The Little Devil and Other Stories

by Alexei Remizov

  These passions, as Alexandra Pavlovna put it, gently mocking her cossetted husband, whom, by the way, she adored, the passions of Pyotr Nikolaevich in fact only applied to domestic details and would seem totally unwarranted to mention if not for a crazy rumor that touched the honor and reputation of all of Blagodatnoe.

  Two years ago an old friend of Pyotr Nikolaevich dropped by Blagodatnoe, also a lycée graduate from St. Petersburg, who had not seen his friend since St. Petersburg.

  The reason for this guest’s appearance was never clarified; no one asked him, and his valet was very rambling when he talked in the servants’ hall—either the general had been sent to pacify the rebelling peasants or to divide up the land among them. However, none of this is important: couldn’t an old friend come by out of curiosity?

  The guest was received warmly. He was met by Alexandra Pavlovna, who regretted that not everyone was home in Blagodatnoe—the children were all far away, and he would be bored. But the guest was so merry, told her many stories about Pyotr Nikolaevich and their close friendship in St. Petersburg in their early youth that it seemed he needed no company while eagerly awaiting his friend.

  Pyotr Nikolaevich, as if on purpose, had vanished in the morning for some village and some corpse and only returned home late that evening.

  The friends met.

  But then something bad happened. You could see that the guest was shocked and frightened, his knees knocking.

  Either he had not recognized his old friend, or had recognized him but found such a change that his head spun, or had noticed something in the face, gait, and speech of his old friend completely unexpected, incredible, impossible—so which was it? Who could possibly know!

  The guest took a step back, flapped his arms, and suddenly passed out.

  Silent and sad, looking around suspiciously and agreeing to whatever was said, and with that pathetic smile people display when they are caught accidentally and unwittingly in life’s most ordinary vise that can crush you at any moment, the guest spent a week, and one fine morning, babbling nonsense and showing some papers upside down, disheveled, wearing practically nothing but his underwear and without luggage, he galloped away from Blagodatnoe.

  Soon after his departure the talk and gossip began in town and among the neighbors.

  It was said that there was nothing special about Blagodatnoe, that the celebrated Borodin house was just a house, and actually, it even had a flaw—since one half was very noticeably redone after the fire; and well, the garden was just a garden, old, and shady, of course, but if you travel around Russia, you’ll find plenty like it; fields, forest—can’t argue, the fields are spacious, the forest is fine, but again, nothing you’ve never seen; and the people, well the people were really dregs: poverty, very little land, they’d move away then come back, and during the time of troubles, even though they didn’t burn down the house and poke out the horses’ eyes like they did at neighbor Bessonov’s place, they did talk about burning down the house, stealing the goods, and taking away Borodin’s land. As for Pyotr Nikolaevich, when they listed all his eccentricities, they carried on with such nonsensical tales that it’s shameful to repeat them.

  And finally every friend and foe, even with the most urgent need, was forbidden to visit Blagodаtnoe.

  The place was unclean.

  One of her good friends advised Alexandra Pavlovna to complain to the governor, but she wouldn’t hear of it. There wasn’t a drop of truth in the rumors, in her opinion, and there was no need to make a big story of it.

  Really, who knows what some suspicious person with a suspicious mind will make up and invent—he just wants to pass it from his sick head to a healthy one!

  Then the talk stopped on its own—after all, people aren’t as stupid as they seem.

  And everyone remembered only one thing: Blagodatnoe was heaven on earth, the Borodin family was exemplary, and Pyotr Nikolaevich was a famous eccentric and a joker the likes of which is hard to find.

  The head of the house was Alexandra Pavlovna Borodina. The order and abundance of the Blagodatnoe estate were ascribed to her vigilant eye. Firm of character, not given to chat, Alexandra Pavlovna knew how to keep people on their toes and not indulge them. They feared her and believed her word. She married early, for love, and children came the very first year: a son and three daughters, all a year apart. Alexandra Pavlovna’s life passed in worries and cares, which with every year as the children grew and domestic affairs became confused and more complex, kept increasing, and it turned out that you can’t end all cares and you can’t complete all chores. But she was prepared to shoulder whatever burden necessary as long as her husband and children were happy. And no one complained—neither husband nor children.

