The Little Devil and Other Stories

by Alexei Remizov

  It didn’t matter, you can’t hide or conceal anything. Seeing only the piercing eyes drawing him closer, Savva, as if hooked, was pulled out of the crowd. He caught up with Viktor.

  Viktor attacked him furiously: “What a goose you are, getting involved with a tramp! That teary-eyed trickster, I know their type, he’s robbed many honest men. He sees your rich clothing, that’s all he needs and nothing will stop him! They’re sharp, they know how to make money. He’ll get your pity and then he’ll squeeze you to death. Their song: ‘Mother of the desert’ will lead you to the desert. You think he’s a man? A man who’s a holy fool in the name of Christ? He doesn’t care about Christ, he’s Christ himself. He came into the world to destroy the beauty of the world and create his own: ‘the beautiful desert’—mud, poverty, complaints, despair, can’t see the light.”

  Savva was stunned.

  “You can’t be left alone.”

  Savva felt claw-like fingers take hold of him and heard a cold piercing whistle in his ears.

  No longer at the market in Pavlov landing, they were in a square in Shui.

  And Savva sees: Stepanida high up near the doors of the Cathedral. She is wearing smoky gray and comes down to earth as if from a cloud.

  She approaches them and first exchanges three Easter kisses with Viktor. Then she comes up to Savva and kisses his forehead.

  Jealousy and hurt boiled in Savva’s heart. He spat in her face. And walked away without looking back.

  A stone vaulted warehouse, iron up to the ceiling. How terrible for a person to wake up in such captivity: no doors, no windows, cold gray stone.

  When Savva, looking into his gray night, extinguished his last hope: “I won’t get out,” the wall rose and a garden was revealed.

  There was Stepanida, but it wasn’t her, she wasn’t wearing gray but brown, the sleeves and hem pierced with red.

  “Welcome back!” she says, twirling around, wanting to come up to him, but still so far away. So far, but her voice is near, and he walks toward her, repeating her words, “Welcome back!”

  2

  Foma Grudtsyn returned to Ustyug from Perisa. He brought back with him many goods from the Redtops: the trade was successful and friendships were strengthened; it would be easy to take Persia in his hands, there was so much wealth and the people were accommodating: Selamun aleikum was all you had to say.

  Foma asks about his son: is Savva alive?

  Bitterly, Savva’s mother replies: “I hear from many that after you left for Persia, Savva did not reach Solikamsk but got stuck in Usolsk Oryol. He lives in debauchery, having gone through his money, and abandoned the trade. I wrote to him several times asking him to come home, but he did not respond. I do not know if he is alive.”

  Foma was upset: it was not like Savva not to respond to his mother. He wrote to Savva in Oryol himself: he wouldn’t dare disobey—“Return immediately, I miss you and want to see you.”

  Foma waited. Talked only of his son. No matter what he did, his first words and thoughts were about Savva. They began jokingly calling Foma Savvich behind his back, not to his face: another person’s misfortune, just like good fortune, becomes boring.

  Savva did not show up at home and sent no news: as if he had fallen under water.

  In the spring Foma loaded his strugs with freight. “I’ll find him, I’ll pull him out from the darkest hole, I’ll bring my son home.”

  With the first boat headed that way he went to Kazan and from Kazan to Solikamsk.

  As soon as Foma arrived in Oryol he went to Savva’s warehouse straight from the wharf. There was a lock on the door. They broke it and as he walked in he thought, “I’ll find a mess!” and was surprised: the goods were stacked on shelves, the wealth was intact, the trade books up-to-date and the accounts written. “Then it was all lies.”

  But Savva was nowhere to be found.

  He asked everyone—and promised more money than could be spent to whoever told him—so they were willing but had nothing to tell, no one knew a thing.

  “He promised to be here for lunch,” Kolpakov said as if by rote, “but he did not come for dinner, either. That night of St. Semyon’s Day, his sin with Stepanida, he did not sleep at home. They caught all the villains around. At the interrogation the voyevoda asked about Savva, and after they were held and whipped, they confessed to murder but about Savva they said: we don’t know. He fell out with Bozhen over something.”

  Foma went to Bozhen.

  The old friends who called each other brother met.

