Dreaming like this, Fyodor suddenly thought of his work, and opened his eyes.
“Here’s a go,” he thought, looking at the boots. “The job has been finished ever so long ago, and I go on sitting here. I must take the boots to the gentleman.”
He wrapped up the work in a red handkerchief, put on his things, and went out into the street. A fine hard snow was falling, pricking the face as though with needles. It was cold, slippery, dark, the gas-lamps burned dimly, and for some reason there was a smell of paraffin in the street, so that Fyodor coughed and cleared his throat. Rich men were driving to and fro on the road, and every rich man had a ham and a bottle of vodka in his hands. Rich young ladies peeped at Fyodor out of the carriages and sledges, put out their tongues and shouted, laughing:
“Beggar! Beggar!”
Students, officers, and merchants walked behind Fyodor, jeering at him and crying:
“Drunkard! Drunkard! Infidel cobbler! Soul of a boot-leg! Beggar!”
All this was insulting, but Fyodor held his tongue and only spat in disgust. But when Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw, a master-bootmaker, met him and said: “I’ve married a rich woman and I have men working under me, while you are a beggar and have nothing to eat,” Fyodor could not refrain from running after him. He pursued him till he found himself in Kolokolny Lane. His customer lived in the fourth house from the corner on the very top floor. To reach him one had to go through a long, dark courtyard, and then to climb up a very high slippery stair-case which tottered under one’s feet. When Fyodor went in to him he was sitting on the floor pounding something in a mortar, just as he had been the fortnight before.
“Your honor, I have brought your boots,” said Fyodor sullenly.
The customer got up and began trying on the boots in silence. Desiring to help him, Fyodor went down on one knee and pulled off his old, boot, but at once jumped up and staggered towards the door in horror. The customer had not a foot, but a hoof like a horse’s.
“Aha!” thought Fyodor; “here’s a go!”
The first thing should have been to cross himself, then to leave everything and run downstairs; but he immediately reflected that he was meeting a devil for the first and probably the last time, and not to take advantage of his services would be foolish. He controlled himself and determined to try his luck. Clasping his hands behind him to avoid making the sign of the cross, he coughed respectfully and began:
“They say that there is nothing on earth more evil and impure than the devil, but I am of the opinion, your honor, that the devil is highly educated. He has—excuse my saying it—hoofs and a tail behind, but he has more brains than many a student.”
“I like you for what you say,” said the devil, flattered. “Thank you, shoemaker! What do you want?”
And without loss of time the shoemaker began complaining of his lot. He began by saying that from his childhood up he had envied the rich. He had always resented it that all people did not live alike in big houses and drive with good horses. Why, he asked, was he poor? How was he worse than Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw, who had his own house, and whose wife wore a hat? He had the same sort of nose, the same hands, feet, head, and back, as the rich, and so why was he forced to work when others were enjoying themselves? Why was he married to Marya and not to a lady smelling of scent? He had often seen beautiful young ladies in the houses of rich customers, but they either took no notice of him whatever, or else sometimes laughed and whispered to each other: “What a red nose that shoemaker has!” It was true that Marya was a good, kind, hard-working woman, but she was not educated; her hand was heavy and hit hard, and if one had occasion to speak of politics or anything intellectual before her, she would put her spoke in and talk the most awful nonsense.
“What do you want, then?” his customer interrupted him.
“I beg you, your honor Satan Ivanitch, to be graciously pleased to make me a rich man.”
“Certainly. Only for that you must give me up your soul! Before the cocks crow, go and sign on this paper here that you give me up your soul.”
“Your honor,” said Fyodor politely, “when you ordered a pair of boots from me I did not ask for the money in advance. One has first to carry out the order and then ask for payment.”
“Oh, very well!” the customer assented.
A bright flame suddenly flared up in the mortar, a pink thick smoke came puffing out, and there was a smell of burnt feathers and sulphur. When the smoke had subsided, Fyodor rubbed his eyes and saw that he was no longer Fyodor, no longer a shoemaker, but quite a different man, wearing a waistcoat and a watch-chain, in a new pair of trousers, and that he was sitting in an armchair at a big table. Two foot men were handing him dishes, bowing low and saying:
“Kindly eat, your honor, and may it do you good!”
What wealth! The footmen handed him a big piece of roast mutton and a dish of cucumbers, and then brought in a frying-pan a roast goose, and a little afterwards boiled pork with horse-radish cream. And how dignified, how genteel it all was! Fyodor ate, and before each dish drank a big glass of excellent vodka, like some general or some count. After the pork he was handed some boiled grain moistened with goose fat, then an omelette with bacon fat, then fried liver, and he went on eating and was delighted. What more? They served, too, a pie with onion and steamed turnip with kvass.
“How is it the gentry don’t burst with such meals?” he thought.
In conclusion they handed him a big pot of honey. After dinner the devil appeared in blue spectacles and asked with a low bow:
“Are you satisfied with your dinner, Fyodor Pantelyeitch?”
But Fyodor could not answer one word, he was so stuffed after his dinner. The feeling of repletion was unpleasant, oppressive, and to distract his thoughts he looked at the boot on his left foot.
