done in the world so long, long ago, that the year and the month are forgotten! And when some kinsman of one’s own is mixed up in it, a grandfather or great grandfather—then I’m done for: may I choke while praying to St. Varvara if I don’t think that I’m doing it all myself, as though I had crept into my great-grandfather’s soul, or my great-grandfather’s soul were playing tricks in me…. But then, our girls and young women are to blame for plaguing me; if I only let them catch a glimpse of me, it’s “Foma Grigorievich! Foma Grigorievich! Come now, some terrible tale! Come now, come now…!” Tara-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta and they keep on and on….

  don’t grudge telling them a story, of course, but you should see what happens to them when they are in bed. Why, I know every one of them is trembling under the quilt as though she were in a fever and would be glad to creep under her sheepskin, head and all. If a rat scratches against a pot, or she herself touches the poker with her foot—it’s “Lord preserve us!” and her heart’s in her heels. But it’s all over the next day; she’ll pester me again to tell her a frightening story, and that’s how it goes. Well, what am I to tell you? Nothing comes into my mind at the minute… oh yes, I’ll tell you how the witches played “Fools” with my grandfather. But I must beg you first, good friends, not to interrupt me or I will make a hash of it not fit to put to one’s lips. My Grandad, I must tell you, was a leading Cossack in his day. He knew his ABC’s and even how to abbreviate. On a saint’s day, he would boom out the Acts of the Apostles in a voice that would make a priest’s son of today feel small. Well, you know without my telling you that in those days if you collected all who could read and write from the whole of Baturin you wouldn’t need your cap to contain them: there wouldn’t be a handful altogether. So it’s no wonder that everyone who met my Grandad offered him a bow, and a low one too.

One day our noble Hetman took it into his head to send a letter to the Czarina about something. The secretary of the regiment in those days—damn, I can’t remember his name, the devil take him… Viskryak, no, that’s not it, Motuzochka, that’s not it, Goloputsek—no, not Goloputsek… all I know is that it was a peculiar name that began in an odd way—he sent for my Grandad and told him that the Hetman himself had named him as messenger to the Czarina. My Grandad never liked to waste time getting ready: he sewed the letter in his cap, led out his horse, kissed his wife and his two sucking pigs, as he used to call his sons, of whom one was my own father, and he made the dust fly behind him that day as though fifteen fellows had been playing a rough game in the middle of the street. The cock had not crowed for the fourth time next morning before Grandad had already reached Konotop. There used to be a fair there in those days: there were such crowds moving up and down the streets that it made one giddy to watch them. But as it was early the people were all stretched out on the ground asleep. Beside a cow would be lying a rakish boy with a nose as red as a bullfinch; a little further a peddler woman with flints, packets of bluing, buckshot, and pretzels was snoring where she sat; a gypsy lay under a cart, a dealer on a wagon of fish; while a Muscovite with a big beard, carrying belts and sleeves for sale, sprawled with his legs stuck out in the middle of the road…. In fact, there was rabble of all sorts, as there always is at fairs. My Grandad stopped to have a good look around. Meanwhile, little by little, there began to be a stir in the booths: the Jewesses made a clatter with the bottles; smoke rolled up in rings here and there, and the smell of hot doughnuts floated all over the encampment. It came into my Grandad’s mind that he had no steel and tinder nor tobacco with him, so he began sauntering about the fair. He had not gone twenty paces when he met a Dnieper Cossack. Trousers red as fire, a full-skirted blue coat and bright-flowered girdle, a saber at his side, and a pipe with a fine brass chain right down to his heels—a regular Dnieper Cossack, that’s all you can say! Ah, they were something! One would stand up, stretch himself, stroke his gallant mustaches, clink with his iron heels—and off he would go! And how he would go! And how he would go! His legs would whirl around like a spindle in a woman’s hands: his fingers would pluck at all the strings of the bandore like a whirlwind, and then pressing it to his side he would begin dancing, burst into song—his whole soul rejoicing…! Yes, the good old days are over; you don’t see such Cossacks nowadays! No. So they met. One word leads to another, it doesn’t take long to make friends. They fell to chatting and chatting, so that Grandad quite forgot about his journey. They had a drinking bout, as at a wedding before Lent. Only at last I suppose they got tired of smashing the pots and flinging money to the crowd, and indeed, one can’t stay forever at a fair! So the new friends agreed not to part, but to travel on together. It was getting on toward evening when they rode out into the open country. The sun had set; here and there streaks of red glowed in the sky where the sun had been; the country was gay with different-colored fields like the checked petticoats our black-browed peasant wives wear on holidays.

