The Little Devil and Other Stories 9780231545167

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THE LITTLE DEVIL AND OTHER STORIES

RU S S I A N L I BR A RY

The Russian Library at Columbia University Press publishes an expansive selection of Russian literature in English translation, concentrating on works previously unavailable in English and those ripe for new translations. Works of premodern, modern, and contemporary literature are featured, including recent writing. The series seeks to demonstrate the breadth, surprising variety, and global importance of the Russian literary tradition and includes not only novels but also short stories, plays, poetry, memoirs, creative nonfiction, and works of mixed or fluid genre. Editorial Board: Vsevolod Bagno Dmitry Bak Rosamund Bartlett Caryl Emerson Peter B. Kaufman Mark Lipovetsky Oliver Ready Stephanie Sandler

ɷɸɷ For a list of books in the series, see page 309

EI X E V AL IZO M E R

y db e t . sla an ina W r T ton n A uis Bo

AND

TH

L T T I L E

L I V E D E

OTHER STORI ES Columbia University Press / New York

Columbia University Press Publishers Since 1893 New York Chichester, West Sussex cup.columbia.edu Published with the support of Read Russia, Inc., and the Institute of Literary Translation, Russia. Columbia University Press thanks Alla Gracheva, general editor of The Collected Works of A. M. Remizov, for her invaluable assistance in selecting the stories for this collection. Translation copyright © 2021 Antonina W. Bouis All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Remizov, Alekseĭ, 1877–1957, author. | Bouis, Antonina W., translator. Title: The little devil and other stories / Alexei Remizov ; translated by Antonina W. Bouis. Description: New York : Columbia University Press, [2021] | Series: Russian library Identifiers: LCCN 2020026893 (print) | LCCN 2020026894 (ebook) | ISBN 9780231183802 (hardback ; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780231183819 (trade paperback ; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780231545167 (ebook) Classification: LCC PG3470.R4 A2 2021 (print) | LCC PG3470.R4 (ebook) | DDC 891.73/3—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020026893 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020026894

Columbia University Press books are printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America Cover design: Roberto de Vicq de Cumptich

CONTENTS

Introduction by Avril Pyman vii

1. Bebka 1

8. The Kind Guard 173

2. Petushok the Cockerel 11

9. The Venerable Lis 185

3. The Sacrifice 43

10. Martin Zadeka 195

4. The Little Devil 65

11. Savva Grudtsyn 209

5. The Profaner 105

12. About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom 267

6. Princess Mymra 141 13. Grigory and Ksenia 293 7. Panna Maria 167

INTRODUCTION AV R I L P Y M A N

A

lexei Mikhailovich Remizov (1877–1957), as an artist, defies classification. Solitary as a hermit crab, yet friendly and familiar as a jester, very small, hunchbacked, and nearsighted, with a broken nose and twinkling eyes, Remizov now consoles his “masters” with tongue-twisters and clowning, now, filled with a sense of bitter compassion, reminds us of the madness of a world where “the rain it raineth every day”  .  .  . and wrinkled “care” comes creeping to finish us off as once she did Goethe’s Faust: bills, rent, electricity, taxes—more unrelenting even than fire, famine, pain, poison, and the general dereliction of revolution. It is a great good fortune for me that I met him in the flesh at the unsophisticated age of eighteen, and, although I have told the story before, I cannot resist recalling once more his living image for firsttime readers of this English version of the story that made his name: “The Little Devil.”1 My introduction to Remizov happened in 1948. I was in Paris to improve my Berlitz-school Russian by staying with a Russian family, Daniil and Natalya Reznikov and their two schoolboy sons, founders, with their extended family the Andreevs and the Sossinskys,

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of the publishers Opleshnik: a project conceived at the end of the occupation specifically as an outlet for Remizov’s wonderful stories and drawings; small softcover books, each published in a run of 300 copies, now collectors’ items. Natalya Viktorovna, whom I came to call Natasha, took me to an emigré social event, an evening bénéfice for the notoriously penniless and helpless, half-blind writer, who was to recite a story of his own and Pushkin’s “The Fisherman and the Fish.” The Remizov piece was too difficult for me, but Pushkin’s ballad of the modest old fisherman, his rapacious wife, and the golden fish with the power to grant wishes I had read before and was able to follow—as one enchanted! Remizov’s voice was at once musical and colloquial, instinctively rhythmical, as, I was to learn later, are the voices of Russian country folk when telling a story—a seamless blend of incantation and earthy chitchat with an accompaniment of first gently rippling, then increasingly threatening sea. Remizov himself—a tiny figure, hunched and sturdy as a gnome with the face of a bespectacled Slavic leprechaun—stood small on the podium, oblivious of his audience, altogether concentrated on his magical recital. A few days later, Natasha took me to visit at his high-ceilinged three-room flat in the “literary” Rue Boileau. At that time he received friends in his own room: a huge desk, a sofa for guests, one or two chairs, and a narrow bed in the corner under shelves of books with a bed table and reading lamp. The other room, once, presumably, the “Cuckoo’s Room” of his fantastic “everyday” memoirs, had belonged to his wife, Seraphima Pavlovna, a specialist in the medieval documents in which he himself found such inspiration, a huge woman with a fiery temperament and the bewildered eyes of a courageous child in a world of subtle undercurrents and double entendres. She

had died during the war, but her space remained, disputed only by the overflow of books and manuscripts. In the third room lived the one they called the Duckling, another penniless and homeless soul, who had been persuaded by well-wishers to live in and care—as well as might be done—for the helpless old writer with his “shorn” eyes and shuffling gait. They shared a bathroom, a separate, old-fashioned lavatory with clanking chain, and a cramped but lofty kitchen. At his great desk, Remizov wrote, rewrote, and recycled old stories, letters, and dreams, his wife’s letters, and his own memoirs of his childhood among the workers busy about the factory with tall red chimneys and the courtyard onto which his own family flat then gave—after his mother took herself and her four boys back from the house of their haberdasher father to the protection of her own brothers and found shelter in a converted dye works that had been part of their industrial complex. The Naidenovs were wealthy merchants, a class whose importance had grown tremendously with the industrial revolution and whose recently acquired appetite for reading, theater, and art, combined with a taste for patronage, had set them up in rivalry to the Europeanized landed aristocracy of their own country and the wealthy Americans then so prominent on the European cultural scene. In early twentieth-century Russia, however, significant remnants of the class system still held, and the home life of these merchants was deeply traditional, regulated by the fasts and feasts of the church. Their kitchens were open to the curious underclass of pilgrims who wandered from monastery to monastery across the enormous spaces of Russia and as far as Greece and the Holy Land. Their women were well read and outspoken, but the formal choreography of everyday life was still deeply patriarchal. Remizov’s eldest uncle and the head of the family was also head of the Moscow Introduction

