Free The Night Before Christmas by Nikolái Gógol

T HE DAY OF CHRISTMAS EVE ENDED, AND the night began, cold and clear. The stars and the crescent moon shone brightly upon the Christian world, helping all the good folks welcome the birth of our Savior. The cold grew sharper, yet the night was so quiet that one could hear the snow squeak under a traveler’s boots from half a mile away. Caroling hadn’t yet begun; village youths weren’t yet crowded outside the windows waiting for treats; the moon alone peeked through, as though inviting the girls to finish up their toilette and run out onto the clean, sparkling snow. Just then one of the chimneys began to belch clouds of black smoke, and along with them, straddling a broom, flew out a witch. If Sorochintsy’s property assessor happened to be passingby on a troika of horses in his resplendent winter attire, he surely would have noticed the witch, for that remarkable man noticed everything: every piglet, every bolt of cloth in a housewife’s trunk, each household article her husband left at the tavern on Sunday. But, unfortunately, the assessor wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity, and why would he be? He had his own district to mind.
    Unnoticed, the witch rose so high that one could see only a little speck darting here and there, blotting out the stars. The witch collected a whole sleeve full of stars; there were only three or four left in the whole sky. Suddenly another dot appeared in the distance and quickly expanded, turning into something so odd that even if you put on glasses the size of cart wheels you wouldn’t have believed what you were seeing. From the front, the new creature looked like a regular German * : the narrow mug ended in a pig’s snout that constantly twitched and sniffed the air; the thin legs seemed so brittle that if they belonged to the villagehead of neighboring Yareski they’d snap the first time he danced a
kazachok
. From the back, the creature could be taken for a country attorney because of the long, thin tail that hung exactly like the tails on today’s civil-service uniforms. Only the goatee, the small horns, and the creature’s extreme griminess betrayed the truth: that this was no German or country attorney but just an ordinary devil who had one night left to roam among Christian folk and teach them devilish tricks. Tomorrow, at the first peal of church bells, he’d curl up his tail and scurry back to his lair.
    The devil flew up to the moon, reached out and tried to grab it, but must have burned his fingers, for he hopped on one leg, sucking on his hand. He walked around it and tried again from the other side, and again jumped back. But the sly one didn’t give up: he suddenly grabbed the moon with both hands and, juggling it like a hot pancake, stuffed it in his pocket, and flew off as though nothing had happened. In our village of Dikanka, no one noticed the theft. True, when the district scribe crawled out of the tavern on all fours he thought he saw the moon dancing in the sky, but who would believe him?
    You’ll ask me: why, for what wicked purpose did that evil creature perpetrate such an unconscionable act? I’ll tell you. He knew that the deacon had invited Cossack Chub to a holiday dinner, which besides traditional
kutya
featured spiced vodka, saffron vodka, and other delectables. The guest list included Dikanka’s village head; the deacon’s kinsman, who owned a blue frock coat and sang the deepest notes in the bishop’s choir; Cossack Sverbyguz; and many other prominent citizens. During that time Chub’s beautiful daughter, Oksana, would have stayed home all by herself and would probably have received a visit from her admirer, blacksmith Vakula, who aggravated the devil even worse than Father Kondrat’s sermons.
    In his spare time, you see, the blacksmith dabbled in painting and actually enjoyed a considerable local reputation. The late Captain L. summoned him all the way to Poltava to paint his fence;