“For a boot like that I used not to take less than seven and a half roubles. What shoemaker made it?” he asked.
“Kuzma Lebyodkin,” answered the footman.
“Send for him, the fool!”
Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw soon made his appearance. He stopped in a respectful attitude at the door and asked:
“What are your orders, your honor?”
“Hold your tongue!” cried Fyodor, and stamped his foot. “Don’t dare to argue; remember your place as a cobbler! Blockhead! You don’t know how to make boots! I’ll beat your ugly phiz to a jelly! Why have you come?”
“For money.”
“What money? Be off! Come on Saturday! Boy, give him a cuff!”
But he at once recalled what a life the customers used to lead him, too, and he felt heavy at heart, and to distract his attention he took a fat pocketbook out of his pocket and began counting his money. There was a great deal of money, but Fyodor wanted more still. The devil in the blue spectacles brought him another notebook fatter still, but he wanted even more; and the more he counted it, the more discontented he became.
In the evening the evil one brought him a full-bosomed lady in a red dress, and said that this was his new wife. He spent the whole evening kissing her and eating gingerbreads, and at night he went to bed on a soft, downy feather-bed, turned from side to side, and could not go to sleep. He felt uncanny.
“We have a great deal of money,” he said to his wife; “we must look out or thieves will be breaking in. You had better go and look with a candle.”
He did not sleep all night, and kept getting up to see if his box was all right. In the morning he had to go to church to matins. In church the same honor is done to rich and poor alike. When Fyodor was poor he used to pray in church like this: “God, forgive me, a sinner!” He said the same thing now though he had become rich. What difference was there? And after death Fyodor rich would not be buried in gold, not in diamonds, but in the same black earth as the poorest beggar. Fyodor would burn in the same fire as cobblers. Fyo
dor resented all this, and, too, he felt weighed down all over by his dinner, and instead of prayer he had all sorts of thoughts in his head about his box of money, about thieves, about his bartered, ruined soul.
He came out of church in a bad temper. To drive away his unpleasant thoughts as he had often done before, he struck up a song at the top of his voice. But as soon as he began a policeman ran up and said, with his fingers to the peak of his cap:
“Your honor, gentlefolk must not sing in the street! You are not a shoemaker!”
Fyodor leaned his back against a fence and fell to thinking: what could he do to amuse himself?
“Your honor,” a porter shouted to him, “don’t lean against the fence, you will spoil your fur coat!”
Fyodor went into a shop and bought himself the very best concertina, then went out into the street playing it. Everybody pointed at him and laughed.
“And a gentleman, too,” the cabmen jeered at him; “like some cobbler.…
“Is it the proper thing for gentlefolk to be disorderly in the street?” a policeman said to him. “You had better go into a tavern!”
“Your honor, give us a trifle, for Christ’s sake,” the beggars wailed, surrounding Fyodor on all sides.
In earlier days when he was a shoemaker the beggars took no notice of him, now they wouldn’t let him pass.
And at home his new wife, the lady, was waiting for him, dressed in a green blouse and a red skirt. He meant to be attentive to her, and had just lifted his arm to give her a good clout on the back, but she said angrily:
“Peasant! Ignorant lout! You don’t know how to behave with ladies! If you love me you will kiss my hand; I don’t allow you to beat me.”
“This is a blasted existence!” thought Fyodor. “People do lead a life! You mustn’t sing, you mustn’t play the concertina, you mustn’t have a lark with a lady.… Pfoo!”
He had no sooner sat down to tea with the lady when the evil spirit in the blue spectacles appeared and said:
“Come, Fyodor Pantelyeitch, I have performed my part of the bargain. Now sign your paper and come along with me!”
And he dragged Fyodor to hell, straight to the furnace, and devils flew up from all directions and shouted:
“Fool! Blockhead! Ass!”
There was a fearful smell of paraffin in hell, enough to suffocate one. And suddenly it all vanished. Fyodor opened his eyes and saw his table, the boots, and the tin lamp. The lamp-glass was black, and from the faint light on the wick came clouds of stinking smoke as from a chimney. Near the table stood the customer in the blue spectacles, shouting angrily:
“Fool! Blockhead! Ass! I’ll give you a lesson, you scoundrel! You took the order a fortnight ago and the boots aren’t ready yet! Do you suppose I want to come trapesing round here half a dozen times a day for my boots? You wretch! You brute!”
Fyodor shook his head and set to work on the boots. The customer went on swearing and threatening him for a long time. At last when he subsided, Fyodor asked sullenly:
“And what is your occupation, sir?”
“I make Bengal lights and fireworks. I am a pyrotechnician.”
They began ringing for matins. Fyodor gave the customer the boots, took the money for them, and went to church.
Carriages and sledges with bearskin rugs were dashing to and fro in the street; merchants, ladies, officers were walking along the pavement together with the humbler folk.… But Fyodor did not envy them nor repine at his lot. It seemed to him now that rich and poor were equally badly off. Some were able to drive in a carriage, and others to sing songs at the top of their voice and to play the concertina, but one and the same thing, the same grave, was awaiting all alike, and there was nothing in life for which one would give the devil even a tiny scrap of one’s soul.
