The Little Devil and Other Stories

by Alexei Remizov

  Then the snow fell and it was winter.

  The days grew darker, the nights increased—long nights.

  Even emptier, as empty as the big cellar, it became empty in the Versenev house.

  If only his dreams could have been peaceful!

  Once Sergei Sergeyevich dreamed that he was Sergei Sergeyevich Versenev, retired captain aged forty-seven, yet there was nothing human about his appearance.

  Sergei Sergeyevich dreamed that he was a mean and vengeful insect, a poisonous insect, a millipede crawling through a field, grabbing on to blades of grass with its many legs. A cold summer dawn—morning barely discernible, and a low enormous moon, faded to white with a red burning rim.

  And there he was, Sergei Sergeyevich Versenev—a millipede crawling in the grass, and he knows that he is crawling on the grass, the most ordinary Krutovrag grass, but to him, a millipede, the grass seems so big and so tall—the blades are like sedge, the sedge thicker than any tree, and the black soil is made of huge clumps.

  It is arduous and hard: he has to climb up each blade and then get down, and then up and then down, and this way from blade to blade.

  He is crawling and does not know where he is crawling or for what he is being punished by having to move from blade to blade.

  Anger torments him, and anger gnaws at his heart, and he is deathly tired.

  The enormous pale white moon with a red burning rim, and it is cold.

  Having told his dream to Father Astriozov and hearing the priest’s brief interpretation: means the weather will change, Sergei Sergeyevich smiled.

  “Things feel strange,” he said, “as if nothing is real.”

  Another time, trying to tell his dream to Zinovy, he stopped in mid-word and then spoke hoarsely through gritted teeth, like the late Sergei Petrovich:

  “They cut off my soul, the devil!” And burst into tears.

  He supposedly told the servant boy Peter: “I would like to die, Peter, in poverty on straw.”

  Sergei Sergeyevich was bored.

  Without work, without guests, he was bored alone in winter.

  “He’s become afraid,” Solomovna reported to Father Astriozov, when the priest came on Christmas with his cross to praise Christ. “Before it used to be all right, but now of an evening he’ll run out from the study to me in the maid’s room, afraid, as if someone was standing near him. And he keeps expecting guests: guests are coming! And he just sits and weeps.”

  On New Year’s Day, Solomovna did not hide her secret and confessed to the priest about her daydreams: Solomovna had done some fortune telling before Christmas and that’s why she had the dreams.

  Yuletide dreams are prophetic.

  She dreamed that she was washing the floor, and that is not good when you wash floors in your dream!

  Then a fire—the house was burning: the house seemed to be burning, they raised all the boards and were taking bricks out of the oven, but no sign of fire.

  “I ask them—there were two men by the oven handling the bricks—and I ask them: ‘How can this be?’ And they say: “We don’t know anything, Solomovna.’”

  The most important dream was on New Year’s.

  Solomovna dreamed that she walked into the ballroom, and the late Sergei Petrovich coming toward her from across the balcony and with him was some very, very old man, they slammed the door and went straight to the study, feeling their way, as if they were blind.

  But Father Astriozov wasn’t interested in the nanny’s dreams; he was full up to here with his own!

  Father Astriozov had a big family—seven souls on his hands: the eldest son was a deacon, the youngest an infant. But in his dream, it was strange: the eldest was in diapers, an infant, while the youngest, who was an infant, was a bearded deacon.

  “The link!” the priest kept repeating, taking the generous New Year’s bag from Solomovna.

  The holidays were boring.

  It wasn’t cheery in the kitchen either.

  They talked in whispers, as if around a patient.

  The company was the same—the old chef Prokofy Konstantinovich, the coachman Anton, the laundress Matryona Simanovna, the carpenter Terenty, the blacksmith Turkey, the valet Zinovy, and the servant boy Peter drank tea around Solomovna.

  Only the maids were missing: the mistress took Kharitina with her to St. Petersburg and Ustya and Sanya were fired.

  Over tea they reminisced, discussed the Versenev affairs, and expressed their fears for the master, who sooner or later would be tripped up by sin.

  “Mention the devil at a bad time, he’ll come in a black whirlwind, grab the person, and the person will vanish in that whirlwind.” Solomovna yawned, making the sign of the cross over her mouth and shaking her head.

