Short Fiction - Nikolai Gogol (best selling autobiographies TXT) 📗

such trials, that they all ended by leaving her to herself, and taking up with other girls, not so spoiled as she was. The blacksmith was the only one who did not desist from his love suit, but continued it, notwithstanding her ill-treatment, in which he had no less share than the others.

When her father was gone, Oxana remained for a long time decking herself, and coquetting before a small looking-glass, framed in tin. She could not tire of admiring her own likeness in the glass. “Why do men talk so much about my being so pretty?” said she, absently, merely for the sake of gossiping aloud. “Nonsense; there is nothing pretty in me.” But the mirror, reflecting her fresh, animated, childish features, with brilliant dark eyes, and a smile most inexpressibly bewitching, proved quite the contrary. “Unless,” continued the beauty, holding up the mirror, “may be, my black eyebrows and my dark eyes are so pretty that no prettier are to be found in the world; as for this little snub nose of mine, and my cheeks and my lips, what is there pretty in them? or, are my tresses so very beautiful? Oh! one might be frightened at them in the dark; they seem like so many serpents twining round my head. No, I see very well that I am not at all beautiful!” And then, on a sudden, holding the looking-glass a little further off, “No,” she exclaimed, exultingly, “No, I really am pretty! and how pretty! how beautiful! What joy shall I bring to him whose wife I am to be! How delighted will my husband be to look at me! He will forget all other thoughts in his love for me! He will smother me with kisses.”

“A strange girl, indeed,” muttered the blacksmith who had in the meantime entered the room, “and no small share of vanity has she got! There she stands for the last hour, looking at herself in the glass, and cannot leave off, and moreover praises herself aloud.”

“Yes, indeed lads! is any one of you a match for me?” went on the pretty flirt; “look at me, how gracefully I walk; my bodice is embroidered with red silk, and what ribbons I have got for my hair! You have never seen any to be compared to them! All this my father has bought on purpose for me, that I may marry the smartest fellow that ever was born!” and so saying, she laughingly turned round and saw the blacksmith. She uttered a cry and put on a severe look, standing straight before him. The blacksmith stood quite abashed. It would be difficult to specify the meaning of the strange girl’s somewhat sunburnt face; there was a degree of severity in it, and, in this same severity, somewhat of raillery at the blacksmith’s bashfulness, as well as a little vexation, which spread an almost imperceptible blush over her features. All this was so complicated, and became her so admirably Well, that the best thing to have done would have been to give her thousands and thousands of kisses.

“Why didst thou come hither?” she began. “Dost thou wish me to take up the shovel and drive thee from the house? Oh! you, all of you, know well how to insinuate yourselves into our company! You scent out in no time when the father has turned his back on the house. Oh! I know you well! Is my box finished?”

“It will be ready, dear heart of mine⁠—it will be ready after the festival. Couldst thou but know how much trouble it has cost me⁠—two nights did I never leave my smithy. Sure enough, thou wilt find no such box anywhere, not even belonging to a priest’s wife. The iron I used for binding it! I did not use the like even for the centurion’s tarataika,19 when I went to Poltava. And then, the painting of it. Wert thou to go on thy white feet round all the district, thou wouldst not find such another painting. The whole of the box will sparkle with red and blue flowers. It will be a delight to look upon it. Be not angry with me. Allow me⁠—be it only to speak to thee⁠—nay, even to look at thee.”

“Who means to forbid it? speak and look,” and she sat down on the bench, threw one more glance at the glass, and began to adjust the plaits on her head, looked at her neck, at her new bodice, embroidered with silk, and a scarcely visible expression of self-content played over her lips and cheeks and brightened her eyes.

“Allow me to sit down beside thee,” said the blacksmith.

“Be seated,” answered Oxana, preserving the same expression about her mouth and in her looks.

“Beautiful Oxana! nobody will ever have done looking at thee⁠—let me kiss thee!” exclaimed the blacksmith recovering his presence of mind, and drawing her towards him, endeavoured to snatch a kiss; her cheek was already at an imperceptible distance from the blacksmith’s lips, when Oxana sprang aside and pushed him back. “What wilt thou want next? When one has got honey, he wants a spoon too. Away with thee! thy hands are harder than iron, and thou smellest of smoke thyself; I really think thou hast besmeared me with thy soot.” She then took the mirror and once more began to adorn herself.

“She does not care for me,” thought the blacksmith, hanging down his head. “Everything is but play to her, and I am here like a fool standing before her and never taking my eyes off her. Charming girl. What would I not do only to know what is passing in her heart. Whom does she love? But no, she cares for no one, she is fond only of herself, she delights in the sufferings she causes to my own poor self, and my grief prevents me from thinking of anything else, and I love her as nobody in the world ever loved or