SPAWN OF HELL, by William P. McGivern
Originally published in Fantastic Adventures, Feb. 1943.
The long powerful German staff car crawled slowly along the tortuous trail that was but faintly outlined by the silver light of the moon; and in the rear of the car OberLeutnant Reinwold smoked nervously and glanced from side to side, striving vainly to pierce the Stygian gloom of the Black Forest which rose in a engulfing dark wave from the sides of the rutted road.
“Careful, fool!” he barked at the driver, as the car lurched suddenly. “Do you want to kill us both?”
“Sorry, sir,” the driver said. He was hunched close to the wheel and his eyes were narrow, red-rimmed slits in his stolid face. The long lances of the headlights stretched ahead of the car like the feelers of a giant bug. H-Their bright sharp light knifed through the swirling fogs that drifted through the dark mass of the trees and lowered over the road like a grim pall.
The driver wiped the windshield with a gloved hand.
“How much longer?” the Oberleutnant asked.
“Only a few hundred yards, sir,” the driver grunted.
Oberleutnant Reinwold settled back against the cushions of the car and lighted another cigarette. He looked out of the right window again and an involuntary shudder crawled along his spine as he contemplated the moody, desolate horror of the terrain.
The thick dark mass of trees grew to the edge of the poorly defined trail and their soft leaves scraped against the top of the car as it passed; a gray swirling mist hung over the entire area, thick, damp and oppressive. And overhead the slim crescent moon cast an eerie silver glow that frosted the tips of the trees with a pale luminescence.
The Oberleutnant drew the fur collar of his great coat closer about his shoulders. He was a tall, sparely built man with a narrow face and hard gray eyes. He was a complete realist. There was nothing in appearance to suggest otherwise; and yet there was something in the weirdness and wildness of the Black Forest, something about the ancient legends that were whispered about this area of brooding mists and moaning winds, there was something in all this that got under his tight armor of icy realism and pierced him with a strange sense of terror.
He dropped his cigarette to the floor of the car and ground it out with heel of a polished boot. He found a certain satisfaction in the physical action of destroying the glowing ember of the cigarette, of grinding the tobacco and paper into a shredded pulp. The Oberleutnant liked things that were solid and real; things that could be felt and seen and heard; things that could be bent and broken and crushed. For that reason the Oberleutnant did not like the Black Forest and its brooding sense of desolation and mystery. He had the feeling that its secret was one that could not be destroyed.
He lit another cigarette and he felt a slight irritation with himself. He was behaving and thinking like a superstitious peasant. He smiled ironically and drew deeply on his cigarette. The smoke drifted from his mouth in blue-gray streamers and merged imperceptibly with the white wisps of fog that seeped into the interior of the car.
He reflected that in just such a manner would National Socialism absorb the impure doctrines and ideologies that held other nations in their demoralizing grasp. The Oberleutnant considered this thought for a moment and he was pleased with its profundity. It had a touch of the same mystical vision that accompanied der Fuehrer’s pronouncements and it was certainly not a thought that would occur to a peasant.
He would mention it casually at the next party meeting. Who could tell? It might drift upward and find its way to Goebbel’s ears. And that would not hurt the career of Oberleutnant Reinwold.
The car stopped abruptly at a crossroads. A helmeted figure stepped from a motorcycle at the side of the road and approached the car.
Oberleutnant Reinwold stepped from the car and returned the soldier’s brisk salute.
“Well?” His voice was crisp with eagerness. “Have you caught them? Have you found their trail?”
The helmeted soldier shook his head.
“We have had no sign o
f them, Herr Oberleutnant. I have contacted all the other patrols before meeting you here. They report the same as ours. We have patrolled every possible trail and searched every house in the vicinity but have not seen them. The earth has swallowed them without leaving a trace.”
The Oberleutnant slapped his gloves into the palm of his left hand with a sharp cracking report.
“Fools! Dumkopfs!” he cried. His voice was hoarse with biting, caustic rage. “The two of them were seen in Heidleberg only six hours ago. They have fled to this section of the forests. And you cannot find them! Are you waiting for them to walk into your hands? Have you looked for them?”
“We have looked. We have questioned everyone in the neighborhood. But everywhere it is the same. The peasants know nothing. And they are smiling at one another as we leave.”
“The swine!” Oberleutnant Reinwold muttered. He slapped his gloves into the palm of his hand again. There was a hard thoughtful frown on his face. “There is a monastery in this neighborhood, is there not?”
“Yes. I think it was called Saint Benedict’s. It is a crumbling pile of stones, now. There is one old monk there, Brother Joseph, but he is half blind and out of his head.”
“Have you searched there?”
“No, but—”
“Fool!” the Oberleutnant said disgustedly. “You should have looked there first. How far is it from here?”
“Only a mile or so. It is in the valley at this foot of this road.”
The Devils & Demons MEGAPACK ®: 25 Modern and Classic Tales Page 54