  Sergei Sergeyevich, having walked through all the rooms, would suddenly run into the kitchen and stop before the startled servants, and, staring at something beyond the fearless and shaggy Turkey, frown as something began squeaking somewhere in his throat.

  Suddenly he would wave his hand.

  “The devil!”

  “The devil!” echoed somewhere in the hall, and somewhere under the stove, and somewhere in the cellars, and somewhere near the ceiling, high up in the black attic, born by wind across the garden and circled around the white columns.

  The Yuletide frosts were replaced by a thaw.

  On the eve of Epiphany everything dripped in a vernal way and the pond grew yellow.

  There was a whiff of spring.

  All day, Sergei Sergeyevich peeked out the windows anxiously, opened the balcony door and stood at the door a long time, listening.

  All day until evening, unable to settle, he wandered from room to room.

  In the evening, when the lights were lit and the whole house was illuminated, he became even more restless.

  Outside the snow was melting, tapping on the roof the way fall rain taps on the windowpane—drop by drop, rivulet by rivulet.

  After tea, Versenev went upstairs and grew still.

  Solomovna went through the rooms downstairs, whispering prayers, chalking epiphany crosses on windows and doors.

  In the upstairs corner room Sergei Sergeyevich sat and looked out the window.

  Sergei Sergeyevich sat a long time without any thoughts, mindlessly looking out the window.

  Suddenly, he heard a bell ringing far down the road.

  He leaped away from the window.

  But the bell was ringing.

  He shut his ears and covered his ears.

  The bell was ringing.

  He wanted to run downstairs, to call Zinovy, Solomovna, the coachman, all of them.

  But the bell was ringing.

  He did not recognize the room: where the mirror used to hang a door had opened.

  He went through the door.

  The door shut behind him.

  A long, endless corridor.

  Everything seemed familiar: lots of marble walls, ornamented in relief rosettes, the mosaic on the floor, white and red.

  It was hot, stifling, and damp.

  He walked down the corridor and knew that he had to go to the very end. When he reached the end and opened the door ornamented with fine engraving, there was another door behind it. He opened that one, too.

  There was a third door.

  And so it went, door after door: open one and there’s another.

  As he moved toward somewhere, opening door after door, he felt that he had to stop, if just for a minute, just look up, look back, just for a minute; otherwise it would be disaster, but he could not stop, or raise his head, or look back, as if someone was leading him and someone else was urging him on from behind.

  When, at last, lost and muttering nonsense, joking and cursing, he opened the final door—he was hit in the back with something sharp, and he fell.

  He fell, and falling saw the stars—the dim Krutovrag stars burning ever brighter, ever clearer, red stars rushed straight at him in a wild whirlwind.

  But it was not the stars; he
was moving in a whirlwind beneath the red stars.

  “I was chalking crosses, blessing the windows and doors,” Solomovna later recounted, “and Zinovy called me: ‘Nazar the herder is here, asking for some holy water.’ I went out to the kitchen to see Nazar and I heard the balcony door slam. I thought something might be wrong: these are uneasy times—it could be bad people. And then I heard the slam again. So I said to Prokofy Konstantinovich: ‘Prokofy Konstantinovich, hear that?’ ‘I hear it, he says, the wind is banging.’ No sooner than he said this it banged a third time—all the panes shook it banged so hard. I ran to the salon: and so it was—the door was wide open. I shouted to Zinovy, ‘Where’s the master?’ He wasn’t to be found. The wind was blowing so hard the two of us couldn’t close the door. It was pushing hard. And the wind howled through the house, putting out the lights. ‘Master, I shouted, master!’ No master.”

  In the morning on Epiphany they found Versenev in the pond, they followed the tracks:

  From the balcony the tracks led down the allée right to the pond.

  Clearly, sin had tripped up Versenev!

  He had wandered to the pond at night, and the ice had given out under him. He fell in, caught up to his chest in waterweeds, the slime enveloped him overnight.

  He froze that way, standing, in his white jacket, head covered in snow.

  There was much talk afterward—all of Krutovrag was at it—but conversations won’t fill your belly.

