“If you need the devil, you should go to the devil,” responded Patziuk without raising his head from the bowl.
“That’s why I came to seek your favor,” and Vakula bowed again. “Except for you, no one seems to know the way.”
Patziuk continued with his slurping.
“I beg you, dear neighbor, don’t deny me this. Anything you need—pork, sausage, buckwheat, cloth, or anything else, as is customary among good neighbors—just tell me. Would you approximately describe the way?”
“If a man carries the devil on his shoulders, he doesn’t have far to go,” Patziuk said indifferently, without changing position. Vakula stared at him with his mouth open, as though ready to swallow the very first word of explanation like a noodle. But Patziuk said nothing else.
Suddenly Vakula noticed that the noodles and the barrel had disappeared and were replaced with two bowls, one with sour cream, the other with sweet dumplings. Despite his misery, Vakula was curious to see how lazy Patziuk would soak dumplings in sour cream and then eat them without using his hands. At that moment Patziuk opened his mouth and looked at the top dumpling sternly, then opened his mouth wider. The dumpling jumped from the bowl into the sour cream, flipped, and flew straight into Patziuk’s mouth—all he had to do was chew and swallow. One dumpling tapped the stunned blacksmith on the lips, coating them in sour cream. Knocking it away and wiping his mouth, Vakula reflected on the many wonders in life and the lengths to which the devil can take you—though remembering that the very same devil was his last hope. “I should pay my respects again,” he thought. “Maybe he’ll agree to explain what he means . . . But what the hell’s he doing? Tonight’s Christmas Eve, and he’s stuffing himself with cream . . . and here I am, tainting myself with sin!” And the devout blacksmith ran out of the house.
As soon as Vakula put down the sack, the devil, unable to contain his joy at capturing such a prize, jumped out of the sack and onto Vakula’s shoulders.
Vakula’s blood froze. He was about to make the sign of the cross, but the devil lowered his snout to Vakula’s right ear and whispered sweetly, “Don’t, I’m your friend, your only friend. I’ll help you out—Oksana will be yours tonight.”
The blacksmith pondered this. “Agreed,” he said finally. “For this price I’ll be yours.”
Delighted, the devil bounced up and down. I got him, he thought, I got him. Now all the caricatures will be paid for. He couldn’t wait to see his colleagues’ reaction when they found out he had ensnared the most devout Christian in the village. He giggled, imagining how he’d tease his tailed coworkers, especially one lame devil who fancied himself the first of tricksters.
He hurried to seal the deal. “As you’ve probably heard, there’s a little matter of a contract.”
“Sure, I’ve heard. Blood, right? Here, I got a nail in my back pocket,” and Vakula reached behind and grabbed the devil by the tail.
“Stop your jokes, silly,” the devil giggled, but Vakula made the sign of the cross, and the devil became as tame as a lamb. “Here,” Vakula continued, pulling the devil down and straddling him, “I’ll teach you how to tempt honest Christian folks.” And he raised a hand for another sign of the cross, but the devil wailed pitifully, offering just about anything for his soul’s precious freedom.
“This is how you sing now, cursed German. Get moving, go!”
“Where to?” the devil asked sadly.
“To St. Petersburg, to see the Tsarina. Go fast as a bird,” Vakula ordered him, and almost swallowed his tongue when he felt himself rising in the air.
* * *
For a long time Oksana stood pondering Vakula’s last words. An inner voice told her that she had overdone it this time, that he might actually do something desperate—for example, stop calling her the first beauty of Dikanka. But no, she reassured herself, Vakula loved her too deeply, he wouldn’t give her up. True, she’d been a touch too cruel—next time she’d allow him a little kiss. Satisfied with this decision, she skipped off merrily with her girlfriends.
Suddenly they stopped. “Just look at these monstrous sacks the blacksmith has dropped. Folks must have given him half a sheep for his caroling. We’ll be feasting for weeks!”
“Let’s take them to my house for a good look,” Oksana suggested.
“Too heavy, we can’t lift them.”
“Let’s fetch the sled!”
And the girls ran away.