  In the evening, happy and cheerful, she sat at the piano: her strong fingers touched the keys confidently and elicited a big festive sound—the high-ceilinged rooms filled with power and joy.

  What envy would be felt by the desperate tramp in the darkness of his homeless wide world gazing through the illuminated window at her, pleased with her shelter, and what profanities would the failure use to curse his fate meeting her happy gaze accidentally, and with what meekness and faith, hearing her voice, would a person seeking a guide follow her!

  Vice Admiral Akhmatov—whose precise judgment was instantly known in every estate without exception and was repeated by city fops—godfather of Sonya, the youngest, called Alexandra Pavlovna an enchanting brunette. And, as usual, he was right.

  Who would believe that this “enchanting brunette,” who organized a house and its life—a quiet, cordial hearth—had once felt she was the most miserable of people. Of course, much water has passed under the bridge since then, success and happiness erased all memory of it, and in her heart there remained only joy, only confidence in herself and her strength.

  Fifteen years ago, the year Sonya was born, Blagodatnoe was a hairsbreadth away from ruin—the house almost burned down, Pyotr Nikolaevich almost died. Alexandra Pavlovna saved them all.

  In autumn, in the winter months, when the children were away, Alexandra Pavlovna only spent time with her husband.

  She looked at him as she had twenty years earlier, with the same love and tenderness, and saw him the way he had been twenty years ago, in love, and the line that was clearly showing between her dark brows smoothed away.

  He, dried out, as long as a pole, gray, with a deadly pale face, his immobile staring eyes with spooky sparkles, stood before her, baring his teeth.

  “I am not gloomy,” he repeated for the thousandth time, “I feel light!”

  But you could hear in his voice:

  “I don’t care, I need nothing.”

  She did not hear those eerie words, they sounded like the ones he used back then with their first kiss, and blinded by love, she responded with the passion of a well-preserved woman.

  Oh! How someone looking through the window in such moments would laugh at that hilariously crazy scene. But, who knows, perhaps, he would just pass out without a peep, like that guest, the general, Pyotr Nikolaevich’s old friend.

  2

  Blagodatnoe was preparing for a great event. The wedding of the oldest daughter, Liza, who had graduated from the institute in spring, was set for the Winter Matrena holiday, November 22. The groom was the famous Rameikov, owner of a large estate. Everyone was waiting impatiently for the wedding. They said the feast would be astonishing and that Pyotr Nikolaevich had slaughtered almost all the chickens!

  Blagodatnoe was taking on a gala look. Guests arrived ahead of time, and quite a few very respected people practically split their sides laughing in the company of Pyotr Nikolaevich, who was in his best form for telling jokes and baring his teeth. Alexandra Pavlovna was run off her feet. She had to get everything ready. She didn’t have enough hands for it all.

  At last, the entire family was gathered: Misha, the eldest, in his first year of university, came from St. Petersburg, college student Zina, the second daughter, came from Kiev, and h
igh-school student Sonya came from the provincial capital. The important moment was nigh. And to give it its due, the wedding was very merry.

  Of course, there was no avoiding jokes. Blessing the couple with an icon before the ceremony, Pyotr Nikolaevich was apparently intending to give them a benediction but after a rather wearying silence limited himself to a brief and completely unprintable wish of one word, and after that strong word the groom could barely stand—laughter was literally suffocating everyone.

  In church Pyotr Nikolaevich whispered to Father Ivan that he had seen eggs in a hole in a dream, and even though Father Ivan had to have known the dream’s wicked meaning, at the time it all seemed entirely ridiculous. And everyone was in a silly mood and Father Ivan could not resist and broke off the prayer and snorted out loud, and then the deacon who held the censer hooted shamelessly, and so did everyone else: it wasn’t clear whether they were marrying or sniggering, as in a sideshow farce.

  After the wedding dinner, the newlyweds left for Moscow.

