The Little Devil and Other Stories

by Alexei Remizov

  He rose and went after her.

  His eyes are filled with her moist, burning lips—an opening flower—and he feels them within him, without looking. A single “I love” turbulently broke open the walls. And in the whole world there were only two, and only one feeling. His insistent will and her indissoluble will—a wingless, witch’s flight with an approaching ringing trill and cuckoo’s call.

  It was not damnation but heavenly blessing, the sealing enduring kiss.

  Bozhen slept and he had no dreams: a peaceful sleep, like a caressing whisper; you can’t understand it and you remember nothing of it. Stepanida’s morning prayer will be strong: “I am happy!” And “happy” will be Savva’s word, too.

  The Ascension is one of the twelve feasts, the service is long, the blessing of bread, wine, and oil.

  From childhood, Savva always felt sad around Ascension: “Christ is risen” is no longer sung, joy has gone off to heaven, the primroses of spring have abandoned the earth, wait for next year.

  After the service Bozhen went off to bed, without sitting around: he had to get up early tomorrow for church. Savva wasn’t thinking of bed: he remembered his house, his father and mother, and how they had lived together—Easter year-round—and fate decided to separate them: Mother was in Ustyug, Father in Persia.

  That night Stepanida seemed special to him, and he wasn’t his usual self, either; she was flowering like a flower, the spring ones turned into summer ones, brighter colors, sweeter fragrances.

  As usual, she kissed him, they called that kiss a “pearl,” but he sat with her briefly.

  “What a sad holiday Ascension is,” he said, continuing his memories of the inevitable. “Tomorrow will be better for us.”

  She did not respond. She jumped off the bed and left without farewell. The first thing he noticed: blood on the sheet.

  “That’s why,” he thought, explaining her rush to himself and calmed down. “It will pass quickly.”

  Bozhen barely woke up: the church bells were calling. Savva did not want to get up. His soul had a happy secret. “It will pass!” he repeated on the way and in church during the singing. Translating every hoped-for divine word into his own, seeing only her, hearing only about her. If she only knew how strong and indivisible his love was.

  After the service, kissing the cross, the voyevoda invited Bozhen to his house. Learning that Savva was the son of Foma Grudtsyn, he invited Savva, an honored guest: the Grudtsyn name was an incalculable treasure to everyone on the Volga and Kama.

  Lunch at the voyevoda’s was important, but most important was the honor. Nothing cheers the soul like recognition. Bozhen returned from the voyevoda’s house pleased and confident. But Savva was impatient: he missed her. Those who love know that “separation” is not hours, not minutes, but an entirely imperceptible instance—a moment of separation.

  It was a holiday and such a successful day that Bozhen ordered Stepanida to serve wine: “the strongest!” he shouted after her. He cannot forget and keeps bringing up the reception at the voyevoda’s: what the voyevoda said and how the voyevoda distinguished himself before everyone, and with him Savva.

  Stepanida brought the wine and three glasses. She filled them equally to the brim: the first for her husband, the second for herself, the third for the guest.

  Bozhen drank: he was pleased: so much better than the voyevoda’s Rhеin wine. It was Stepanida’s turn. She picked up the glass, but she didn’t even bring it to her lips. Bozhen understood her sinful gaze and noted: “sensible.” The third cup was for Savva.

  You can’t say it in words, they only sing such things in songs, the jealous love with which she looked at Savva when she handed the glass to him. She watched without taking her eyes off him, boiling with wine herself, while Savva drank the glass of love potion that bound him for ever and ever.

  A bitter fire burned him. He felt it burst into flame in his heart.

  “My father has many wines, but I’ve never had one this strong.”

  The wine was strong, but praise is stronger than wine: Bozhen, falling into a drunken boastfulness, mocked Savva: “shallow-swimming sheepskin!” And supremely pleased, he went off to consummate his superiority: “I’ll take a nap!”

  Stepanida left for chores.

  The sunset looked in the window—a bloody red. The room was quieter than night.

  Savva listened: he was alone in the whole house. Where was she?