Our Dnieper Cossack talked away like mad. Grandad and another jaunty fellow who had joined them began to think that there was a devil in him. Where did it all come from? Tales and stories of such marvels that sometimes Grandad held his sides and almost split his stomach with laughing. But the farther they went the darker it grew, and with it the gay talk grew more disconnected. At last our storyteller was completely silent and started at the slightest rustle.

“Aha, neighbor!” they said to him, “you have started nodding in earnest: you are wishing now that you were at home and on the stove!”

“It’s no use keeping secrets from you,” he said, suddenly turning around and fixing his eyes upon them. “Do you know that I sold my soul to the devil long ago?”

“As though that were something unheard of! Who hasn’t had dealings with the devil in his day? That’s why you must drain the cup of pleasure to the dregs, as the saying is.”

“Ah, friends! I would, but this night the fatal hour has come! Brothers!” he said, clasping their hands, “do not give me up! Watch over me one night! Never will I forget your friendship!”

Why not help a man in such trouble? Grandad vowed straight off he’d sooner have the forelock cut off his own head than let the devil sniff his snout at a Christian soul.

Our Cossacks would perhaps have ridden on further, if the whole sky had not clouded over as though covered by a black blanket and if it had not turned as dark as under a sheepskin. But there was a light twinkling in the distance and the horses, feeling that a stall was near, quickened their pace, pricking up their ears and staring into the darkness. It seemed as though the light flew to meet them, and the Cossacks saw before them a tavern, leaning on one side like a peasant woman on her way home from a merry christening party. In those days taverns were not what they are now. There was nowhere for a good man to turn around or dance a gopak—indeed, he had nowhere to lie down, even if the drink had gone to his head and his wobbly legs began making circles all over the floor. The yard was all blocked up with dealers’ wagons; under the sheds, in the mangers, in the barns, men were snoring like tomcats, one curled up and another sprawling. But one was busy. The tavern keeper, in front of his little pot-lamp, was making notches in a stick to mark the number of quarts and pints the dealers had drained.

Grandad, after ordering a third of a pailful for the three of them, went off to the barn. They lay down side by side. But before he had time to turn around he saw that his friends were already sleeping like the dead. Waking the third Cossack, the one who had joined them, Grandad reminded him of the promise given to their comrade. The man sat up, rubbed his eyes, and fell asleep again. There was nothing he could do; he had to watch alone. To drive away sleep in some way, he examined all the wagons, looked at the horses, lighted his pipe, came back, and sat down again beside his comrades. All was still; it seemed as though not a fly were moving. Then he imagined that something gray poked out its horns from a wagon close by…. Then his eyes began to close, so that he was obliged to rub them every minute with his fist and to keep them open with the rest of the vodka. But soon, when they were a little clearer, everything had vanished. At last a little later something strange showed itself again under the wagon…. Grandad opened his eyes as wide as he could, but the cursed sleepiness made everything misty before them; his hands felt numb, his head rolled back, and he fell into such a sound sleep that he lay as though dead. Grandad slept for hours, and he only sprang to his feet when the sun was baking his shaven head. After stretching twice and scratching his back, he noticed that there were no longer so many wagons standing there as in the evening. The dealers, it seemed, had trailed off before dawn. He looked for his companions—the Cossack was still asleep, but the Dnieper Cossack was gone. No one could tell him anything when he asked; only his coat was still lying in the same place. Grandad was frightened and didn’t know what to think. He went to look for the horses—no sign of his or the Dnieper Cossack’s! What could that mean? Supposing the Evil One had taken the Dnieper Cossack, who had taken the horses? Thinking it over, Grandad concluded that probably the devil had come on foot, and as it’s a long journey to hell he had carried off his horse. He was terribly upset at not having kept his Cossack word.