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Stock Exchange, whereas he and his mother were poor relations. She drank and kept to her room, whereas the boys got up to all kinds of pranks but submitted to their uncle’s authority. The only escape was the world of imagination: My wet nurse lived on jam and tea. I always sat with her and listened to her stories about the countryside around Kaluga: there were forests (fairyland for me), fields, beasts; and real-life stories about goings-on in the village got all mixed up with her magic tales. As soon as I learned to write, I would make a list of wishes: what she should bring me from the country; apart from horses, cows, sheep, a goat, and all kinds of birds including a nightingale, my register of goods included a wolf, and a fox, and a bear, and a hare, and . . . a tree spirit together with a house spirit, a harvest spirit, and a meadow spirit. Everything I had ever heard about in those earliest years.2

Little Alexei, in spite of his broken nose and stunted growth, was a bright boy, but easily overlooked. His acute myopia was not discovered until the age of thirteen when, given spectacles, he discovered a sharply defined world, no longer infused with color and aswirl with music. When the drawing master sat him down before a carefully arranged “nature-morte,” he now saw cubes and pyramids, whereas before he had perceived “ex-objects,” weird, seething forms, monstrous or angelic . . . and much more interesting to draw. Familiar human faces too were often harsher and, to his mind, less appealing than the haloed pancakes with shimmering, blotchy, luminous eyes that he had formerly perceived. Suddenly “I found myself in quite another world.”3 Only music remained, the sorrow and the beauty of the church choir in which he regularly sang the alto parts, the

chiming of bells from the great monasteries, proclaiming the sorrows of a fallen world and the great hope of redemption “with which I came into the world, and without which my life is unimaginable.”4 When he was fourteen, his voice broke and the music, “his” music, became a memory, only to be recaptured in dreams. Other writers, Remizov would complain, would find inspiration through drugs, drink, the adrenalin of danger, passion, even, like Dostoevsky, epilepsy and high fever. He had only his dreams—and the conductor’s baton given him by a sympathetic choirmaster as a talisman when he lost his voice and knew he would never master an instrument. So, in two of his autobiographical books, he himself figures as a music teacher without an instrument, suspended in midair, “above the earth: what depends on me in all the earth? Nothing.”5 On the wall of his room in the flat on the Rue Boileau was a collage of shiny and matte paper inspired by the breaking glass of his windows, shattered by explosive blasts toward the end of the occupation. Suspended between floor and ceiling bobbed a string of strange objects: fish bones, a curious twig, a charred fragment, toys, the indispensable “Feuermännschen” who protected his hearth. As an old man, Remizov conjured stories from these threaded and patched mementos and from elusive dreams, from which he would wake at night to write them down (without his glasses), only to be heartbroken next morning to find his notes unreadable. This was his world, his place of habitation. But not everyone believed this was truly so. Some saw it as a homemade stage, the artificial background to a self-styled genius who had built a reputation on his own eccentricity and his acquaintance with famous writers, artists, and musicians. No respecter of persons, Remizov often wrote of friends and colleagues with embarrassing intimacy: “Alexei Introduction

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Mikhailovich, from now on you never dream about me,” the emigré poet and critic Vladimir Khodasevich is rumored to have told him. Yet he could not resist the comic detail: Merezhkovsky, remembering Christ suffering “the little children” and taking Baby Natasha gingerly on his knee, suddenly appealing to his wife, “Zina, Zina, she’s making a mess! Quick, take her away!!” or the stately Berdyaev sailing head over heels over the top of the children’s swing in Rozanov’s garden and Andrey Bely “so surprised he swallowed a date.” Only Seraphima Pavlovna, the poet Alexander Blok, and possibly a few others of lesser renown such as his wet nurse seem to have been spared from Remizov’s grotesque misrepresentations. Yet Remizov never indulged in ill-natured gossip, which he saw as the besetting sin of emigré society, and defended himself vigorously against accusations of intellectual dishonesty such as plagiarism (for his folktales) or caricature (in his dreams and memoirs). “You don’t mean to say you are consulting Alexei Mikhailovich about your dissertation!” exclaimed a genuinely distressed Alexandre Benois in 1953, when I returned to the hospitable Reznikov household to research my PhD thesis on “D. S. Merezhkovsky and the origins of Russian Symbolism” and resumed my visits to the Rue Boileau on a more regular basis. “I really think you should be warned. He—er—makes things up.” “Remizov!” snapped Sergei Konstantinovich Makovsky, the onetime editor of the journal Apollon. “Don’t believe a word he says.” By that time my Russian was quite adequate and I could actually help the increasingly blind old man check facts in the encyclopedia or refresh his memory by reading selected books aloud. Once, to our great excitement, I even disinterred a rare copy of Vasily Rozanov’s doctoral dissertation, “On Understanding,” from the Czechoslovak Protestant library on the Ile de la Cité: a great disappointment to both