  Suddenly he felt that she was in him: her black cherry eyes, her red wolf-berry lips. His hand involuntarily touched her. He could see her rise up like a blizzard, mouth open, and her lips moved, breathing: “Will you understand?” And she whirled: beckoning, moving away. Savva rushed after. And in her barely audible breath he hears: “Do you understand?” With his damp hand he touched her again. And she said hotly into his face: “Remember?”

  If this was intoxication, every drunken vision passes, but this did not let go. And it wasn’t poison, he felt no pain.

  He felt her inside him, he touched her as if she were alive. And at the same time she was in his eyes—her twisting breath, and her whisper. As she repeated “will you understand” and “do you understand” he tried to understand what fire had entered his blood with the wine? And remembering her “remember,” he recalled last night: blood on the sheet.

  The whole night was like that. He washed his hand with boiling water, it would not wash off: his hand was damp and sticky.

  Savva decided: I will tell her everything now. He was certain that a single word from her would free him from last night’s bitter intoxication.

  In the morning, Stepanida did not come out.

  What a wearying day. Savva thought time had stopped and evening would never come. She alone filled him up, growing in him. His hearing was fuzzy, he saw spots before his eyes.

  And when evening finally came and Savva came home from the city, he was horrified. If he was out of sorts in the morning, now he was half-dead: Stepanida was gone: she had gone to visit relatives in the country.

  “Let her have fun,” Bozhen explained. “She wanted to play in the grass, she’s a child still, her girlfriends are there.”

  Savva could not live a day without her. Has anyone ever thought about a man who was half-dead, what he feels? Savva waited for her in delirium. It was like thirst when there is no water. Black, burning longing.

  Bozhen noticed, how could he not? “Homesick?” And he praised him: honoring your parents will be counted in your favor in heaven.

  At last, Stepanida returned. She might as well have not. That same day Bozhen had company. It was like a dream: some said good-bye, others appeared on the doorstep. The place never emptied.

  Day and night she was with the guests, which did not bother her, it was entertaining. The night—what night: he waited till dawn.

  Was it inconvenient? Or was she testing him? Couldn’t she see? Didn’t she believe? No one could love more: she was in his bones, meat, and blood and she was ethereal before his eyes, three times alive.

  What thoughts filled Savva over those nights. He spoke with her impatiently, and as it invariably happens, said the wrong things and not about that. He was unrecognizable: deaf, subdued, with a strange voice, and his right hand like a dustpan and he kept hiding it and looking around. You could tell there was something evil on his mind.

  Bozhen called Savva into his study, which was like a chapel. He did not ask him to sit down and remained standing himself. He looked at the icons a long time. Suddenly he turned sharply. Savva had never seen him like that: grim face, eyes like drills.

  “Savva, I thought you were an honest man.”

  Savva, stabbed, feverishly held out his hand, to persuade and to defend. But instead of words he could only rasp. His hand pulled away and hung down.

  “You are a scoundrel!” Bozhen’s voice was like a lash, a sure sign he would come to blows. “My wife complains to me about you, she says she can’t get away from you, you bother her even in public. Why do you keep hiding your
hand, do you have a knife?” Bozhen shouted: “Get out of my house!”

  It was late but he was thrown out, immediately. Savva didn’t get to say good-bye.

  II

  1

  Kolpakov was stunned: why had Savva left Bozhen?

  “I’m hungry there,” Savva said.

  But Kolpakov also noticed the change: that’s not from hunger. He didn’t ask questions, let him live here, he’s not off the street, he’s a Grudtsyn.

  In the new place, at the inn separated from Stepanida, Savva begins his painful ordeal—the fire of his bitterness is inextinguishable and his heart aches: there is no place for him on the earth or in days.

  The innkeeper and his wife, seeing that the man was dying took pity on him, but how could they help?

  There was a sorcerer living in Oryol: his spells let him discover the cause of pain and he would tell a person whether he would live or die. He was shameless and his eyes could see through you.

  Keeping it a secret from Savva, the Kolpakovs called in Komar. When Savva walked through the courtyard, they pointed him out to Komar. The wizard took one look and did not even open his black book.

