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something. And I was thinking of taking my piebald mare to him to be shod . . .” Full of these Christian thoughts, the village head walked slowly into his house.
    Oksana felt disconcerted by the rumors of Vakula’s suicide. She didn’t hold much faith in Pepperchikha’s eyes or the village women’s gossip; also, she knew that devout Vakula would never put his salvation at risk by taking his own life. But to leave Dikanka for good—this was a possibility. Where else would she find another such admirer? And didn’t he put up with her longer than the rest? The beauty tossed and turned in her bed all night—and by morning was up to her ears in love with Vakula.
    Chub didn’t express much emotion on learning about Vakula’s fate. He was too preoccupied with Solokha’s betrayal to think of anything else.
    *   *   *
    C hristmas morning came. Before daybreak the church had filled with people. Older women in white kerchiefsgathered near the door; wealthier housewives in yellow and green cardigans congregated in the middle; girls sporting a whole shop’s worth of ribbons and beads were trying to get near the icons; men filled the front—muzhiks with thick necks and thick moustaches, wealthier villagers in brown hooded cloaks over white and blue tunics. Everyone looked festive. The village head was smacking his lips, envisioning how he would break his fast on Christmas sausage; the girls, how they would go skating with the boys; the old women, mumbling their prayers with particular zest. The whole church echoed with the sound of Sverbyguz’s forehead hitting the floor before the altar. Only Oksana stood sad and forlorn, thinking about Vakula, tears trembling on her eyelashes. Her girlfriends didn’t suspect the reason for her misery. Others, too, were thinking about the blacksmith. The deacon had lost his voice during the ride in the sack and could barely squawk; the visiting bass did a fine job, but it would have been so much better if Vakula could have joined the choir in Lord’s Prayer and Holy Cherubim, as he always did. Besides, he was the churchwarden. Matins were over, then the liturgy—but where was Vakula?
    Vakula flew home even faster than before; in no time he was standing in front of his house, just as the roosters began to crow. The devil was about to run for it, but Vakula caught him by the tail: “Oh no, I haven’t thanked you yet.” And he smacked the devil three times with a switch before letting him go. Then he flopped in the hay and slept until lunch. Upon waking and seeing the afternoon sun, he realized he had slept right through matins and liturgy—a serious trespass on such a great holiday. The devout blacksmith decided that God had sent him that sinful sleep to punish him for contemplating suicide and vowed to go to confession that very week and to perform fifty bows daily all year. His house was empty—Solokha hadn’t yet returned. With great care he unwrapped the royal shoes and again marveled at their craftsmanship. From the trunk he took out a new hat of curly lamb with a blue top and a magnificent embroidered sash, wrapped these gifts in a kerchief together with a crop, washed himself, put on his Zaporozhian dress, and went directly to Chub’s.
    Chub’s eyes popped when he saw Vakula on his doorstep. He didn’t know what amazed him more: the fact that Vakula had risen from the dead or that hehad dared to show his face. He was even more amazed when the blacksmith opened the kerchief and knelt before Chub: “Here’s a crop. Hit me with it as hard as your heart desires, only don’t hold a grudge. Remember that you and my late father were friends, broke bread and drank vodka together.”
    It pleased Chub immensely to see the blacksmith kneeling at his feet—the blacksmith, who tipped his hat to no one in the whole village and bent coins like pancakes. He took the