of us. “Vasily Vasilyevich had not yet found his style,” he said, waking with a start as my struggle to read out a particularly long and involved philosophical passage stuttered to an awkward standstill. “We won’t read any more of that. . . .” So Remizov felt his way, hesitantly and laboriously, through everyday life; but his reminiscences, dreams, the incantatory rhythms of his “music” were bathed in the light of their own truth and not intended to harm. I think this must always have been so, from the day he discovered his weird genius for the barber’s art, shearing a shaggy kennel dog to look like a poodle in the midst of the Russian winter, and went on to barber the hair and beards of distinguished revolutionaries whose exile he shared in Vologda—exercising a propensity that was later to terrorize literary colleagues in smart St. Petersburg. Nevertheless, I never heard him attribute discreditable motives to his fellow emigrés or make fun of the grandiose, tragic chaos of his time, when all a person had to hold on to was the spontaneity of children, a moment of empathy, a shared laugh, a tear in the eye for the despair of another human being. “The Russian proverb has it,” he wrote in Sisters of the Cross, “that man is a wolf to man. I say—man is a log.” Remizov the artist, however, like Remizov the choirboy, was not “a log”: “I sang for all the sorrows of mankind, for the abandoned, the weary, the ‘doomed,’ for all human misfortune and disaster, for that unanswered why? Why? Why. . . . And in answer I saw how the old priest Alexei Dmitrievich Mozhaisky suddenly ceased his censing and his eyes amid the blue clouds of incense filled with tears. . . .”6 Although destined to work in the Naidenov bank and moved from grammar school to keep his youngest brother company in the more prosaic Russian equivalent of a “comprehensive” or “vocational” Introduction

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school, Remizov was accepted into university to study physics and mathematics in 1894. He was well read in Russian—from the seventeenth-century heretic priest and vernacular master Avvakum to Gogol, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and on through Russia’s great realist prose to Chekhov and Gorky. In philosophy, however, the great discoveries of his contemporaries were Friedrich Nietzsche and Karl Marx. There was just so much a man simply had to know, and the teenager from “beyond the Moscow River” took a trip to Germany, where all kinds of forbidden literature was available, and returned with a stock of “revolutionary” reading in a suitcase with a false bottom. The university was, at the time, a hotbed of disaffection, and in 1896 the nineteen-year-old was arrested when curiosity impelled him to join a student demonstration. The stash of illegal literature found at his digs led not just to expulsion from the university but to administrative exile. In exile, he became further radicalized and was caught distributing some Marxist pamphlets he had managed to bring with him, imprisoned for several months in solitary (according to his own account, in the very cage once used to exhibit the defeated Cossack rebel Emelian Pugachev), then sent on, stumbling in his manacles, with an echelon of hardened revolutionaries and common criminals, to the subpolar settlement of Ust Sysolsk. The sentence was commuted, thanks to the young man’s evident physical frailty and the intervention of well-wishers in the capital, to exile in the “Northern Capital” of Vologda. Like other such centers throughout Russian and Soviet history, Vologda was a “university” in itself: enlightened, articulate company; all the latest journals sent to individual exiles by sympathizers (Remizov himself received The World of Art from Diaghilev’s cousin, Filosofov, with whom he had a slight acquaintance and who

remained a kind friend all his life). It was possible to enjoy reasonable mobility within the confines of the city, even romance. It was here Alexei Mikhailovich met and married Seraphima Pavlovna, a beautiful, statuesque Social Revolutionary Ukrainian aristocrat with a translator’s proficiency in foreign languages and, most important for their lifelong cooperation, a passion for Old Russian culture and paleography. Originally exiled for “terrorism,” she now felt, as he did, that violence was not the way to build a happier society, but an easy relationship with the ex-Marxists from Kiev, Berdyaev and Bulgakov, and Lenin’s future Commissar for Education, Lunacharsky, put an end to the rumors, rife back in Ust-Sysolsk, that Remizov, an eternal misfit in whatever society, was clearly no proper revolutionary and most probably a stool pigeon. Seraphima devoted herself to religion and study, Remizov to his own world of books and “music,” producing his first published literary composition: typically, a stylized yet observation-inspired “Lament of a Young Girl Before Marriage,” a folklore form in which the bride-to-be bids farewell to the freedom of her own friends and family and fearfully anticipates subjugation to a new master in a strange household. Having served their term, the young couple made their way home through various provincial cities, Remizov at one stage providing for them by working as literary advisor to Vsevolod Meyerhold’s experimental theater, on tour through the provinces. A daughter was born to them, Natasha, the light of her father’s eyes. At last, permission was granted to live once more “in the capitals,” and they settled, not in the Golden Moscow of his childhood nor in her Holy Kiev, mother of Russian cities, but in the far more “Europeanized” St. Petersburg, where even the Russian language sounded strangely flat and colorless. Here, however, Berdyaev and Bulgakov gave Remizov a job and Introduction

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a living wage as caretaker cum administrator of the premises of their journal Questions of Life, which they had taken over from the Merezhkovskys’ New Way. Seraphima Pavlovna was deeply interested and involved in the Merezhkovskys’ “New Religious Consciousness” movement, and their friendship with Filosofov provided a link with Remizov, who, in his turn, made the acquaintance of Vasily Rozanov, Alexander Blok, Andrei Bely, Fyodor Sologub, Vyacheslav Ivanov, and Lev Shestov . . . the flower of the first and second generations of Russian Symbolism. Remizov had already approached the Moscowcentered Bryusov, offering one of his early folktale adaptations for Bryusov’s journal The Balance, only to be told it was “too Russian, like a patch of brocade on our sober gray worsted.” Meyerhold was now working for the Symbolist theater of Vera Kommissarzhevskaya, but though Remizov still took a lively interest in Meyerhold’s work, his own mystery play was staged at N. N. Evreinov’s “Old Time Theater,” which shared the modernist enthusiasm for medieval and popular forms of street performance.7 Still on the fringes of the literary establishment, his wonderful Round the Sun, his first book of folktales, and Limonarium, his rendering of the apocryphal acts of popular saints (unforgettably of St. Nicholas the Wonder Worker) were hardly rated as original works. Indeed, Remizov was once, like the protagonist in Sisters of the Cross, accused of “plagiarism” in the press, after which he was careful to append reference notes to the folklore collections made by various learned ethnographers who had, throughout the nineteenth century, published painstaking transcriptions of oral recitals of the old tales. Yet Remizov’s versions, though careful to preserve the lilt and flavor of the spoken word, convey an undercurrent of contemporary experience and a psychological immediacy not to be found in the