  “He is cursed and there is but one end for him,” he said and took a rope from his pocket. “The noose. He’s mixed up with Bozhen’s wife, Stepanida.” He thought and added, “Her blood is playing in him, and blood is inescapable.”

  The Kolpakovs did not believe it: how could it be? Savva was a model son of wealthy parents and he would not be tempted by another’s wife. And Bozhen was an example of piety and would not allow his wife to take to the youth and fall into sinful mingling with him.

  “No, Komarushka, you’re wrong: Bozhen is a man of a holy life.”

  The wizard didn’t even bother spitting. He got his money and left.

  The hope of saving Savva with wizardry fell through the Kolpakovs’ fingers.

  In the guise of cleaning for the holiday, every rope, both sturdy and feeble scraps, went straight from Savva’s room to the cesspit to remove temptation.

  “Komar doesn’t waste words.”

  The next day was New Year’s—the day of Semyon Letoprovodets (Farewell-to-Summer), the start of autumn. But it was so warm outside you would think it the Apple Savior time.1

  Never had Savva felt so totally alone as he did on that New Year’s Eve: for the first time he was bringing in the new year alone and not at home. What would destiny foretell for him?

  He went outside and walked without a plan. He did not notice how he had arrived in a field outside town.

  It was muggy without rain; the gray evening was turning into night. No moon or stars to be seen. Departing birds formed a black ribbon across the sky.

  He was bound up: like all the days and nights before, he felt her inside him, her live, warm weight, and her call before his eyes—that insuppressible, tempting, taunting whisper.

  “I’ll give anything, everything, I’ll be a slave until I die, to a man or the devil, if I could just be with her one more time!” the cry came from the very depths of his despairing heart.

  There was no one before or behind him. Just the peaceful field, finished with the summer day. And suddenly someone called his name. Savva looked around and saw someone hurrying toward him, so fast he could have been on wheels, waving his arm.

  “Who would be in the field at this hour?” thought Savva. When the hailer came closer, Savva saw that he was no thief, but well-dressed and with a friendly gaze, his contemporary in age.

  “Brother Savva, at last!” the stranger exclaimed. “I’ve been searching for you a long time. We are so similar. You came out into the field, and so did I, you see. You’re a Grudtsyn from Ustyug, I’m also from Ustyug. I’m Viktor Tainykh, you must have heard my name. We’re relatives, albeit distant. I ended up here, in this hole, to buy horses, it’s that time of year. Like you, I live alone, don’t spend time with anyone. The locals don’t suit me: one is a complete fool, the other is just a fool, that’s the only difference.” And Viktor laughed.

  Savva stared in surprise; there was something arrogant in that laughter.

  “One fool, as is characteristic of all fools,” continued Viktor, “considers himself a genius, no less, and the other is just a clod. But you know them all. You and I are lonely. Be my friend, and I will gladly help you in everything.”

  Savva felt alert—he had not expected to meet a relative, and he understood everything so well. In fact, he had seen so many of these “complete fools” and simply “clods” at Bozhen’s.

  Arm in arm they went into the night.

  “Brother Savva, I see you are suffering. I know that your landlords the Kolpakovs called in Komar, secretly from you. There’s this wizard here. Komar scared them about ropes, they watched you in case you hanged yourself. But what can their celebrated Komar do? Just drop the idea of a noose. Believe me, I know a lot more about these things. I’ll help you, but what will you give me?”

  Savva said, not right away, “First guess my unhappiness,” he said firmly, “and then I’ll believe that you can help me.”

  Viktor laughed. “You are heartsick for Stepanida. Blood separated you. I can connect you with blood.”

  “I did not turn from her, she turned from me.”

  “You are too suspicious: she loves you more than you think.”

  “I have many goods,” Savva said, “and Father has a bottomless wealth. I’ll give it all to you, return her love to me.”

