Part 15 (1/2)
The lean notary, in his gaily striped breeches and yeast-coloured waistcoat, kept on stretching forward and drawing back his neck while he talked.
”Hardly had I gone to sleep,” he continued, ”than the cursed loafers woke me up with their shameful songs and their noise. I meant to give them a sound rating, but while I was putting on my breeches and vest, they all ran away. But the ringleader has not escaped; for the present he is shut up in the hut which we use as a prison. I was very curious to know who the scapegrace is, but his face is as sooty as the devil's when he forges nails for sinners.”
”What clothes does he wear, Mr Notary?”
”The son of a dog wears a black sheepskin coat turned inside out, your honour.”
”Aren't you telling me a lie, Mr Notary? The same good-for-nothing is now shut up in my store-room under lock and key.”
”No, your honour! You have drawn the long bow a little yourself, and should not be vexed at what I say.”
”Bring a light! We will take a look at him at once!”
They returned to the headman's house; the store-room door was opened, and the headman groaned for sheer amazement as he saw his sister-in-law standing before him.
”Tell me then,” she said, stepping forward, ”have you quite lost your senses? Had you a single particle of brains in your one-eyed fish-head when you locked me up in the dark room? It is a mercy I did not break my head against the iron door hinge. Didn't I shout out that it was I? Then he seized me, the cursed bear, with his iron claws, and pushed me in.
May Satan hereafter so push you into h.e.l.l!” The last words she spoke from the street, having wisely gone out of his reach.
”Yes, now I see that it is you!” said the headman, who had slowly recovered his composure.
”Is he not a scamp and a scoundrel, Mr Clerk?” he continued.
”Yes, certainly, your honour.”
”Isn't it high time to give all these loose fellows a lesson, that they may at last betake themselves to their work?”
”Yes, it is high time, your honour.”
”The fools have combined in a gang. What the deuce is that? It sounded like my sister-in-law's voice. The blockheads think that I am like her, an ordinary Cossack.”
Here he coughed and cleared his throat, and a gleam in his eyes showed that he was about to say something very important. ”In the year one thousand--I cannot keep these cursed dates in my memory, if I was to be killed for it. Well, never mind when it was, the Commissary Ledatcho was commanded to choose out a Cossack who was cleverer than the rest. Yes,”
he added, raising his forefinger, ”cleverer than the rest, to accompany the Czar. Then I was----”
”Yes, yes,” the notary interrupted him, ”we all know, headman, that you well deserved the imperial favour. But confess now that I was right: you made a mistake when you declared that you had caught the vagabond in the reversed sheepskin.”
”This disguised devil I will have imprisoned to serve as a warning to the rest. They will have to learn what authority means. Who has appointed the headman, if not the Czar? Then we will tackle the other fellows. I don't forget how the scamps drove a whole herd of swine into my garden, which ate up all the cabbages and cuc.u.mbers; I don't forget how those sons of devils refused to thrash my rye for me. I don't forget--to the deuce with them! We must first find out who this scoundrel in the sheepskin really is.”
”He is a sly dog anyway,” said the distiller, whose cheeks during the whole conversation had been as full of smoke as a siege-cannon, and whose lips, when he took his pipe out of his mouth, seemed to emit sparks.
Meanwhile they had approached a small ruined hut. Their curiosity had mounted to the highest pitch, and they pressed round the door. The notary produced a key and tried to turn the lock, but it did not fit; it was the key of his trunk. The impatience of the onlookers increased. He plunged his hand into the wide pocket of his gaily striped breeches, bent his back, sc.r.a.ped with his feet, uttered imprecations, and at last cried triumphantly, ”I have it!”
At these words the hearts of our heroes beat so loud, that the turning of the key in the lock was almost inaudible. At last the door opened, and the headman turned as white as a sheet. The distiller felt a s.h.i.+ver run down his spine, and his hair stood on end. Terror and apprehension were stamped on the notary's face; the village councillors almost sank into the ground and could not shut their wide-open mouths. Before them stood the headman's sister-in-law!
She was not less startled than they, but recovered herself somewhat, and made a movement as if to approach them.
”Stop!” cried the headman in an excited voice, and slammed the door again. ”Sirs, Satan is behind this!” he continued. ”Bring fire quickly!
Never mind the hut! Set it alight and burn it up so that not even the witch's bones remain.”
”Wait a minute, brother!” exclaimed the distiller. ”Your hair is grey, but you are not very intelligent; no ordinary fire will burn a witch.
Only the fire of a pipe can do it. I will manage it all right.” So saying, he shook some glowing ashes from his pipe on to a bundle of straw, and began to fan the flame.