transcripts of academia. It must be said also that Sisters of the Cross and other contemporary stories and novellas such as The Pond, The Clock, and The Fifth Pestilence, published during this pre–World War I St. Petersburg period, though clearly by the same hand as the folktales and apocrypha, are indisputably works of experience and imagination. Though a man obsessed with books, Alexei Mikhailovich was never a “bookish” author. My volume of his folktales, for instance, was quietly appropriated from our Moscow flat by our daughter’s “winter” nanny from the village, Mariya Ivanovna, to read aloud to her friends. “What do you learned people want with tales? We love them. These are good ones, you know. They don’t publish them like this anymore.” The tale of “The Little Devil,” which gives its title to this book, is a great example of its author’s unique blend of magic and stark, downto-earth realism. It was published and premiered by the Moscow merchant Ryabushinsky’s newly founded journal The Golden Fleece in a promotional competition for the best literary and artistic works on the subject of the devil—and confirmed the opinion of those who considered Remizov an original author of considerable distinction. Round the Sun, with its giggles and cuddles and scary monsters “trying hard to make you laugh,” its rainbows and reconciliations wrought by busy angels, the accompanying beat of the drums at the foxes’ ball, and the mischievous choirboy Petya’s relentless, countless “Lord have mercies . . .” was published the following year, 1907, as a separate book. A steady stream of stories, mythical and contemporary, led to a first attempt at a Collected Works by one of the various ephemeral Symbolist publishers, then by the more substantial promise of a takeover of this project by Mikhail Tereshechenko’s financially well-established “Sirin”—in which Remizov himself, together Introduction

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with Alexander Blok, played an active advisory part. Though not yet (or ever until this day) an internationally “famous” author, Remizov had become at least a well-established literary figure. He had suffered a great loss when Seraphima Pavlovna, wounded and mortally offended by her little daughter’s reluctance to rejoin her almost forgotten parents after a long summer in the Ukraine with her Dovgello relatives, made the drastic decision that the child would be happier brought up by them on their country estate—and that contact with her poverty-stricken, city-dwelling parents would only unsettle her. Irrevocable decisions (the break with family, with revolution, with her child, and then with her homeland) seem to have been in her nature, and it was she who finally dynamited the comparatively peaceful flow of her husband’s life and insisted, at the very beginning of the more liberal New Economic Policy period after the revolution, that they leave Russia, first for Berlin and then, with many others, on to Paris. Remizov, who had reacted to the apocalyptic scale of events in his country with the poetic Lament for the Destruction of the Russian Land and the more autobiographical Russia in Whirlwind and was, at long last, not only acknowledged by the elite of his own generation but actually gaining influence with some young writers who understood his absorption in the element of “the Russian word” as written, spoken, and sung throughout the centuries, was desolate. Their train for Estonia gathered way slowly as it puffed from the St. Petersburg platform. A soldier saluted them and called “Goodbye!”—not “Till we meet again,” as separating Russians normally take their leave. Alexander Blok died the same day. Remizov reclaimed his Russian citizenship at the end of World War II, but he never went back.

Already, deprived of make-believe play with his own child, Remizov had invented a grown-up game of his own: “The great and free House of Monkeys,” membership of which he bestowed on his friends, together with exquisitely calligraphed charters “personally signed with his own tale” by King Asyka (Alexei Mikhailovich himself). Now, perilously ensconced in temporary Berlin digs with a landlady bent on ridding her respectable premises of these chattering Russians, yesterday’s enemies with no respect for her good china and no contribution to make to the devastated German economy save the organization of transient journals, publishing houses, and debating societies, his life became a dolorous, yet gloriously free and absurd game of survival. Moving from place to place and from country to country—the Remizovs finally relocated to Paris in 1923, where they migrated from flat to flat and spent most summers in cheap lodgings on the shore of the ocean in the utmost west, the coast of Brittany, which provided the setting for many of Remizov’s later folktales—they were not in a position to collate a library, to arrange manuscripts or daily life in orderly fashion. Yet somehow, like a hedgehog accumulating autumn leaves on its prickles, Alexei Mikhailovich continued to construct a wonderfully sustained autobiography of shreds and patches, word play and high poetry, history in the making and incongruous faits du jour, a biography that has still to be published—even in Russian—as one book, albeit in several volumes, a story of our times to rank with the recollections of Proust and Joyce. Having risked a biography of Alexander Blok, whom Remizov (together with Seraphima Pavlovna) thought of as one of the two absolutely truthful people he had ever met, I once conceived the thought of undertaking a life of Alexei Mikhailovich Remizov myself, Introduction

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but found the very idea practicably unthinkable. He is there for us, waiting to be rediscovered in the epic, horrifying, funny, snapshot fragments of his own work, an epic of the “little man,” struggling through the dusk of a disintegrating Age of Enlightenment—a defenseless human being who still wants to drink tea with his friends, hug children, dream dreams, and sing of hope beyond hope. Meanwhile, we have here a new translation of his now proven not untranslatable stories, beginning with the tale that first made his name, and in a series that includes the diary of his acknowledged predecessor, the indomitable archpriest Avvakum—and that, in itself, is most welcome. NOTES 1. At the 1985 Amherst College conference it was not my main contribution and so not printed in the proceedings (see “Aleksej Remizov, Approaches to a Protean Writer,” ed. Greta Slobin, Slavica 16 [1987]). 2. Podstrizhennymi glazami (Paris: YMCA-Press, 1961), 31. 3. Podstrizhennymi glazami, 70. 4. Podstrizhennymi glazami, 35. 5. Uchitel’ muzyki [The music teacher], ed. Antonina d’Amelia (Paris: La Presse Libre, 1983); Myshkina dudochka [The mouse’s flute—an interlude] (Paris: Opleshmik, 1953). The quotation is from page 7 of the latter. 6. Podstrizhennymi glazami, 93. 7. Starinnyi Teatr, founded by N. N. Evreinov and Baron N. V. Osten-Driezen in 1907.