“Well,” he thought, “there is nothing to be done; I will go on foot. Maybe I shall come across some horse dealer on his way from the fair. I shall manage somehow to buy a horse.” But when he reached for his cap, his cap was not there either. Grandad wrung his hands when he remembered that the day before he had changed caps for a time with the Dnieper Cossack. Who else could have carried it off if not the devil himself! Some Hetman’s messenger! A nice job he’d made of taking the letter to the Czarina! At this point my Grandad fell to bestowing such names on the devil as I imagine must have set him sneezing more than once in hell. But cursing is not much use, and however often my Grandad scratched his head, he could not think of any plan. What was he to do? He turned to ask advice of others: he got together all the good folk who were in the tavern at the time, dealers and simple wayfarers, told them how it all happened and what a misfortune had befallen him. The dealers pondered for a long time. Leaning their chins on their whips, they shook their heads and said that they had never heard of such a marvel in Christendom as a devil carrying off a Hetman’s letter. Others added that when the devil or a Muscovite stole anything, you whistle in the dark for it. Only the tavern keeper sat silent in the corner. Grandad went up to him, too. When a man says nothing, you may be sure he thinks a great deal. But the tavern keeper was sparing of his words, and if Grandad had not felt in his pocket for five silver coins, he might have gone on standing before him to no purpose.

“I will tell you how to find the letter,” said the tavern keeper, leading him aside. His words lifted a weight from Grandad’s heart. “I see from your eyes that you are a Cossack and not a woman. Listen now! Near the tavern you will find a turn on the right into the forest. As soon as it begins to grow dark you must be ready to start. There are gypsies living in the forest and they come out of their dens to forge iron on nights on which none but witches go abroad on their pokers. What their real trade is you had best not inquire. There will be much knocking in the forest, only don’t you go where you hear the knocking; there’ll be a little path facing you near a burnt tree: go by that little path, go on and on…. The thorns may scratch you, thick bushes may block the path, but you continue on and do not stop until you come to a little stream. There you will see whom you need. But don’t forget to take in your pockets that for which pockets are made…. You understand, both devils and men prize that.” Saying this, the tavern keeper went off to his corner and would not say another word.

My late Grandad was by no means a coward; if he met a wolf, he would grab him straightway by the tail; if he used his fist among the Cossacks, they would fall to the ground like pears. But a shudder ran down him when he stepped into the forest on such a dark night. Not one little star in the sky. Dark and dim as a wine cellar; there was no sound, except far, far overhead a cold wind playing in the treetops, and the trees swayed like the heads of drunken Cossacks while their leaves whispered a tipsy song. And there was such a cold blast that Grandad thought of his sheepskin, and all at once it was as though a hundred hammers began tapping in the forest with a noise that set his ears ringing. And the whole forest was lit up for a moment as though by summer lightning. At once Grandad caught sight of a little path winding between the bushes. And here was the burnt tree and here were the thorn bushes! So everything was as he had been told; no, the tavern keeper had not deceived him. It was not altogether pleasant tearing his way through the prickly bushes; he had never in his life known the damned thorns and twigs to scratch so badly. He almost cried out at every step. Little by little he came into an open place, and as far as he could see the trees seemed wider apart, and as he went on he came upon bigger trees than he had ever seen even on the other side of Poland. And behold, among the trees gleamed a little stream, dark as tempered steel. For a long time Grandad stopped on the bank, looking in all directions. On the other bank a light was twinkling; it seemed every minute on the point of going out, and then it was reflected again in the stream, trembling like a Pole in the hands of Cossacks. And here was the little bridge!

“Perhaps only the devil’s chariot uses this bridge,” he said. Grandad stepped out boldly, however, and before another man would have had time to get out his horn and take a pinch of snuff he was on the other side. Only now he saw that there were people sitting around a fire, and they had such charming pig-faces that at any other time God knows he would have given anything to escape making their acquaintance. But now he couldn’t avoid it: he had to make friends with them. So Grandad tossed off a low bow, saying: “God help you, good people!”

No one nodded his head; they all sat in silence and kept dropping something into the fire. Seeing one place empty, Grandad, without making a fuss, sat down. The charming pig-faces said nothing, Grandad said nothing either. For a long time they sat in silence. Grandad was already beginning to be bored; he fumbled in his pocket, pulled out his pipe, looked around—not one of them glanced at him.

“Well, your honors, will you be so kind; as a matter of fact, in a manner of speaking…” (Grandad had knocked about the world a good bit and knew how to turn a phrase, and maybe even if he had been before the Czar he would not have been at a loss.)

“In a manner of speaking, not to forget myself nor to slight you —a pipe I have, but that with which to light it I lack.” To this speech, too, there was not a word. But one of the pig-faces thrust a hot brand straight into Grandad’s face, so that if he had not turned aside a little he might have parted with one eye forever. At last, seeing that time was being wasted, he made up his mind to tell his story whether the pig-faces would listen or not.