  06

  PRINCESS MYMRA

  YOUNG ATYA FALLS IN LOVE WITH THE LODGER IN THEIR ST. PETERSBURG APARTMENT. HE IDEALIZES HER, NOT UNDERSTANDING THAT SHE IS A KEPT WOMAN. HE WANTS TO SHARE HIS BELOVED HOME VILLAGE OF KLUCHI (WHICH MEANS “KEYS” IN RUSSIAN) WITH HER. THE INNOCENCE OF VILLAGE LIFE IS COMPARED TO THE OPPRESSIVE CYNICSM OF URBAN CIVILIZATION. REMIZOV’S DEEP KNOWLEDGE OF THE PAGAN MYTHOLOGY OF NORTHERN RUSSIA, THE PERSISTENCE OF THE MARI LANGUAGE IN RUSSIAN, AND THE MIXTURE OF CHRISTIAN PRACTICES AND SUPERSTITION ARE BRILLIANTLY DISPLAYED HERE.

  1

  Atya was happy in Kluchi, so happy that only the very last little tip of the town had to flash in his powerful memory for everything to become different—Stary Nevsky, where he lived with his father and mother, the gymnasium classes, breaks, and grades, and all the teachers, starting with (German) Ivan Martynovich and ending with (Penmanship) Ivan Evseyevich, and all the first-years, even his friends Romashka and Kharpik—all of it hides and suddenly vanishes completely, as if it had never been and only merry Kluchi had been and always would be.

  “Work isn’t a wolf. It won’t run off into the woods!” Atya would say to himself and, pushing the repulsive textbook far from him, just sit and sit, thinking.

  Sometimes Atya would wake up at night, and some tiny hint—a snore coming from the kitchen, or he’d turn in a way that made it seem it was not the bed beneath him and he was not in his room but on the grass in a green meadow—and at that minute he would clearly feel that he was not in St. Petersburg but far away, in his native Kluchi, where he was born and had lived with his grandfather, Father Anisim, until school began.

  And he would lie that way all night and even though he tried to think about the wind, the noise of the wind and the wheat, just to fall asleep, sleep would not come.

  If Atya had wings or a flying carpet—let it all rot!—he’d fly to Kluchi.

  Kluchi is on a mountain. At the foot is a white church. Opposite the church are Grandfather’s house, garden and beehives. Jump over the wattle fence—there’s the river. The Kosa River. And beyond the river there is a field, and there’s a field beyond the church. And then the mountains and many immeasurable versts of forest. The forest is a thick preserve, strong, uncleared: an animal can go this way and that, a human has to watch and be careful. The anthills are like hayricks. When it’s time to go looking for mushrooms and chanterelles in the fall, they burn the hills: wolves don’t like the smell of ants, so it helps keep them away.

  Swifts live in the white belfry; there are clouds of them. As the sun sets, they start flying around and talking in their own language, in swift.

  The swifts are old: they come to Kluchi and the belfry every spring. What brings them here: the peal of the bells tolling and ringing? Or are they used to gray grandfather? They know a lot, they must remember: how grandfather was young, how his wife died, how Atya’s mother was born …

  “Atya’s here,” the swifts say, flying around. “How big Atya’s grown over the winter!”

  Goats and sheep, cows and calves, pigs and horses, geese, turkeys, they all can tell when Atya shows up in the village:

  cattle and birds understand—

  they sense with feather and hide.

  From Medvedki to Kluchi, if you go fast, you can travel the distance in a day.

  Atya gets into the wicker basket, Fyodor-Kostyl whistles, and the strong brown horses fly off, galloping from mountain to mountain, forest to forest, village to village—better hurry and open the gate!

  Dust raised by the hooves rises like smoke, but the fields are not boring versts to travel—the Votyak women in white woven silk garments, silver accessories sparkling, reach out whitely toward them.

  The Votyak songs, wild as the forest’s roar, and deep as the howl of flooding, and sharp—the swamp grass is not that sharp, and bright, not as bright as hornpipe—will flow after them melodiously.

  And the winds, which turn grumpiness to fun, will blow longing from the mountains.

  Hey! Ring little bell! The bell jingled, resonant, as tired as the horses.