THE LITTLE DEVIL AND OTHER STORIES

BEBKA

01

REMIZOV WAS ARRESTED IN 1896 IN A CLASH BETWEEN POLICE AND STUDENT DEMONSTRATORS AND SENTENCED TO SIX YEARS IMPRISONMENT AND EXILE IN THE NORTH OF RUSSIA. VOLOGDA WAS HOME TO MANY POLITICAL EXILES, INCLUDING THE PHILOSOPHER NIKOLAI BERDYAEV. HERE, REMIZOV GAVE UP HIS MARXIST BELIEFS AND BECAME COMPLETELY IMMERSED IN PHILOSOPHY, COSMOGONY, AND SLAVIC MYTHOLOGY. HE LODGED WITH AN EXILED COUPLE IN 1900–1901 IN UST-SYSOLSK. BEBKA WAS THEIR SON. TWO OTHER EXILES, BOTH SHOEMAKERS, ALSO LIVED THERE.

ɷɸɷ The long winter left, the way so many winters had left—boring, stormy, and black, girdled in the burning, icy glow of insatiable cold. A blizzard howled, blanketing everything with white snow all around, burying forest, and river, and empty steppe. The house in which I lived was barely visible, and only the clouds of timorous smoke spoke of life.

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But inside it was dead and quiet, with the infrequent thud of a hammer or squeak of tar-coated thread. Now the impatient spring of the far north, abandoned, lonely. . . . Every morning, when I am reading or writing, the door of my room first shudders, then pushes forward a bit, and, at last, creaks open. “Let me in, Bubuka, let me in, Bubuka, Bu-bu-ka!” I hear an insistent child’s voice. In comes a small chubby boy, dressed either in a gray robe or in a red shirt and blue pants. “Bubuka, make me a squeaker,” the boy says, approaching the table. “What squeaker?” I ask Bebka without looking up from my work. “Like on a steamer!” “I don’t know how to make squeakers.” “I’ll show you a squeaker!” “Well, all right, but not now, Bebka, later, I’m working now.” “You put on your coat and hat, button up and let’s go, you can work later.” I say nothing, try to concentrate, and put on a serious face. Bebka crawls around on the floor, picking up pieces of colored paper and rolling them up. “What are you doing, Bebka?” “I’m making a candy for Mama, she’ll eat it; yesterday she gave me lots of big ones and didn’t save you any!” “Why didn’t she?” “I’ll bring you some myself, when Papa comes.” Bebka climbs up on the chair and stares at the flowers for a long time.

“Bubuka, do you have a lot of flowers?” “A lot.” “Yellow ones, too?” “Yellow ones, too.” “Give me one flower?” I take the flowers from the glass and hand them to Bebka. “Here, take them all and go outside, and later I’ll make you a squeaker.” “Like on a steamer?” “Better than on a steamer, but go play now.” Bebka takes the flowers and, dropping them, heads for the door. I let him out. Through the open window for a long time I hear a child’s voice repeating something like a song: Bubuka gave me all the flowers. Bubuka gave me all the flowers.

I go back to work, but it’s no good—I see Bebka: he’s dropping flowers and singing . . . An hour passes, then another. I hear Bebka’s voice again, he runs up to me quickly: “Bubuka, for you!” He takes a candy from his mouth and offers it to me. I pretend to suck it. “Now give it back!” He goes to the next room where the cobblers work; grumpy Ivan Onufrich and lanky Pyotr Andreich—and the same scene is repeated there. “Now give it back!” I hear Bebka’s insistent voice. Bebka

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Bebka

ɷɸɷ The cold is here. In the mornings a thin silver rime covers the soft, green winter crops, and the brown waves with crests white as gull breasts and red as drops of blood thrash about to the screams of the steely whirlwind that blew in from the tundra. Bebka did not show up. I walked along the edge of town and in the window of a house I saw him: he was playing with some children in his gray robe and tall rubber galoshes over his stockings. And today, when the whirlwind flew away and the sun, playful and warming, gathered up the herds of fluffy storm clouds, the door shuddered once again and Bebka came in. “Where’ve you been?” “Hunting beeses.” “I saw you, you know!” “Where did you see me?” “In the woods, but you didn’t recognize me; come on, what’s my name?” “Bubuka!” “And what else?” Bebka is silent for a long time, then grabs my neck with his little hands and climbs up on my lap, and whispers in my nose instead of my ear: “Billygoat.” ɷɸɷ

The steamer is coming! From the window I see something far away, bobbing like an old gray ice floe. I hurry to the wharf. I come across Bebka on the way: he’s wearing a long coat with straps below the waist, and a fluffy blue hat on his head, like a pancake with a doughnut in the middle. “Bubuka, the boat is coming, take me with you!” I take his hand and we run. At the wharf Bebka sits on the railing of the stairs and waits. At last the boat approaches and gives a long, piercing howl. “Well, Bebka, should we go see the cannibals?” “You go, I’m not going!” Bebka peers all around, as if trying to see something very important. “Then let’s go home, there’s nothing more to see.” We climb the bank slowly, and Bebka keeps looking back to see if the steamer will leave. Sailboats skim along the river; gulls screech. “When the steamer goes by,” Bebka says in a tired voice, “you run, Bubuka, run!” ɷɸɷ After lunch Bebka comes over and silently stands next to me. “Hello, Saka-fara!” “Am not. You’re a Saka-fara!” Bebka says grumpily. “Why the pouting lips, look how long they are, like an Agag’s, did someone hit you?’