They pricked up their ears and stretched out their paws. Grandad guessed what that meant; he pulled out all the money he had with him and flung it to them as though to dogs. As soon as he had flung the money, everything was in a turmoil before him, the earth shook, and all at once—he never knew how to explain this part— he found himself almost in hell itself.

“Merciful heavens!” groaned Grandad when he had taken a good look around. What wonders were here! One ugly face after another, as the saying is. The witches were as many as the snow-flakes that fall on occasion at Christmas. They were all dressed up and painted like fine ladies at a fair. And the whole bunch of them were dancing some sort of devil’s jig as though they were drunk. What a dust they raised, God help us! Any Christian would have shuddered to see how high the devils skipped. In spite of his terror, my Grandad started laughing when he saw the devils, with their dogs’ faces on their little German legs, wag their tails, twist, and turn about the witches, like our boys about the pretty girls, while the musicians beat on their cheeks with their fists as though they were tambourines and whistled with their noses as though they were horns. As soon as they saw Grandad, they pressed around him in a crowd. Pig-faces, dog-faces, goat-faces, bird-faces, and horse-faces—all craned forward, and here they were actually trying to kiss him. Grandad could not help spitting, he was so disgusted! At last they caught hold of him and made him sit down at a table, as long, maybe, as the road from Konotop to Baturin.

“Well, this is not altogether so bad!” thought Grandad, seeing on the table pork, sausages, onion minced with cabbage, and many other dainties. “The damned scum doesn’t keep the fasts, it seems.”

My Grandad, I may as well tell you, was by no means averse to good fare on occasion. He ate with good appetite, the dear man, and so without wasting words he pulled toward him a bowl of sliced bacon fat and a smoked ham, took up a fork not much smaller than those with which a peasant pitches hay, picked out the most solid piece, laid it on a piece of bread, and—lo and behold!—put it in another mouth just close beside his very ear, and, indeed, there was the sound of another fellow’s jaws chewing it and clacking with his teeth, so that all the table could hear. Grandad didn’t mind; he picked up another piece, and this time it seemed as though he had caught it with his lips, but again it did not go down his gullet. A third time he tried—again he missed it. Grandad flew into a rage; he forgot his fright and in whose claws he was, and ran up to the witches: “Do you mean to mock me, you pagan bitches? If you don’t this very minute give me back my Cossack cap—may I be a Catholic if I don’t twist your pig-snouts to the back of your heads!”

He had finished the last word when the monsters grinned and set up such a roar of laughter that it sent a chill to my Grandad’s heart.

“Good!” shrieked one of the witches, whom Grandad took to be the leader among them because she was almost the greatest beauty of the lot; “we will give you back your cap, but not until you win it back from us in three games of ‘Fools’!”

What was he to do? For a Cossack to sit down and play “Fools” with a lot of women! Grandad kept refusing and refusing, but in the end sat down. They brought the cards, a greasy pack such as we only see used by priests’ wives to tell the girls their fortunes and what their husbands will be like.

“Listen!” barked the witch again: “if you win one game, the cap is yours; if you are left ‘Fool’ in every one of the three games, it’s no use your fuming: you’ll never see your cap nor maybe the world again!”

“Deal, deal, you old witch! What will be, will be.”

Well, the cards were dealt. Grandad picked up his—he couldn’t bear to look at them, they were such trash; they could have at least given him one trump just for the fun of it. Of the other suits the highest was a ten and he hadn’t even a pair; while the witch kept giving him five at once. It was his fate to be left “Fool”! As soon as Grandad was left “Fool,” the monsters began neighing, barking, and grunting on all sides: “Fool, fool, fool!”

“Shout till you burst, you bitches,” cried Grandad putting his fingers in his ears.

“Well,” he thought, “the witch didn’t play fair; now I am going to deal myself.” He dealt; he turned up the trump and looked at his cards; they were first-rate, he had trumps. And at first things could not have gone better; till the witch put down five cards with kings among them.

Grandad had nothing in his hand but trumps! In a flash he beat all the kings with trumps!

“Ha-ha! but that’s not like a Cossack! What are you covering them with, neighbor?”

“What with? With trumps!”

“Maybe to your thinking they are trumps, but to our thinking they are not!”

Lo and behold! the cards were really of another suit! What devilry was this? A second time he was “Fool” and the devils started shrieking again: “Fool! fool!” so that the table rocked and the cards danced upon it.

