Short Fiction by Nikolai Gogol (primary phonics .TXT) 📕

Short Fiction

By Nikolai Gogol.

Translated by Claud Field, Isabel F. Hapgood, Vizetelly and Company, and George Tolstoy.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint Foreword Short Fiction St. John’s Eve A May Night I II: The Village Headman III: An Unexpected Rival—The Conspiracy IV: Wild Pranks V: The Drowned Girl VI: The Awakening The Night of Christmas Eve Old-Fashioned Farmers Taras Bulba I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII The Viy I II How the Two Ivans Quarrelled I: Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan Nikiforovitch II: From Which May Be Seen Whence Arose the Discussion Between Ivan Ivanovitch and Ivan Nikiforovitch III: What Took Place After Ivan Ivanovitch’s Quarrel with Ivan Nikiforovitch IV: What Took Place Before the District Judge of Mirgorod V: In Which Are Detailed the Deliberations of Two Important Personages of Mirgorod VI: From Which the Reader Can Easily Discover What Is Contained in It VII: How a Reconciliation Was Sought to Be Effected and a Lawsuit Ensued The Mysterious Portrait I II Memoirs of a Madman The Nose I II III IV The Calash The Mantle Endnotes Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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This particular ebook is based on transcriptions produced for Project Gutenberg (Taras Bulba, and Other Tales, The Mantle, and Other Stories and Cossack Tales), Wikisource (Old-Fashioned Farmers), and on digital scans available at the Internet Archive (Taras Bulba, and Other Tales, The Mantle, and Other Stories, St. John’s Eve, and Other Stories and Cossack Tales).

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Foreword

This edition of Nikolai Gogol’s Short Fiction was produced from various translations. “The Night of Christmas Eve” was translated by George Tolstoy and originally published in 1860. “Old-Fashioned Farmers” was translated by Isabel F. Hapgood and originally published in 1886. “St. John’s Eve,” “Taras Bulba,” “How the Two Ivans Quarrelled,” “The Mysterious Portrait,” and “The Calash” were translated by Vizetelly and Company and originally published in 1887. “A May Night,” “The Viy,” “Memoirs of a Madman,” “The Nose,” and “The Mantle” were translated by Claud Field and originally published in 1916.

Short Fiction St. John’s Eve A Story Told by the Sacristan of the Dikanka Church

Thoma Grigorovitch had one very strange eccentricity: to the day of his death he never liked to tell the same thing twice. There were times when, if you asked him to relate a thing afresh, he would interpolate new matter, or alter it so that it was impossible to recognise it. Once upon a time, one of those gentlemen who, like the usurers at our yearly fairs, clutch and beg and steal every sort of frippery, and issue mean little volumes, no thicker than an A.B.C. book, every month, or even every week, wormed this same story out of Thoma Grigorovitch, and the latter completely forgot about it. But that same young gentleman, in the pea-green caftan, came from Poltava, bringing with him a little book, and, opening it in the middle, showed it to us. Thoma Grigorovitch was on the point of setting his spectacles astride of his nose, but recollected that he had forgotten to wind thread about them and stick them together with wax, so he passed it over to me. As I understand nothing about reading and writing, and do not wear spectacles, I undertook to read it. I had not turned two leaves when all at once he caught me by the hand and stopped me.

“Stop! tell me first what you are reading.”

I confess that I was a trifle stunned by such a question.

“What! what am I reading, Thoma Grigorovitch? Why, your own words.”

“Who told you that they were my words?”

“Why, what more would you have? Here it is printed: ‘Related by such and such a sacristan.’ ”

“Spit on the head of the man who printed that! he lies, the dog of a Moscow pedlar! Did I say that? ‘ ’Twas just the same as though one hadn’t his wits about him!’ Listen. I’ll tell the tale to you on the spot.”

We moved up to the table, and he began.

My grandfather (the kingdom of heaven be his! may he eat only wheaten rolls and poppy-seed cakes with honey in the other world!) could tell a story wonderfully well. When he used to begin a tale you could not stir from the spot all day, but kept on listening. He was not like the storyteller of the present day, when he begins to lie, with a tongue as though he had had nothing to eat for three days, so that you snatch your cap and flee from the house. I remember my old mother was alive then, and in the long winter evenings when the frost was crackling out of doors, and had sealed up hermetically the narrow panes of our cottage, she used to sit at her wheel, drawing out a