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Bebka is silent. “Didn’t you eat?” Silence. “Want some tea?” Silence. “Here’s what, Bebka. Let’s go take a nap, and I’ll lie down with you and tell you a very-very scary story!” I pick him up and carry him to the bed. First I do nanny goat for him and then the crow with cold water and I warm up his tummy, but he won’t smile, so I shut my eyes and start snoring. “Bu-bu-ka!” Bebka says softly. “Ah, it’s you, Bebka, I thought it was the child grabber!” “A story!” Bebka said, even more softly. “A story! Well, listen! . . . Once upon a time there lived Chokyr and a fox, they were friends, they went to the woods together, they went to the steamer.” Bebka yawned and goggled his little eyes. “They napped together after lunch and picked yellow flowers and made squeakers . . .” “Like on the steamer?” Bebka asks sleepily; his little face growing rosy, his lips puff up and protrude. “And then one time they had no bread but they were hungry . . .” Bebka is asleep; I quietly get off the bed. But soon he wakes up, frightened—all wet—and starts crying . . . He’s taken home. ɷɸɷ

“I brought you yellow flowers!” yells Bebka. He unbuttons his shorts and pulls out crumpled dandelions. I take the flowers and button his shorts. “Well, now you’d better go visit Ivan Onufrich, I’m working, Bebka!” “Then I’ll never come visit you!” he grumbles and leaves. From the next room I hear this conversation: “Did you skin the goat?” “Yes.” “Is it squeaking?” “It will now, hear it?” And the lanky one squeaks. “Mama says that a hare ran off with the porridge.” “I came across it!” the grumpy cobbler says severely. “And the goat?” “The goat, too.” Ivan Onufrich comes to my room, sets up two chairs, hangs threads on the backs, and starts winding. Bebka follows him, and if a thread gets tangled up, he waits patiently for Ivan Onufrich to unknot it. Bebka is working! Later, when they’re twisting the tarred threads, he walks around the room in a long cobbler’s apron holding a hammer. He looks at the bookshelves and taps the spines. “I like these, they’re good,” he says, pointing to the books that have multicolored tickets glued on, “and these are bad, and why don’t the books fall down?” ɷɸɷ

Bebka

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A grim, cold morning. The ice must be moving on the sea. The river is gray and dirty. A fine autumn rain has come. I’m sitting by the window; it’s quiet, except for the wind howling and moaning in long drawn-out breaths. Suddenly I see Bebka; he’s at the riverbank, legs bare to the knee, looking along the river. “Hello, Bebka!” I call to him. “Bubuka!” his voice rings out. “Has the steamer come?” “I don’t know, what about the squeaker?” “I don’t have a whistle, you make me one, Bubuka!” And Bebka runs to me and we start talking about squeakers, yellow flowers, and the goat. ɷɸɷ I was getting ready to leave. The evening was burning out—raspberry colored, it lolled on the quiet river. The briar was starting to flower. They brought Bebka to say goodbye, they were getting him ready for bed. “Say goodbye to Bubuka, he’ll never come see us again!” Bebka, sleepy, pursed his lips and suddenly saw a pile of colorful river stones on my table. “What’s that, Bubuka?” “I eat that, food for the road.” “Give them to me!”

“Well, take them, to remember me by, Bebka.” He grew animated, gathered all the stones in his hat, and hurried to go home. But when he tried to put on the hat, the stones scattered, and he started whining. “Go to bed, Bebka, I’ll bring you all the stones, well, farewell, Bebka, farewell!” And they took Bebka away. And I was left with the stones, and they weren’t even mine.

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PETUSHOK THE COCKEREL

02

PETKA AND HIS GRANDMOTHER LIVE IN POVERTY IN MOSCOW THROUGH THE FATEFUL YEAR OF 1905, WHEN RUSSIA SUFFERED A HUMILIATING LOSS IN THE WAR WITH JAPAN AND THE FIRST RUSSIAN REVOLUTION SWEPT THROUGH ST. PETERSBURG, THE CAPITAL, AND MOSCOW. THE UNEMPLOYED AND HUNGRY STORMED THE STREETS. FOR PETKA AND HIS FRIENDS, IT IS AN EXCITING ADVENTURE. FOR HIS PIOUS GRANDMOTHER, IT IS A TRAGEDY. AMONG THE MANY DIMINUTIVES FOR PETER, INCLUDING PETKA AND PETYA, IS PETUSHOK, WHICH ALSO MEANS “COCKEREL.”

ɷɸɷ Petka, a curious child who enjoyed doing nothing, tagged along on a pilgrimage with his grandmother. It was quite a trip. It was free and easy for Petka: hopping here, racing off there, but his grandmother was old, her legs ached, she could scarcely draw breath.

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And she had so many scares and worries with Petka—the scamp could break his neck at any moment or poke his nose in a bad place, who knows! But there was laughter, too: the old woman had not laughed like that in her life, she shook her old bones in her old age. He joked in so many ways: pretending to be a bear or a goat, or cuckooing like a cuckoo, or croaking like a frog. And he got up to so many pranks: he scared his grandmother to death. “There’s no more crackers,” he said, “I ate them all, but here, I got some worms for you!” “A fine pilgrimage, and we haven’t even traveled half the way, Lord!” But Petka teased his grandmother for a bit and then suddenly handed her a fistful not of worms but strawberries, and such strawberries you would lick all your fingers. And the crackers were all there, too. Soon there was a different song. The travelers were exhausted. Grandmother kept praying, and Petka sang, “Lord have mercy.” And so, step by step, slowly but surely, they reached the monastery. They got there just in time for matins. They stood through the matins, they stood through the liturgy, and went to venerate the relics and icons. Petka wanted to look at the relics, to see what was inside, he pestered his grandmother, and Grandmother said: “It’s forbidden, it’s a sin!” Petka got cranky. Grandmother tried this and that, bought him a cross on a red ribbon, and well, he calmed down after a bit.

