h on the celebration of memorial
masses.

In this village there was a Cossack named Korzh, who had a labourer
whom people called Peter the Orphan--perhaps because no one remembered
either his father or mother. The church starost,[8] it is true, said
that they had died of the pest in his second year; but my
grandfather's aunt would not hear to that, and tried with all her
might to furnish him with parents, although poor Peter needed them
about as much as we need last year's snow. She said that his father
had been in Zaporozhe, taken prisoner by the Turks, underwent God only
knows what tortures, and having, by some miracle, disguised himself as
a eunuch, had made his escape. Little cared the black-browed youths
and maidens about his parents. They merely remarked, that if he only
had a new coat, a red sash, a black lambskin cap, with dandified blue
crown, on his head, a Turkish sabre hanging by his side, a whip in one
hand and a pipe with handsome mountings in the other, he would surpass
all the young men. But the pity was, that the only thing poor Peter
had was a grey svitka with more holes in it than there are gold pieces
in a Jew's pocket. And that was not the worst of it, but this: that
Korzh had a daughter, such a beauty as I think you can hardly have
chanced to see. My deceased grandfather's aunt used to say--and you
know that it is easier for a woman to kiss the Evil One than to call
anybody a beauty, without malice be it said--that this Cossack
maiden's cheeks were as plump and fresh as the pinkest poppy when just
bathed in God's dew, and, glowing, it unfolds its petals, and coquets
with the rising sun; that her brows were like black cords, such as our
maidens buy nowadays, for their crosses and ducats, of the Moscow
pedlars who visit the villages with their baskets, and evenly arched
as though peeping into her clear eyes; that her little mouth, at sight
of which the youth smacked their lips, seemed made to emit the songs
of nightingales; that her hair, black as the raven's wing, and soft as
young flax (our maidens did not then plait their hair in clubs
interwoven with pretty, bright-hued ribbons), fell in curls over her
kuntush.[9] Eh! may I never intone another alleluia in the choir, if I
would not have kissed her, in spite of the grey which is making its
way all through the old wool which covers my pate, and my old woman
beside me, like a thorn in my side! Well, you know what happens when
young men and maid