LITMIR.BIZ

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pair of folding doors at the further end, flattered him with the hope of escape that way; but they too, were fastened. The hall was of immense size, entirely unfurnished; the walls, pavement and ceiling, were of black marble; there were no windows, but a small sky-light faintly admitted the light of day, into this abode of gloom, where reigned a silence like that of the tomb. Hour after hour passed; this mournful silence remained still undisturbed; and St Amand, overcome with fatigue and watching, at length sunk into a deep, though perturbed slumber.

      His sleep was soon disturbed by a frightful dream: he heard all at once, the sound of a knell, mingled with the cries of bats, and owls, and a hollow voice, murmured in his ear, ‘Woe to those who trouble the repose of the dead!’ He started on his feet, but what a sight met his eyes! The hall was partially illuminated by flashes of sulphurous fire; on the pavement was laid the body of a man newly slain, and covered with innumerable wounds, from which a band of unearthly forms, whose fearful occupation proclaimed their hellish origin, were draining the yet warm blood.

      St Amand uttered a shriek of terror, and was in an instant surrounded by the fiends: already were their fangs, from which the remains of their horrid feast still dripped, extended to grasp him, when he hastily made the sign of the cross, and sank senseless upon the ground. When he regained his senses, the infernal band had vanished, and he saw bending over him, an old man, magnificently but strangely dressed: his silken garments flowed loosely around him, and were embroidered with figures of different animals, and mystic devices. His countenance was majestic, and his venerable white beard descended below his girdle: but his features had a wild and gloomy expression: his eyes, above all, had in their glance, that which might appal the stoutest heart. St Amand shrunk from this mysterious being, with awe, mingled with abhorrence, and a cold shudder ran through his veins, as the old man bent upon him his piercing eyes.

      ‘Rash youth,’ cried he in a severe tone, ‘how is it that thou hast dared to enter this place, where never mortal foot save mine has trod?’

      ‘I came not willingly,’ replied St Amand, trembling; ‘an evil destiny, and not vain curiosity brought me hither.’

      ‘Thou wouldst not the less have expiated thy presumption with thy life, but for my aid,’ returned the old man, austerely. ‘I have saved thee from the vampires who guard it, and it depends upon me, whether thou shalt not still become their prey.’

      ‘Oh! save me, then, I pray thee!’

      ‘And why should I save thee?’ demanded the venerable magician. ‘What price art thou willing to give me for thy life?’

      ‘Alas! I have nothing worthy of thy acceptance,’ sighed St Amand.

      ‘But thou may’st have; and it is only through thee that I can obtain what I most desire.’

      ‘How?’

      ‘The blood of a dove, for me, would be a treasure, but I may not kill one; she must be slain for me, by one whose life I have saved. Should I liberate thee, a dove will fly to thy bosom; swear that thou wilt instantly sacrifice her for me, and thou shalt be free.’

      ‘I swear it!’

      Hardly had St Amand uttered the words, when he found himself in the chamber of Ninette, who, with a cry of joy, rushed into his arms. He pressed her with transport to his breast; but scarcely had he embraced her, when he saw the magician standing by his side.

      ‘Wretch!’ cried he, ‘is it thus thou keepest thine oath? Pierce her heart – she is the dove that thou must instantly sacrifice, if thou wilt not become a feast for the vampires!’

      ‘Sacrifice her? Never! Never!’

      ‘Then, thou art my prey!’ and the fiend assuming his own form, sprang towards his victim; but he stopped suddenly – he dared not seize him: for the maiden held him firmly clasped in her arms, and the little cross of gold, which night and day she wore upon her bosom, had been blest by the venerable priest, whose gift it was. Thus, nought unholy dared approach the maiden, and the baffled fiend fled with a tremendous yell, as the crowing of the cock announced the approach of dawn.

      The cries of the maiden soon brought the neighbours to her chamber, and among them was the pastor, to whom St Amand related his adventure. ‘Oh, my son!’ said the good priest, ‘what have you done? See you not, that you have entered into a contract with the powers of darkness? Unable to wreak their vengeance on you, when you had guarded yourself with the blessed sign of our redemption, the fiend has had recourse to craft to draw you into his power. You have promised a sacrifice, to the enemy of God and man, but you have done it in ignorance. Abjure then, solemnly, the cursed contract, and dread no longer the vengeance of the fiend.’

      The young soldier made the required abjuration, during which, the most dreadful noises were heard: it was the last effort of the demon’s vengeance; for, from that time, he was never seen, nor heard of. St Amand married Ninette, who had given him such a courageous proof of her love; and the cross transmitted from her, to her descendants, was always considered by them as the most precious part of their inheritance. In process of time, the family became wealthy, and a great grandson of St Amand erected the monument we have described, to commemorate the miraculous escape of his ancestor.

       VIY

       Nikolai Gogol

      Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol (1809–1852) was a Russian dramatist, novelist, and short story writer of Ukrainian ethnicity. While in his early twenties, Gogol’s first volume of stories, Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka (1831), met with immediate success; and a second volume, Mirgorod (1835), was equally well received. By far the strangest story in the latter is ‘Viy,’ the title of which is the name given to the King of the Gnomes. It should be pointed out, however, that this grotesque entity is not an authentic figure from Ukrainian folklore, as Gogol had claimed in an introductory note to the story, but is probably based on an old folk tradition surrounding St Cassian, the Unmerciful, who was said to have had eyebrows that descended to his knees, whereas, in Gogol’s story, the King of the Gnomes is depicted as having eyelids that reach to the ground.

      AS soon as the rather musical seminary bell which hung at the gate of the Bratsky Monastery rang out every morning in Kiev, schoolboys and students hurried thither in crowds from all parts of the town. Students of grammar, rhetoric, philosophy and theology trudged to their classrooms with exercise books under their arms. The grammarians were quite small boys: they shoved each other as they went along and quarrelled in a shrill alto; they almost all wore muddy or tattered clothes, and their pockets were full of all manner of rubbish, such as knucklebones, whistles made of feathers, or a half-eaten pie, sometimes even little sparrows, one of whom suddenly chirruping at an exceptionally quiet moment in the classroom would cost its owner some sound whacks on both hands and sometimes a thrashing. The rhetoricians walked with more dignity; their clothes were often quite free from holes; on the other hand, their countenances almost all bore some decoration, after the style of a figure of rhetoric; either one eye had sunk right under the forehead, or there was a monstrous swelling in place of a lip, or some other disfigurement. They talked and swore among themselves in tenor voices. The philosophers conversed an octave lower in the scale; they had nothing in their pockets but strong, cheap tobacco. They laid in no stores of any sort, but ate on the spot anything they came across; they smelt of pipes and vodka to such a distance that a passing workman would sometimes stop a long way off and sniff the air like a setter dog.

      As a rule the market was just beginning to stir at that hour, and the women with bread-rings, rolls, melon seeds, and poppy cakes would tug at the skirts of those whose coats were of fine cloth or some cotton material.

      ‘This way, young gentlemen, this way!’ they kept saying from all sides: ‘here are bread rings, poppy cakes, twists, good white rolls; they are really good! Made with honey! I baked them myself.’

      Another woman lifting up a sort of long twist made of

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