  “I lost my wife,” Bozhen said, “without a woman I might as well be living with strangers in my own house.”

  “And I lost my son,” Foma said, “and I don’t need my wealth, I won’t give it to strangers, and there’s no family to give it to, it will all go to waste.”

  So Foma returned to Ustyug with nothing. He told his wife everything and she suffered terribly. And what would he say there, for soon he would be on his final journey. “You couldn’t protect your son,” they will say, “what happened to your Savva?”

  Savva was living happily in Shui: not a memory of home, not a word about his mother or father, and if it weren’t for his name Grudtsyn, he would be without family or tribe.

  The sermon “On Sorrow and Evil” was composed then; could that bitter story be about Savva?

  War began with Poland. Sigismund, the old Polish king, had died and the interregnum period ensued—the best time for Moscow to get Smolensk back from the Poles. The war would end badly for Moscow, but who could predict how things would end? They were certain: Smolensk was Russian and there was no question about it.

  A draft of soldiers was announced in all Moscow towns. The steward Timofei Vorontsov was sent to Shui from Moscow.

  Every day Vorontsov trained the volunteers in military affairs in the square. Gawkers will stare at anything, be it a fire or soldiers. Savva and Viktor, with nothing better to do, watched the training.

  “Brother Savva,” Viktor said, perhaps noticing that the drums enlivened Savva or perhaps he had another thought, “do you want to serve the tsar? It’s only through tsars that you can make your way. Shall we sign up as soldiers?”

  Savva agreed. They had to do something: idleness, like debauchery, gets boring. And he liked the drumming, and serving the tsar was his duty.

  So both signed up.

  Vorontsov did not ask where they were from or why: volunteers were like tramps, without memory, you don’t volunteer yourself away from a good life.

  Without missing a day, they went to the training. Things went well and fast. In a month Savva had not only mastered the soldier’s muster, he surpassed the seniors. Of course, that was with Viktor’s help, but no one knew that.

  The Vorontsov soldiers were marched from Shui to Moscow. And in Moscow they were turned over to the command of a German colonel for a regiment of foreigners.

  Ottokar Unbegaun, the German colonel, who always knew what was good for him, selected Savva out of all the new recruits for his accurate answers and carriage. As a sign of his approval he took off his German hat, embroidered with precious beads, and before all the honest folk, to a drumbeat, he slapped it onto Savva’s head. Everyone gasped: our Grudstyn from Ustyug wearing a hat like that: it glowed, like the firebird. He gave Savva three companies to train.

  “Brother Savva,” said Viktor, “maintaining soldiers is not like feeding a pig, if you need anything, just tell me and I’ll get enough not just for three companies but for thirty-three. There will be no complaining or moaning in your command.”

  And so it was. Savva was free with the secret money and his soldiers did not rebel. There was disorder in the other companies, and who had time for order? They were dying of hunger, dressed in rags; if they tightened their belts, all the other parts fell out.

  Not knowing how to reward Savva, the German Colonel Ottokar Unbegaun, tucked a green Mecklenburg parrot feather over the beads on Savva’s hat, and ordered his German soldiers not to use the informal Du (ty
in Russian) but speak to him in the formal Sie (vy in Russian).

  In the German colonel’s hat with the green Mecklenburg parrot feather, Savva stood out to everyone in Moscow, he couldn’t get through the crowds of gawkers. Viktor, Savva’s squire, put on a very long Polish saber that rattled like a cart loaded with tin dishes rolling downhill. Whatever house Savva entered and whatever he said, everyone recognized him; he was first among all and an example to all.

  The tsar’s brother-in-law, the boyar Semyon Luyanovich Streshnev, on good terms with the tsar, and who wouldn’t be flattered to know him, asked to be introduced to Savva.

  Savva was placed before the boyar.

  From his first words, Savva charmed the grandee.

  “If you want, Savva,” said Streshnev, “I will take you into my service and distinguish you from all my entourage.”

  “I have a brother,” replied Savva, “and if he is willing, I will gladly serve you.”

  When Savva told Viktor about Streshnev’s offer, Viktor was furious.