By then the prisoners had grown pretty bored—even the deacon, who had poked himself a sizable hole. If it were not for the spectators, he would have come out; as it was, he only groaned under Chub’s indelicate footwork. Chub, feeling that he was sitting on top of some supremely bumpy object, desired freedom no less. On hearing his daughter’s directive, he decided to save himself a walk through the snow and wait for the ride home. Unfortunately, just when the girls left to fetch the sled, Chub’s kum stepped out of the tavern in the worst of spirits: the proprietress had refused him credit, and as for the generous God-fearing villagers who might have treated him to a nightcap, they were all feasting at home with their families. Reflecting on Dikanka’s moral decline and the proprietress’s cruelty, kum stumbled upon the sacks. “My goodness, look at these monsters! I bet there’s pork inside. Someone got lucky with his caroling. Even if it’s just buckwheat pies it’s a prize. Even if it’s just plain loaves I’ll be happy: the cursed woman will trade a shot of vodka for each loaf. But my God, aren’t they heavy; I can’t lift even one by myself.”
Here Providence sent him the weaver Shapuvalenko.
“Hello there, Ostap! Which way are you going?” kum greeted him eagerly.
“Where my feet will carry me. Why?”
“Be a friend and help me carry one of these sacks. Some caroler has collected all this food and dropped it in the middle of the road. We’ll divide it equally.”
“These sacks? What do you think is in them, knishes or loaves?”
“Could be both.”
They pulled out a couple of sticks from the nearest fence, hung one of the sacks on them, and hoisted the sticks on their shoulders.
“So where shall we take it—to the tavern?”
“I’d take it to the tavern, but the damn woman won’t believe it’s ours. She’ll think we stole it. Besides, I’ve just been there. No, let’s take them to my house—wife’s not home.”
“You sure about that?”
“Hey, you think I’d offer if she was? I haven’t lost my marbles. She’ll be out with the hags till morning.”
“Who’s there?” thundered a voice from inside the house when the partners stumbled onto the porch. Kum and the weaver froze. Kum’s wife was the kind of treasure that’s not at all rare in this world. Like her husband she was out all day, fawning over wealthy housewives who fed her; the spouses fought only in the morning, when they briefly intersected. Their house was twice as old as the district scribe’s shalwar; parts of the roof were completely bald; the fence was practically nonexistent; the oven remained cold for days in a row. Kum’s gentle wife hid from her husband as well as she could everything she procured from the softhearted neighbors, and often took away his loot if he was too slow to pawn it at the tavern. Despite his phlegmatic nature, kum didn’t cede his booty without a fight, and left the house almost daily with two black eyes, while his better half crawled on her rounds of the neighbors, groaning and rubbing her back, and complaining volubly about her husband’s mistreatment.
Now you can appreciate the partners’ shock. They dropped the sack and tried to block it, but too late: the old eyes were trained to see exactly such shapes.
“Aha. What is this?” the lady inquired with the excitement of a hungry vulture. “Good caroling, you two. Only I think it’s not yours; you pinched it somewhere. Now. Let us take a look—right away.”
“A devil might let you have a look, not us,” kum responded, drawing himself up.
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“That’s right,” the weaver piped up. “We caroled for this sack, not you. Stay away from it.”
“You’ll show me, you worthless drunkard,” and the gentle wife punched her tall husband on the chin and made for the sack. The partners closed ranks and bravely repulsed the first attack, but before they had a chance to regroup, the enemy reappeared swinging an iron poker. She worked it deftly, hitting one on the back, the other on the knuckles, and before they knew it the partners were separated from their sack and shoved into the corner. “That poker of yours,” complained the weaver, “what’s it made of? My wife bought one last year—hers not so painful . . .”
The victor promptly untied the sack and was trying to identify the object inside. “Goodness, it’s a whole pig,” she concluded delightedly, eliciting a new torrent of grief from the corner. “Come, let’s take it back,” the weaver was encouraging kum. The partners stepped forward, full of fresh resolve, and the lady lifted her poker—but at that moment Chub stepped leisurely out of the sack, stretching as though after a good sleep.