Grandad flew into a passion; he dealt for the last time. Again he had a good hand. The witch put down five again; Grandad covered them and took from the pack a handful of trumps.

“Trump!” he shouted, flinging a card on the table so that it spun around like a basket; without saying a word she covered it with the eight of another suit.

“What are you beating my trump with, old devil?”

The witch lifted her card and under it was the six of another suit not trumps.

“What damned trickery!” said Grandad, and in his great anger he struck the table with his fist as hard as he could. Luckily the witch had a poor hand; this time, as luck would have it, Grandad had pairs. He began drawing cards out of the pack, but it was of no use; such trash came that Grandad let his hands fall. There was not one good card in the pack. So he just played anything—a six. The witch had to take it, and she could not cover it. “So there! What do you say to that? Aie, Aie! There is something wrong, I’ll be damned!” Then on the sly under the table Grandad made the sign of the cross over the cards, and behold—he had in his hand the ace, king, and jack of trumps, and the card he had just played was not a six but the queen!

“Well, I’ve been the fool! King of trumps! Well, have you taken it? Aie, you bitches! Would you like the ace too? The ace! the jack…!”

Thunder boomed in hell; the witch went into convulsions, and all of a sudden the cap flew smack into Grandad’s face.

“No, no, that’s not enough!” shouted Grandad, plucking up his courage and putting on his cap. “If my gallant horse is not standing before me at once, may a thunderbolt strike me dead in this foul place if I do not make the sign of the holy cross over all of you!”

And he was just raising his hand to do it when the horse’s bones rattled before him.

“Here is your horse!”

The poor man burst out crying like an infant as he looked at the bones. He grieved for his old comrade!

“Give me some sort of a horse,” he said, “to get out of your den!” A devil cracked a whip—a highly spirited horse rose up under him and Grandad soared upward like a bird.

Terror came over him, however, when the horse, heeding neither shout nor rein, galloped over ditches and bogs. The places he went through were such that it made him shudder at the mere telling of it. He looked down and was more terrified than ever: an abyss, a fearful precipice! But that was nothing to the satanic beast; he leaped straight over it. Grandad tried to hold on; he could not. Over tree stumps, over hillocks he flew headlong into a ditch, and fell so hard on the ground at the bottom that it seemed he had breathed his last. Anyway, he could remember nothing of what happened to him then; and when he came to himself a little and looked about him, it was broad daylight; he caught glimpses of familiar places and found himself lying on the roof of his own hut.

Grandad crossed himself as he climbed down. What devils’ tricks! Damn it all! What strange things befall a man! He looked at his hands: they were bathed in blood; he looked into a pail of water— and saw that his face was also bathed in blood. Washing himself thoroughly so that he would not scare the children, he went quietly into the hut—and what did he see! The children staggered back toward him and pointed in alarm, saying: “Look! Look! Mother’s jumping like mad!” And indeed, his wife was sitting asleep before her loom, holding her spindle in her hands, and in her sleep was bouncing up and down on the bench. Grandad, taking her gently by the hand, woke her. “Good morning, wife! Are you quite well?” For a long while she gazed at him with bulging eyes, but at last recognized Grandad and told him that she had dreamed that the stove was riding around the hut shoveling out the pots and tubs with a spade… and devil knows what else.

“Well,” said Grandad, “you have had it asleep, I have had it awake. I see I must have our hut blessed; but I cannot linger now.”

Saying this Grandad rested a little, then got out his horse and did not stop by day or by night till he arrived and gave the letter to the Czarina herself. There Grandad beheld such wonderful things that for long after he used to tell the tale: how they brought him to the palace, and it was so high that if you were to set ten huts one on top of another they probably would still not be high enough; how he glanced into one room—nothing, into another—nothing, into a third—still nothing, into a fourth even—nothing, but in the fifth there she was sitting in her golden crown, in a new gray gown and red boots, eating golden dumplings; how she had bade them fill a whole cap with five-ruble notes for him; how… I can’t remember it all! As for his rumpus with the devils, Grandad forgot even to think about it; and if it happened that someone reminded him of it, Grandad would say nothing, as though the matter did not concern him, and we had the greatest trouble persuading him to tell us how it had all happened. And apparently to punish him for not rushing out at once after that to have the hut blessed, every year just at that same time a strange thing happened to his wife— she would dance and nothing could stop her. No matter what anyone did, her legs would go their own way, and something forced her to dance.