The beauty frowned, blushing with annoyance, and the combination increased her loveliness to such a degree that no less than a million kisses could have done it justice.

“I see you got here fast enough. You all do, the moment father is out the door. Now, is my trunk ready?”

“It will be ready, my heart, as soon as the holidays are over. For two days I worked on it, didn’t leave my smithy. The iron I used on it I didn’t use even on the captain’s carriage back in Poltava. And the decorations on it—you can walk everywhere and not find such beauty. Red and blue flowers all over it. Please don’t scold me. Just let me look at you for a moment.”

“Who forbids you to look?” Sitting down again on the bench, Oksana took up her mirror and examined anew her necklace, her braids, and her new blouse, and an expression of satisfied vanity lit up her features.

“May I sit next to you?” Vakula asked timidly.

“Go ahead,” Oksana replied without changing expression.

“My wonderful, incomparable beauty, allow me to kiss you just once,” the emboldened Vakula begged, pulling her toward him, but the moment the silky cheek seemed within his reach he was shoved away.

“What else would you like? Look at him: gets near the honey and demands a spoon to eat it with. Get away from me: your hands are hard like iron, and you reek of smoke. I think you got me all covered in soot.” And again she took up her mirror.

“Oh, she doesn’t love me,” thought the wretched blacksmith. “She just toys with me, and I’m sitting here like a damn fool and can’t take my eyes off her. Nothing I wouldn’t give just to know her heart, whether she’s in love with anyone. But she doesn’t care, she just sits there, torturing me, while I see no sunshine for my wretchedness; no one will ever love her as much as I do.”

“Is it true your mother’s a witch?” Oksana asked him, and laughed so sweetly that the blood ran faster in Vakula’s veins.

“What do I care for my mother? You are my father and mother. If the Tsar summoned me tomorrow and said, ‘Vakula, here’s a smithy made of gold with silver hammers in it—take it,’ I’d say, ‘I want no gold or silver—just give me my Oksana.’”

“How sly you are! But my father is no fool, either. You’ll see: he’ll never marry your mother. But where is everyone? It’s time to go caroling, and I’m getting bored.”

“Are they so much fun?”

“More fun than you, that’s for sure. Ah, I hear someone knocking, it must be them.”

“She’s just mocking me,” thought poor Vakula. “She cares for me as little as for a rusted horseshoe. Well, at least I won’t let anyone else mock me! Let’s see who’s winning her favor. I’ll show him . . .”

A loud voice and the sound of knocking interrupted his thoughts.

“I’ll get it,” Vakula said, and ready to punch the first man who crossed the threshold, he went to open the door.

*   *   *

The frost was increasing. Up in the sky it had become so cold that the devil couldn’t keep still and hopped from hoof to hoof, blowing on his numb fingers—understandable behavior in someone who spends his days in front of an enormous fire roasting sinners, just as our housewives roast sausages for Christmas.

The witch, too, felt the chill and, putting out her leg like a skater, descended through the cold air straight into her chimney as though down an icy hill. The devil followed her, and a moment later the two were crouching in her roomy oven among the pots.

The witch peeked outside to make sure her son, Vakula, hadn’t brought guests. Seeing only coal sacks piled in the middle of the room, she climbed out, straightened her clothes, and a second later no one would have guessed that she had just enjoyed a ride on a broom.

Vakula’s mother was no more than forty years old and was neither good nor bad looking (though, of course, it’s difficult to look good at forty). Yet she so masterfully charmed gentlemen of a certain age that many local Cossacks paid her visits (admittedly, beauty wasn’t first on their lists). And not one of them thought for a moment that he had rivals! A respectable citizen heading for church on Sunday or for the tavern in inclement weather often decided to stop by Solokha’s, even if it meant a considerable detour. When Solokha attended a holiday service, clad in a blue frock coat over a colorful skirt with a silk apron, the deacon would cough and click his tongue, while the village head would smooth down his moustache, thinking, “Not bad, devil take me, not bad at all!”

Although Solokha was courteous with all the local Cossacks, a nosy observer would have noted that she was at her most cordial with old Chub. Chub was a widower. No less than eight stacks of wheat filled his front yard; two yokes of oxen mooed each time a cow or a bull walked past their stable; a goat bleated from the roof of his house like a traffic policeman, admonishing turkeys and chickens and showing his behind to the village boys. Chub’s trunks were full of broadcloth and rich old garments—his late wife was into fashion.