  But the merriment continued at Blagodatnoe. The Nativity Fast passed in a non-Lenten manner. At Christmastide the young people put on a show, dressed up, and called on neighbors all dressed up. There was a skating rink and hill at the pond. Crazy competitions took place at the rink.

  Misha Borodin was considered the best skater. And truly, slender and incredibly flexible, he made astonishing figures with amazing dexterity and art. Just as good was Sonya, a girl as fast as a flame, and her ringing laughter rang infectiously on the starry nights before Epiphany. It was a pleasure to watch the couple, holding hands and racing down the hill to the distant willows. You could not say that about Zina: Zina bore a greater resemblance to Liza, and like Liza, she was restrained and quiet, perhaps even shy, but not without a temper.

  “The children are like their mother,” said the aunties and uncles and old friends who knew Alexandra Pavlovna well.

  Epiphany was approaching. Misha’s pals and the girls’ friends were leaving.

  It was time for the Borodins to get ready, but it was so pleasant in the village that they didn’t even want to think about departure.

  On Epiphany eve, when the Epiphany star came out, Misha and Sonya ran onto the rink where they had been spending their final evenings.

  The night was bright, scattered with stars, and the frost was so hard that the ice crackled and pinched their cheeks.

  They were happy to skate all night!

  Once they were done, they decided to ride out across the field. Misha decided to drive.

  As soon as they came out of the gates, the horses took off.

  Misha flew out of the sleigh and hit his head against the fence, Sonya fell into the snow.

  Their cries brought everyone running.

  Misha was picked up and taken home. They rushed out for doctors.

  Misha died by morning.

  What sorrow!

  The evening of the funeral, when the house was particularly empty and everyone was in the state of oppressive exhaustion when you can’t do anything and can’t settle down, a messenger brought a telegram to Blagodatnoe from the Rameikovs:

  Alexandra Pavlovna was urgently called to Moscow.

  Alexandra Pavlovna left that night.

  Zina and Sonya were extremely anxious.

  Pyotr Nikolaevich not at all: he continued his way of life as if nothing had happened.

  The only difference was that more chickens were killed. But that was explained by the fact that Zina had caught a chill at the funeral and was still sick and had to be kept on a diet.

  And another thing—what ridiculous eccentricity!—a huge ox tongue was to be served for lunch.

  At last news arrived from Moscow:

  Liza was dead.

  What sorrow!

  A second corpse was lowered into the Borodin vault, and the house was so empty and so sad, Alexandra Pavlovna wandered about like a shadow.

  She could not forgive herself for acquiescing so readily to that marriage, when she had always known Rameikov to be a foolish and even vile man, yes, vile—why hadn’t she talked Liza out of it? Liza would have obeyed. Yes, she could have convinced Liza, she knew many of the most repulsive, most shameful facts that were whispered by outsiders even in their house on the wedding day.

  But it was too late: whether you forgive yourself or not—it makes no difference.

  Alexandra Pavlovna felt like screaming.

  Pyotr Nikolaevich looked a bit weary, but the fact of death per se was hardly the reason.

  The death of his son, and the death of his daughter, elicited the usual feeling of curiosity that he had for cadavers in general, not like these, but total strangers.

  The weariness was more likely from the sleepless night.

  The coffin was delivered to Blagodatnoe closed, but he insisted it be opened. When they removed the lid, he personally unveiled his daughter’s face and stood over her without looking away all night.

  Now in his bottle-green robe, Pyotr Nikolaevich napped in the armchair.

  Thus passed the night after the funeral.

  Zina’s condition, in the meantime, deteriorated. She was bedridden. The doctors said that she had something like diphtheria. All of Blagodatnoe waited with bated breath for the fateful crisis. The crisis came. A consultation of doctors was convened. Hopeless.

  There was strict order in the house, and usually when the children were home, they kept to that order from early childhood: Liza took care of the flowers, Zina fed the parrot.

  Now the old valet Mikhei took care of the flowers, and the parrot screeched with hunger.