“Goodness, and that stupid cow kept saying it was a pig,” kum muttered. “How did he get into the sack—look at the size of him! Goodness take me—it’s kum!” he exclaimed, recognizing Chub.
“Who did you think it was?” Chub chuckled. “But don’t lose hope: there was something squirming around underneath me. Could be a pig or piglet.”
The partners attacked the sack from one side, the lady from the other, and the battle would have resumed if the deacon, seeing that he had nowhere to hide, hadn’t shown his burning face. The wife let go of the leg she was pulling; the weaver muttered something about the end of the world; Chub was stunned. “The deacon, in Solokha’s sack! She must have had two men stashed in each sack all that time. And I thought she received only me . . . Devil take that woman!”
The girls were a little disappointed to find one of the sacks gone, but the other was still there, and they hoisted it on the sled and raced over the new snow. One or the other of the girls would jump on top of the village head, who had resolved to take the abuse stoically and only hiccupped. He was afraid the girls would think he was a devil, take fright, and run away, leaving him in the snow until the next morning. Finally, with laughter and giggles, the girls flung open the door to Oksana’s house and dragged the sack inside. The hiccups that tormented the village head for an hour turned into a loud cough; the girls ran out the door screaming.
“Why on earth are you running like the house is on fire?” Chub asked them, walking in.
“Ah, father, there’s a man in that sack!” Oksana cried out.
“And where did you find it?”
“On the road, where the blacksmith left it.”
“So what are you screaming for? Let’s take a look. Sir, why don’t you come out? Sorry for not addressing you by name.”
The village head climbed out. The girls gasped. “Right,” Chub thought, “of course, just like I said: a man in each sack. Solokha, Solokha . . .”
“Well,” the village head addressed Chub after a pause. “How’s the weather outside? Cold?”
“Chilly, but not too bad. Tell me, how do you polish your boots—with lard or with tar?” He meant to ask how the village head had found himself in the sack, but somehow his lips formed an entirely different question. “Tar’s better,” the village head replied, pulling on his hat. “Well, so long, Chub,” and he strode out of the house. Chub stood gaping. “How come I asked him about the boots? But Solokha, what a devil of a woman! Look at her—a saint! Never touches meat on a holiday!”
But let us leave Chub to lament Solokha’s betrayal and follow Vakula, because it’s getting late—it must be after eight.
* * *
At first Vakula felt uneasy flying so high above the ground; passing under the crescent moon, he actually had to duck. But little by little he recovered and began to tease the devil, who sneezed and hiccupped every time Vakula touched his little cypress cross.
Everything glittered in the bright moonlight; the air was a transparent silvery mist. One could see everything that was happening in the sky: a wizard racing in his cauldron, stars playing hide-and-seek, a group of ghosts hanging together like a cloud, a devil dancing in the moonlight, a broomstick returning home after transporting a witch . . . All kinds of riffraff flew past them. Every creature slowed down to take a look at the blacksmith riding a devil, then continued on its way. Suddenly they saw a whole ocean of light—they had reached St. Petersburg. On approaching the city gate the devil turned into a magnificent mount, and Vakula rode horseback into the capital.
Oh dear, what noise, what light! Enormous four-story buildings lined the streets, trapping the noise from hooves and wheels; bridges shook under the carts and carriages; footmen and drivers screamed at each other; snow screeched under countless sleds; terrified pedestrians clung to the sidewalks, and their gigantic shadows danced on the walls, reaching the chimneys. The stunned blacksmith stood gaping, feeling every building watch him with fiery eyes. He saw so many gentlemen in expensive fur coats that he didn’t know when to tip his hat. “My God, how many gentlemen and ladies—look at all that fur and broadcloth; everyone who wears them must be at least a senator. And those who ride in those wondrous carriages with glass windows must be, if not mayors, then at least police chiefs.” The devil interrupted Vakula’s reflections: did Vakula intend to proceed directly to the Tsarina? “Lord help me, no . . . Somewhere in the city must be the delegation of Zaporozhian Cossacks who passed through Dikanka in the fall. I’d better ask them for counsel.