  They passed the mill, the thundering dam, passed the sacred field, the prophetic groves of Keremet.

  Was the proud god alive—the insubordinate brother of Inmar, creator of heaven, earth, and sun?

  Alive, whispers the prophetic grove.

  And there’s the old Votyak cemetery, the shaimy.

  They hear the bell ringing from afar in Kluchi: Panya and Sasha run out of the kitchen, leaving the cooking, his godmother comes out, glowing with happiness, and smart Grivna will squeal, but his grandfather is not there: Grandfather is in the church.

  Atya runs to the chickens. The chickens have a hare: it’s called a hare but it’s just a rabbit.

  Look, see: he runs from everyone, doesn’t let anyone near, but he’s fine with him.

  “Hello, hare! Give me your paw, bunny!” The whiskered one recognizes Atya: mewls and gives him a paw.

  And here’s grandfather himself: he couldn’t wait—drops his books and everything and comes from the church.

  Early in the morning, as soon as the dawn falls and spreads warm-red on the mountains and forest, and the sun rises—Atya gets up too and runs to the Kosa to bathe and then—time for work!—spends the day working: delivering manure.

  Evening comes, the sun starts setting, ornamenting the curly linden with a golden crown, putting a golden ring on the willow, only then does Atya come home, and so dirty, covered in dirt: what a sight!

  Grandfather says: “Look at the master here!”

  “Grandfather, I drove nine loads!” Atya says and laughs. When Atya laughs, he shows his strong wide white teeth, and you want Atya to laugh all the time.

  Old and little—grandfather and Atya—won’t sit at the table without each other.

  Over evening tea Atya reads what is written on that day’s calendar page: what omens there are, and the weather; at other times he’ll read from a book, usually the Arabian stories, A Thousand and One Nights.

  Grandfather likes to listen to the Arabian stories.

  “Here’s a five kopeck coin for your work, just don’t throw it away.”

  “Grandfather! I wasted all the money I saved from last year. I saw a hippopotamus!” Atya laughs.

  When Atya laughs his eyes light up like fireflies and make everyone merry.

  The days flow by like a river.

  They celebrate the Ninth Saturday after Easter with a procession of the cross. So many people—a long line!

  Atya carries the cross in the procession a
round the village.

  People follow the icons, after the people came the animals—nanny goats, ewes, sheep, cows, horses—they’re allowed, too!

  The rabbit goes as well.

  Well, it doesn’t follow the procession like a horse or a cow, godmother carries the rabbit, which mewls the whole way; otherwise it would quickly sneak off into the woods!

  They’re expecting Uncle Arkady from St. Petersburg.

  That’s all anyone talked about in Kluchi, Uncle Arkady. His godmother saw him in a dream; Uncle Arkady came out of the storeroom all in white and in one step reached the pots and pans.

  Believing her dream, she bakes pryazheniki for tea.

  The pryazheniki are tasty and so buttery that they melt in your mouth—and Atya eats them all in Uncle Arkady’s stead!

  Saint Peter’s day is coming: get the minnows! We’ll be fishing soon!

  Atya is no coward: he could ride any horse, he would go out on the river in any weather, but Atya does have an awful fear of corpses.

  When they are laid out under the belfry before a funeral, he is afraid to look out the window at the church and would not sleep alone: he keeps imagining things, he is afraid.

  So Panya, or his godmother, or the old handless Votyak Kuzmich would go up to the attic with him, and he would quietly fall asleep to their stories and fairytales.

  But when they bring corpses to the church or carry the coffin to the cemetery, Atya always runs to look and to listen to the funereal bells.

  Watchman Kostya digs the graves, Kostya rings the bells.

  Kostya strikes ten blows—ten slow and drawn-out peals: he starts with thin ones, then deeper—sad, pathetic, terribly sorrowful, and the last one he hits full force, as something will break and you’ll fall with the bells!—and fly off:

  Holy God,

  Holy Mighty One,

  Holy Immortal One,

  Have mercy on us.

  Not a single service goes by without Atya.

  Atya stands in the choir and sings, only it doesn’t work: he can’t get in tune with the deacons—each deacon is older than the next, and all they manage is “Grant us, Oh, Lord!”