As soon as he calmed down, he started up again. He dragged Grandmother to the belfry to look at the bell. They clambered and crawled with no end in sight, their legs buckling. They barely made it. Petka, like a little bell, sang and roared—imitating a bell. And then—he grabbed the rope to ring the bell. Thank God, a monk pulled him away, or who knows what would have happened. They managed to get down from the belfry and sat down in a cool spot for a snack. Here a little old man, a wanderer, started telling the life of a saint. Petka did not miss a single word, he could have listened forever. As soon as the heat died down, they started back. Petka was silent the whole way, thinking hard: should he join the robbers, like the saint the old wanderer was telling about, become a sinner and then turn to God and go off to a monastery? “It’s good in the monastery,” Petka daydreamed. “The vestments are so very gold, and you can climb up to the belfry any time you want, and no one will box your ears, and you could look at the relics. Everything is allowed a monk; a monk is long-maned.” Grandmother moaned and prayed. Petka would give up bread if he just had the freedom to run around. It was warm, as if it were summer. So once the restless rascal got started, you wouldn’t see him all the live-long day, and in the evening, you look and see him dragging himself home. He would eat, pray to God, and go to sleep—rolling up into a ball like a marmot, snuffling. Petka helped Grandmother chop cabbage. “Grandmother, I’ll chop it into flour, we’ll have enough to bake pies in the winter,” the chatterbox insisted and chopped

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like a real cook: at that rate he would chop off his finger and Grandmother’s, too. He didn’t gorge on the cabbage stumps, even though he loved them, but saved them: he’d make a pile, wait, and then carry them off somewhere. Grandmother couldn’t understand it: she thought he was taking them for the cow. Not the cow at all! Grandmother kept a very old trunk under the bed, iron clad, and in it Grandmother kept her death shirt, backless shoes, a shroud, and something handwritten along with a whisk—the old woman had brought it back from the Kiev relics with her own hands, a blessing from the cave keeper priest. And Petka was stacking the cabbage stumps in that very trunk. “They’ll come in handy in the next world, it’s not too tasty just licking a frying pan . . .” It happened on the holy day of the Exaltation of the Cross that Grandmother needed something from the trunk, she opened the lid, and sat down on the spot out of fear. When she came to her senses, she crossed herself, threw out each and every stump from the trunk, and sprinkled herself with holy water, for truly strong was the evil one, the thrice-cursed serpent. They, the unclean, Petka’s cabbage stumps, began appearing in Grandmother’s dream visions: one of them would stand before her, hanging there the whole night, you couldn’t spit enough to get rid of it. And a bad smell filled the rooms, cabbagy, and you couldn’t clear it out—not with an incense stick and not with turpentine. Petka was amazed, wondering where the stumps went from the trunk, and every chance he got he added more. “Let her eat, the cow’s up to her neck in hay.”

The scamp thought Grandmother was eating them secretly before bed. Grandmother blamed the evil one. And not a day went by that Petka didn’t get into mischief. The scamp got a passion for kites, those snakes of the sky; he landed masses of them all over the garden, and many tails got stuck over the house. One day Petka let loose a kite with a rattle and a tricky puzzle gripped him: “The crow flies because a crow has wings, angels fly because angels have wings, and all kinds of dragonflies and houseflies—it’s all about wings, but why does a kite fly?” The boy fell out of sorts, wandered like a shadow, wouldn’t eat or drink. Grandmother tried this and that—nothing helped, twelve herbs didn’t help! “A kite flies because it has sticks and a tail!” Petka finally decided and without ado set to work: Petka had long dreamed about flying beneath the clouds. Grandmother was making viburnum cranberry dough for the holiday—the berry harvest was good, forget your grapes, the juice squirted out, and the dough was so thick it was like halvah. So Petka smeared himself with the halvah-dough, gluing on shingles, like snakeskin, and a tail in the back made of washrags, wrapped himself in twine, and said to his grandmother: “I’m a kite, Grandmother, here, take this ball of twine and set me off; kites don’t like to fly without a start.” The old woman was shaking, she didn’t understand a thing but she sensed that this was devil’s work, and just as she stood there bareheaded, she gave in to the devil’s hands—she took Petka’s ball in both hands and followed the cursed kite to give him a start. Petushok the Cockerel

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She wanted to say a prayer, but beneath the shingles there was a stump, tiny like a tail, but still—there it was, evil, and fear dried the old woman’s lips and knocked everything out of her memory. Petka climbed up on the elder tree. “Unwind!” he shouted to his grandmother and he just jumped off and flew, except his tail got tangled up. Grandmother unwound the ball, but what happened next, she no longer remembers. “I fell down dead,” she later recounted, “the wild serpent with seven horrible heads trampled me and scratched me all over with his sharp stump and claws and dirtied me all over with something sticky, like dough, that tasted of linden honey.” On Intercession day Grandmother received Communion and took Petka to church with her: the boy was limping, he hurt his knee flying—a good thing that he landed on Grandmother, or he would have broken his neck. “Of course, it’s all in the tail, I’ll grow a tail and I’ll fly up to the seventh heaven right to God, or I’ll fly over the sea like a bird, and weave myself a nest, and lay eggs . . .” Petka bowed to the ground fervently and, pretending to scratch, felt the rag kite tail in back under his pants. Grandmother wept, chasing away temptation. On St. Ilya’s day the cow ate Petka’s fifteen-kopeck coin. After the vigil, before bedtime, Grandmother gave the boy a silver coin—fifteen kopecks for sweets. On St. Ilya’s the procession of the cross goes from the Kremlin to Ilya the Prophet onto Vorontsovo field, a big procession with Korsun crosses, and lots of gendarmes on horseback, and after the liturgy in the church garden there is a fete beneath the banners: they

sell cranberry kvass, toys, all kinds of berries, gooseberries, pears, and ice cream. Petka liked berries and loved ice cream—the fifteen kopecks were just what he needed. So he slept with the coin that night. Grandmother returned from the early service at St. Nicholas on Kobylskaya, Nikola Kobylsky, and Petka was already up: he had prepared the samovar and polished his shoes with wax and gotten dressed up—he was ready to go outside at any moment. How many times had he fidgeted and put on his cap while waiting for Grandmother—Petka’s cap had a patent leather visor; he used to drag around a straw hat, but once he entered the city school, Grandmother bought him a cap. He tightened the strap, also patent leather, to the very last hole, adjusted his black cotton jacket with two silver buttons on the collar, only there was a problem with his pants—the pants were canvas, well laundered, Grandmother had washed and ironed them, but they were too short: you could see about two fingers of his shins—well, Petka was growing and the pants had shrunk in the wash. “I got the samovar on for you in a minute, Grandmother!” Petka greeted his grandmother that way, hopping on one foot. “What a good boy you are, Petushok!” Grandmother got tired at the service and wanted to have some tea. Grandmother took a long time setting up the samovar, so it seemed to Petka, too long: first Grandmother shook out the ashes, laid out a few coals, then kindling over the coals, and then when the coals were hissing, she added a few more, and she did that two more times. But Petka did not shake out the ashes and stuffed the samovar with coals on top of them, then lit the kindling chips and then put more coals on them, and the samovar seemed to roar almost instantly. Petushok the Cockerel

