Part 21 (1/2)

”Why do you ask me to be silent?” he answered. ”She has ridden on my own shoulders, I swear she has.”

”Say, uncle,” asked the young shepherd, ”are there signs by which to recognise a sorceress?”

”No, there are not,” answered Dorosch; ”even if you knew the Psalter by heart, you could not recognise one.”

”Yes, Dorosch, it is possible; don't talk such nonsense,” retorted the former consoler. ”It is not for nothing that G.o.d has given each some special peculiarity; the learned maintain that every witch has a little tail.”

”Every old woman is a witch,” said a grey-headed Cossack quite seriously.

”Yes, you are a fine lot,” retorted the old woman who entered at that moment with a vessel full of fresh ”galuchkis.” ”You are great fat pigs!”

A self-satisfied smile played round the lips of the old Cossack whose name was Javtuch, when he found that his remark had touched the old woman on a tender point. The shepherd burst into such a deep and loud explosion of laughter as if two oxen were lowing together.

This conversation excited in the philosopher a great curiosity, and a wish to obtain more exact information regarding the colonel's daughter.

In order to lead the talk back to the subject, he turned to his next neighbour and said, ”I should like to know why all the people here think that the young lady was a witch. Has she done harm to anyone, or killed them by witchcraft?”

”Yes, there are reports of that kind,” answered a man, whose face was as flat as a shovel. ”Who does not remember the huntsman Mikita, or the----”

”What has the huntsman Mikita got to do with it?” asked the philosopher.

”Stop; I will tell you the story of Mikita,” interrupted Dorosch.

”No, I will tell it,” said the groom, ”for he was my G.o.dfather.”

”I will tell the story of Mikita,” said Spirid.

”Yes, yes, Spirid shall tell it,” exclaimed the whole company; and Spirid began.

”You, Mr Philosopher Thomas, did not know Mikita. Ah! he was an extraordinary man. He knew every dog as though he were his own father.

The present huntsman, Mikola, who sits three places away from me, is not fit to hold a candle to him, though good enough in his way; but compared to Mikita, he is a mere milksop.”

”You tell the tale splendidly,” exclaimed Dorosch, and nodded as a sign of approval.

Spirid continued.

”He saw a hare in the field quicker than you can take a pinch of snuff.

He only needed to whistle 'Come here, Rasboy! Come here, Bosdraja!' and flew away on his horse like the wind, so that you could not say whether he went quicker than the dog or the dog than he. He could empty a quart pot of brandy in the twinkling of an eye. Ah! he was a splendid huntsman, only for some time he always had his eyes fixed on the young lady. Either he had fallen in love with her or she had bewitched him--in short, he went to the dogs. He became a regular old woman; yes, he became the devil knows what--it is not fitting to relate it.”

”Very good,” remarked Dorosch.

”If the young lady only looked at him, he let the reins slip out of his hands, called Bravko instead of Rasboy, stumbled, and made all kinds of mistakes. One day when he was currycombing a horse, the young lady came to him in the stable. 'Listen, Mikita,' she said. 'I should like for once to set my foot on you.' And he, the b.o.o.by, was quite delighted, and answered, 'Don't only set your foot there, but sit on me altogether.'

The young lady lifted her white little foot, and as soon as he saw it, his delight robbed him of his senses. He bowed his neck, the idiot, took her feet in both hands, and began to trot about like a horse all over the place. Whither they went he could not say; he returned more dead than alive, and from that time he wasted away and became as dry as a chip of wood. At last someone coming into the stable one day found instead of him only a handful of ashes and an empty jug; he had burned completely out. But it must be said he was a huntsman such as the world cannot match.”

When Spirid had ended his tale, they all began to vie with one another in praising the deceased huntsman.

”And have you heard the story of Cheptchicha?” asked Dorosch, turning to Thomas.

”No.”

”Ha! Ha! One sees they don't teach you much in your seminary. Well, listen. We have here in our village a Cossack called Cheptoun, a fine fellow. Sometimes indeed he amuses himself by stealing and lying without any reason; but he is a fine fellow for all that. His house is not far away from here. One evening, just about this time, Cheptoun and his wife went to bed after they had finished their day's work. Since it was fine weather, Cheptchicha went to sleep in the court-yard, and Cheptoun in the house--no! I mean Cheptchicha went to sleep in the house on a bench and Cheptoun outside----”