  “You want to reject the tsar’s kindness and serve his slave? How are you any lower than Streshnev? All of Moscow is talking about you, and soon the tsar will hear of you, too. And when he sees your service, he will raise you much higher than Streshnev. And then some! Remember all these upstarts are no equals of yours, you are—”

  “Tsarevich Klim,” Savva prompted and laughed bitterly.

  When Viktor was in a fury, everything about him was jumpy and prickly. Jokes did not sit well. Savva had to obey. He did not return to Streshnev and did not execute the ambitious boyar’s plan.

  The soldiers trained in the foreign order were given to various streltsy regiments to fill the ranks. Savva and his squire Viktor were placed on Sretenka in Zemlyanoi city in Zimin’s command at the house of the streltsy centurion Yakov Shilov.

  The time was approaching to appear in Smolensk. Grudtsyn’s exploits began and so the tsar learned of him.

  3

  They told stories of Grudtsyn’s exploits at Smolensk as if they were fairy tales.

  The head of the Moscow army was boyar Fyodor Ivanovich Shein. During the Time of Troubles he was the voyevoda in Smolensk and he knew the city like his own courtyard in Moscow on Bolvanovka. But still before the attack there was talk about scouts checking the city’s fortifications and the places where weapons were placed.

  Savva volunteered, and it was Viktor who talked him into taking on this dangerous work.

  They say that on the eve Viktor took Savva to the banya he said: “I’ll show you the tsar’s signs.” There is no doubt that the demon wanted to strengthen his faith in his inhuman nature and omnipotence.

  Viktor had quite a tail, flesh-colored, which did not resemble that of any animal, and he wrapped that tail around himself like a belt, and the tip was lowered in the middle from the bellybutton down to cover the genitals. To Savva’s amazement, there were no genitals, and in their place, just like the triple-seal castrated Skoptsy, there was a star. “The Khan’s!” Viktor noted. “Of the Golden Horde.” And when Savva, after a couple of glasses of vodka, wanted to scrub his back, Viktor lay down on the bench, but there was nothing to scrub: a transparent covering went from shoulders to tail and you could see him breathe, there was no backbone, and not a sign of heels on his feet. Viktor noticed: “Keep trying, brother Savva, and you’ll be like this eventually.” Without a branch broom, he dipped his tail in the boiling water and whipped Savva so hard that he didn’t even remember how he ended up at the strelets’s house, and to the astonishment of Shilov and his wife he gulped down three barrels of fresh kvass and devoured pickles without end.

  In the morning Viktor took Savva to Red Square, right to Lobnoe Mesto (Execution Place). Facing the Intercession Cathedral on the moat (St. Basil’s), he whistled his devil’s whistle and in an instant they were in Smolensk.

  They spent three days in the city, seeing everything, seen by no one. On the fourth day they announced themselves to the Poles. Gunfire: lift the hem of your coat and run. Here’s where the problem happened: Viktor could turn into any animal and bird, but Savva remained himself, and everyone pointed a finger at him: that one!

  They say they got out of the city and to the Dnieper: the water parted and they crossed on dry land to the other side.

  “They have to be Moscow demons in human form,” the Poles said, “where have you ever seen the Dnieper part?”

  The devil’s work wasn’t so great; it wasn’t three days but eight months under siege, before Vladislav, the new Polish king, arrived and chased us out back to Moscow, taking our wagon train and every single cannon.

  When the Moscow troops of thirty-two thousand marched out of Moscow to the beat of a drum, toward Smolensk, Savva went, inseparable from Viktor.

  Viktor told Savva: “The Poles will call out for single combat, go out, you’ll beat everyone. The third and last will strike your thigh with his spear, but don’t be afraid, I’m here and you won’t feel any pain.”

  When the first rows of the Moscow army approached Smolensk the negotiations began: we thought we’d take the Poles with our bare hands, but no, honor came first.

  A warrior came out of the city. The chronicle records: “very frightening was he, on a horse and seeking a foe from the Moscow regiments.” Who would dare fight him, an idol? Just looking at him sinks your heart to your heels.

  “Here I am, I have a good steed, I would fight against this tsarist foe.”

  They informed boyar Shein. He commanded a horse and weapons be given to Savva. He felt sorry for Savva: he would die for nothing: so fierce and frightening was the Polish warrior.