  “What do I care about the wealth,” Viktor countered impatiently. “I’m a thousand times richer than all the Grudtsyns and Stroganovs put together. I have no use for your goods. I need your signature and nothing else: signing your name the way you do can’t be done by any Moscow deacon. Give me your signature and everything will be as you wish.”

  “What a trifle,” thought Savva. “Just sign!” And he sighed in relief: he was happy that neither his goods nor the wealth would leave him.

  “I’m ready, show me where, I’ll sign.”

  “I don’t care, tear out a page from your notebook.”

  Savva carefully tore out a page from his trading book. He found a pen as well.

  “I have no ink.”

  “Sign in blood. Here,” Viktor handed him a knife, “poke your finger, the knife is sharp.”

  They sat down by the ravine.

  Savva fastened the page on the cover of his notebook and thought: Viktor’s words “sign in blood” awakened a memory: “blood on the sheet.” And he felt himself fill with blood.

  “Blood covers blood!” Viktor said mysteriously.

  Savva jabbed himself in the finger, pressed and dripped blood on the pen and got ready to sign.

  “Wait,” Viktor touched his hand. “Do you believe in Christ?”

  “We are of Russian faith, how could we be without Christ, the true God?” Savva replied in the old way, watching his pen bubble with blood.

  “But how much do you love her?”

  “To the death.”

  Viktor laughed. “Just to death! That’s not much.”

  “I’d give my soul for her,” Savva said distinctly.

  “Then write: For my love—”

  “For my love.”

  “I forsake Christ—”

  “Forsake Christ.”

  “The true God…”

  “The true God.”

  Savva wrote and blood shone on his temples, he pressed each letter so hard. He freshened the pen with blood and signed with a flourish:

  “Savva Grudtsyn by his hand.”

  “Marvelous, a royal signature,” Viktor praised him, admiring it, “you can’t fake that!” He stuffed the note in his pocket. “Believe me, all your dreams will come true.”

  In reply, Savva sighed deeply and smiled: his smile radiated happiness.

  “And we will be brothers,” Viktor said. “Give me your cross.”

  Savva obediently reached for his collar to remove his baptismal cross from his neck. But it was not there. “Must have forgotten it i
n the banya,” he thought lazily.

  “Well, let’s go,” Viktor said calmly. “Don’t worry about trifles.”

  And they went to the city, two brothers.

  It was late at night.

  “I didn’t ask, Viktor, where do you live? I know all the houses, why haven’t I run into you anywhere?”

  “I don’t live anywhere,” Viktor laughed. “If you want to see me, look for me at the horse square with the gypsies, I’m there all day. I told you I’m here for buying horses. And I’ll come to you myself. Tomorrow you can boldly go to Bozhen’s house. And when Bozhen will be coming home from church, you’ll see, believe me, he’ll greet you with such joy.”

  They parted. Viktor to “wherever, that’s where I’ll sleep,” and Savva back to his hotel.

  And for the first time in so many sleepless nights, Savva slept soundly on the New Year’s night. And the dream, rippling, led him to his dream—to her.

  Savva jumped up: they were ringing the bells for “It Is Meet and Just,” that’s how late he had overslept. New year means new happiness. And what a happy day it was: the sun shone. Savva felt his soul shining, as if he had traded someone happy for his happy soul: no darkness, no anxiety, just ease.

  And here was Bozhen’s house. And here was Bozhen: returning from church, such tenderness on his face, all shining. He saw Savva and called his name. Said hello. And Bozhen’s words sounded with such amiability and paternal rebuke: why had Savva forgotten them and what had Bozhen done, what bad deed, that Savva had left them?

  “Savva, come back to us!”

  And Stepanida was in the window. When she saw him, she ran out onto the street, embraced Savva, and showered him with “pearls,” deep kisses.

  “Savva, come back to us!”

  Everything was so good; it couldn’t be better: the unreturnable had returned!

  Savva can’t remember how he got back to the hotel, never asking himself why hadn’t he remained with Bozhen? He remembers that he lay down and fell asleep instantly. And it seemed he would never awaken if not for the wild knocking: Kolpakov banging on the door: the service was over, everyone was back from church, lunch was served.