“Climb into my pocket and take me to the Zaporozhian delegation,” Vakula ordered the devil. Instantly, the devil shrank and disappeared into Vakula’s pocket; without knowing how, Vakula found himself in front of a large building and then in a gleaming room, where on the couches along the walls were sitting the Zaporozhian delegates, puffing on the strongest homegrown tobacco. Vakula bowed. “God bless you, gentlemen, what a joy to see you again!”
The delegates didn’t recognize him at first. “It’s me, Vakula the blacksmith from Dikanka, remember? You stayed with us for two days, may the Lord send you prosperity in everything. I changed the tire on your front wheel.”
“Ah, it’s that blacksmith who paints prettily. Well, brother, what brings you here?”
“Wanted to take a look. They say in St. Petersburg . . .”
“City big, eh?” the same Cossack interrupted Vakula, showing off his Russian, but Vakula held his ground. “City big, sure,” he answered in the same language. “Huts all big, pictures, too, letters on signs all gold to the extreme. Wondrous proportion!”
The delegates were impressed with Vakula’s fluency in the imperial language. “Well, we’ll chat later; right now we must go see the Tsarina.”
“The Tsarina? Be kind, dear sirs, and take me with you.”
“You? To see the Tsarina? No, we can’t. The Tsarina will be talking business with us,” and the Cossack’s face assumed an expression of mysterious importance.
“Do it,” Vakula whispered to the devil, slapping his pocket.
“Let’s take him, fellows, why not?”
“That’s right, why not?”
“Come, put on a zupan like ours.”
Vakula threw on a green Zaporozhian zupan, and a moment later a splendid footman announced that it was time to go. What a wonder it was to Vakula to ride in an enormous carriage on rubber tires with four-story buildings flying by. And the light! In Dikanka during the day they didn’t have so much light. Finally the carriage stopped in front of the palace. The Cossacks stepped into a magnificent foyer and ascended an equally magnificent staircase.
“What a staircase! It feels wrong to step on it. What ornaments! I thought this was just in fairy tales, but no. Look at these banisters! They must have used fifty rubles’ worth of iron on them.” Following the delegates timidly, the blacksmith pass
ed the first drawing room, then the second, then the third. In the fourth, Vakula walked up to the painting depicting Madonna and Child. “What wondrous skill. She could be talking, she could be alive, and the child is angelic, clutching his little hands, laughing. And the colors! I don’t think they even touched ochre, only verdigris and mummy red. And the blue shines so—they must have used ceruse for foundation. But look at his brass doorknob: it is more artful than even the painting. What skill! Germans must have charged the top rate for it.”
He would have continued his inspection, but the footman propelled him toward the other delegates. The Cossacks passed two more rooms and stopped—they were told to wait there. Several generals in gold epaulets strolled up and down, ignoring other supplicants. The delegates bowed four times, then waited. A moment later a tall, corpulent man in a hetman’s uniform entered, followed by a large entourage; one of the man’s eyes was half-closed, his dark hair disheveled. His whole manner showed he possessed the habit of governing. The generals surrounded him eagerly, following his every glance and gesture. But the hetman paid them no mind and walked up directly to the Cossacks, who bowed to the ground.
“Are you all here?” he asked them in a nasal voice.
“All here, father.” They bowed again.
“You won’t forget what I’ve taught you?”
“No, father, we won’t.”
“The Tsar?” the blacksmith asked the nearest Cossack.
“He’s not just some tsar—he’s Prince Potemkin.”
There were voices, and the blacksmith was blinded by a multitude of glittering gowns and brocade coats. Immediately the Zaporozhians fell on the floor, wailed, “Have pity on us, mamo, have pity!” “Please get up,” came a pleasant but authoritative voice. “Oh no, we won’t, mamo. We’ll die, but we won’t get up!” The delegates continued to wail until the annoyed Potemkin whispered to their leader, and then the delegates got up on their feet and saw before them a short, plump woman with bright blue eyes and a smile that could belong only to a ruling monarch.