  You could see that Zina remembered everything and it tormented her, and it tormented her that she had been in bed for a week, violating the order, and it would be better if they took her to the city, but she couldn’t tell anyone—she was suffocating.

  With the last of her strength, Zina pointed to paper and pencil and with a weak hand wrote a single word:

  Parrot.

  The pencil fell from her hand.

  And she died.

  What sorrow!

  3

  The third Borodin coffin was carried from the house. In church, at the service, bidding farewell to her daughter and taking a last look at that meek, doomed face with tightly shut steel-blue eyelids and caked, tormented lips, Alexandra Pavlovna suddenly remembered everything, not the recent happiness but the past, the secret, which she had not recalled in so many years.

  And she wept copiously.

  And now an old woman, bent over, she walked away from the coffin.

  “Could I have ever thought I would have to bury them?” she wept, her head shaking.

  Instead of consolation, her conscience, hunching her over more and furrowing her face with wrinkles, told her that there was no one to blame, no one was guilty except her, she had done it all, and done it alone—she alone was at fault.

  Sonya did not leave her mother’s side all day, pressing close to her.

  She tried to console her, and wept, and looked at her with big eyes—one feared for the terrified girl.

  “Mama, what are you saying?” she asked, scared of her own voice.

  And her mother told her about what was past and secret and not recalled for so many years.

  Fifteen years ago, when Sonya was a year old, Alexandra Pavlovna took the children and went to visit her mother—the first time she had left Blagodatnoe, leaving house and husband.

  She had a dream that her husband was entering the altar.

  She was worried: was he sick, had he died?

  The next night she had another dream: the wedding ring broke.

  And again she was afraid: her husband would die!

  She began packing to go home.

  “I was packed and traveling,” Alexandra Pavlovna told her, “and I prayed to God without end. I kept praying: if sorrow is my lot, then let Misha die, let Liza die, let Zina die, but let him live! Well, I thought then, it’s not so bad with little ones, as long as he stays alive. I said no
thing about you, I couldn’t. I got home. It turns out there was a fire and Pyotr Nikolaevich was near death. God heard my prayer: he saved the house and your father. But now … Misha is dead, Liza is dead, Zina is dead. Could I have ever thought I would have to bury then?”

  Alexandra Pavlovna suffered; she would not let Sonya leave her side.

  Pyotr Nikolaevich seemed worried and confused. Some thought was nagging at him, upsetting him. He could no longer do what he usually did day after day.

  In the evening he tried to move the cupboard in the dining room—he did move it away from the wall, but then just abandoned it standing in the way.

  He grabbed the poker, but things didn’t go well with the stoves.

  Pyotr Nikolaevich came into the bedroom a few times to see Alexandra Pavlovna and Sonya, sat on the edge of the bed and suddenly stood up, leaving his grief-stricken wife and daughter.

  “They were all lost, Misha, Liza, Zina, and Sonya, and all were found, except Sonya!” he muttered meaninglessly and horrifyingly, and it was not clear whom he was addressing, either Mikhei, or the stove man Kuzma, or the housekeeper Darya Ivanovna, who took over for Alexandra Pavlovna.

  It was only late at night that Pyotr Nikolaevich calmed down and went to his study.

  The valet Mikhei did not leave him alone for a minute, like a child’s nurse.

  The house was filled with anxiety and eeriness; all corners had turned cold. Where was everyone? Where were peace, laughter, and happiness?

  Three coffins, three deaths had frozen the warm flame of the Borodin hearth.

  4

  Having taken place in about a month, the Borodin business with the deaths was immediately picked up by wagging tongues.

  “No smoke without fire!”

  This was said not only in neighboring Chernyanka and not-neighboring Kostomarovka, but also in Britany and even in Motovilovka and, of course, all over town.

  How, what, why? And off they went.

  Life at Blagodatnoe was turned inside out, the Borodin grandmothers and aunts gone over with a fine-tooth comb, as well as everything that had never happened and what had happened but not to the Borodins but say the Muromtsevs. They dragged everything out into the light—look, gentlemen, and judge for yourselves, we already knew all of this!