  Savva rode out fearlessly. They fought. Viktor was like a black wheel at the bridle: he’d whirl like smoke or make sparks. The Polish giant was defeated. Savva brought him and his horse to the Moscow regiment. Everyone cried: “Grudtsyn!”

  The next day a Polish warrior still more terrible came—if he had looked in a mirror he’d scare himself! But Savva did not falter and killed him: not a man, not a stone, but a mountain fell from the horse to the ground. And again everyone cried “Grudtsyn!”

  Savva dealt with the third one, too, but he came out so fiercely that as he fell from his horse he wounded Savva in the thigh. Here was Viktor: he blew on the wound and it vanished. And everyone shouted: “Bravo, Grudtsyn!”

  Backlash for the Poles, amazement for the Muscovites.

  And the battle began.

  Wherever Savva led the attack, from whichever flank, the Poles ran. He killed Poles without number, and he was unharmed.

  Grudtsyn’s name filled Smolensk.

  Boyar Shein called Savva to his tent.

  Later they would say: the boyar envied Savva. Then they would call Shein “traitor” and execute him in Moscow. No, during the Time of Troubles, the voyevoda of Smolensk showed what it meant to love Russia, and what did envy or treachery have to do with anything?

  “Tell me, what is your family and who is your father?” the boyar asked Savva.

  “Foma Grudtsyn’s son Savva from Veliky Ustyug,” Savva replied.

  “What pushed you onto this desperate path?” the boyar asked, amazed. “I’ve heard a lot about Foma Grudtsyn, he’s immeasurably rich. How could you leave your father? Did you sign up to be a soldier out of poverty or were you being prosecuted by a court? Head back to Ustyug immediately and help your father. If you don’t obey, I will find you.”

  Savva left the tent, “A fine reward!”

  “Why are you so sad?” Viktor said. “If Shein doesn’t want your service, let’s go back to Moscow.”

  And here you can’t argue.

  And Savva felt the same feeling and spoke the same words as did Stepanida in church at the Easter service in response to her mother’s “How are you living?”

  “I want freedom.”

  “I want freedom!” Savva said.

  Dark sadness covered him over his head.

  Viktor whistled—and they were in Moscow.

  IV


  1

  In Moscow, Savva lived, as he had before Smolensk, on Sretenka at the house of the streltsy centurion Yakov Shilov.

  Viktor was with him all day: his friend was thinking up something, not simple, and called Savva tsarevich about a serious matter.

  “We’ll show them!” was his constant refrain.

  He would disappear at night. He said he had people all over Moscow and wherever he felt like it is where he would spend the night. But to put it simply, he didn’t need to go to Shchipok or Zatsepa street, he hopped, unfurling his prickly tail, to where the dark forces usually stayed, all together, until the third rooster crowed.

  The name Grudtsyn was on everyone’s lips around Smolensk, they shouted it and it reached Moscow, and it was repeated with all the fairy tale stories and fables, but in the meantime Savva did not show his nose anywhere: Viktor was hiding him “until the time was right.”

  News came from Ustyug: it was a year since Foma died, and this winter his mother passed away.

  You would think what does Savva need in Moscow; his direct road was to Ustyug, as boyar Shein had told him. Savva was the only heir of the immeasurable Grudtsyn riches: the Volga and the Kama and Persia and he was the last of the Grudtsyns. But when Yakov mentioned it, Savva flew into a fury and harshly told the centurion that he would never return to Ustyug, money did not interest him, and death was inevitable.

  “One way or another!” And he brandished his knife at the terrified centurion.

  The centurion’s wife insisted that it wasn’t Savva but his friend making trouble, and that friend was a relative of the devil, and under his boots he had black goat hooves, and on his head iron curly ram horns.

  With every day Savva grew grimmer, his eyes spoke as with words: he didn’t want to see the world. Before he used to go out, just to walk around the courtyard, spring was coming! But now, when it is a matter not of weeks but of days until the Moscow River ice breaks, and the Yauza floods the garden: spring is here! And he won’t set foot outside his room.

  “Olga Kuzminishna,” Savva said to the centurion’s wife, and his words seemed cut out of his heart, “tomorrow is the Annunciation, will you be releasing a bird?” And then in a whisper, he said: if I could free my soul!