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“Good boy!” Grandmother repeated: she was happy that the samovar was making noises on the table and she could have some tea without rushing, get a bit of rest before the procession of the cross. Grandmother was pious and she never missed a single service, and when there was a deceased person at Nikola Kobylsky, she would attend the liturgy and then stand through the service for the dead holding a candle, and she went with Petka to all the processions of the cross. Grandmother sat down at the table to have her tea, but she hadn’t even chewed a bite of her prosverka, the blessed bread, when Petka started hurrying and nagging Grandmother to go meet the procession. Why so early! The procession probably had not even left the Kremlin, the procession was just getting organized, and probably even the janitors weren’t standing by the Morozov fence; they were in their warm room having tea. Grandmother and Petka usually met the procession of the cross at Vvedensky Lane at the Morozov lattice fence. They settled in simply: first Petka climbed up, and then Grandmother scrambled up after him; the old woman climbed up on the fence, and even though it was hard for her, she could see better from there and she wouldn’t get trampled. “Or I’ll go alone, Grandmother!” Petka had put on his cap with the patent leather visor and was at the door. Grandmother feared letting Petka go without her; she was afraid he would get squashed. “You’ll get squashed!”

“I won’t, Grandmother, last year I, I mean my toe, the gendarme horse trod on my toe, it really hurt! And it’s fine. I’m going, Grandmother.” Grandmother was worried and she was equally hurt: every year they went together, after all—Petka in front, and after Petka, Grandmother in her old sleeveless talma coat and umbrella, which Grandmother did not open against the sun and carried not by the handle but the tip, so that the handle touched the ground. She didn’t want to let Petka go without her yet she wanted to have a rest, drink her tea without rushing! What could you do, you couldn’t hold the boy! Petka went alone. It was a fine morning, fresh, the day would not be a hot one. Whether Petka’s prayers had brought forth such a glorious day or whether the holy day—Ilya the Prophet himself—had sent it, it would be good for the procession, the golden gonfalons would shine, and it would be good for the priests to walk, dry, and for the choir to sing. Petka came out on the porch, the fifteen-kopeck coin in his little fist—he would buy a lot of red, fuzzy gooseberries and have five-kopeck’s worth of chocolate ice cream. Petka listened: somewhere far away the bells were ringing, very far. That must mean that the procession had come out of the Kremlin and the churches they passed rang their bells. “They’re on Ilyinka or Maroseika  .  .  . by Nikola—the bells are pealing!” Petka told himself and then suddenly saw a cow. The deacon’s cow was walking around the yard, a stately, well-fed reddish-brown cow.

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Petka always liked meeting the deacon’s cow, a milk cow, burenushka, brownie, as Grandmother called her. “Hello, burenushka!” Petka hopped over to the cow, reached out to pet her . . . the coin sparkled in the sun, it slipped away, and the cow licked up the money with her tongue, licked, burped, and swallowed it. Nothing to do about it—she swallowed it. Petka rummaged in the grass, fingered the pebbles, walked around the cow, waited for the coin to come out . . . His silver coin was gone, his money was gone, burenushka ate it, took away Petka’s Ilya fifteen kopecks. So Petka went empty-handed to Ilya the Prophet. Should he go back and tell Grandmother? Grandmother would say: “See, you didn’t listen, went alone, and the cow ate it!” And she wouldn’t ever give him another silver coin. “Why give him a coin—the cow will just eat it!” No, better not tell her. But what about the gooseberries and ice cream? Well, he’ll have to do without them . . . Would Grandmother notice? No, she wouldn’t. He would tell Grandmother that he ate a whole pood of gooseberries and a hundred cups of ice cream . . . Would she believe him? She would! Gooseberries are cheap—cheap, Grandmother says, and so it’s nothing much: he bought a pood and ate it. And he had a good bit of money; it was a silver coin, not a nickel— fifteen kopecks! But he didn’t have a fifteen-kopeck coin; the cow had eaten it! “You old cow,” Petka reproached his beloved burenushka, “why did you eat my coin! The gooseberries are so red and fuzzy, and chocolate ice cream is so tasty—a hundred cups!”

Petka walked on, thinking about his coin, which could not be returned. There was one way: he could confess to Grandmother and she would give him another. But where would Grandmother get it? Money doesn’t grow on trees, Grandmother always said, she had just a few silver coins, but lots of kopecks . . . Petka walked past the Kursk train station, past the dark-gray Ryabov house where no one ever lives, thought Petka, just golden rooms, and walked on Vorontsovo Field toward Ilya the Prophet. They had laid grass along the entire Vvedensky Lane, all the paving was covered with fresh-mown grass, there was Khludov’s grass and from the Naidenovs and from Myslin, all wealthy parishioners. His feet slid on the grass, and Petka managed to get green stains on his pants. There were occasional flowers in the grass, and the flowers smelled of the fields and reminded him of pilgrimages—Petka and his grandmother went on a pilgrimage every summer. Petka suddenly forgot about his eaten coin and squinted: he felt the earth and grass so clearly beneath his feet, he was transported near Zvenigorod on the path through the field—with campanulas, and through the forest—with the cuckooing cuckoo—toward St. Savva’s Monastery, and from Zvenigorod, from Blessed Savva to Nikolo-Ugreshe, and from Nikolo-Ugreshe to Trinity Sergius. People were hurrying down the lane to church, stopping on the sidewalk, picking the most convenient place with the best view. The bells were closer now, very close: at Trinity on the Mud. No, Petka was wrong, they were still far off: those were the bells of Kosma and Demyan.

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No one was on the Morozov fence yet, no one sitting there. Only the janitors stood by the gate, and the Morozov coachman in a corduroy vest with black hair, greased with butter. Petka, when he was big, would also use butter and his hair would be just as black as the coachman’s, but for now Grandmother, and only after his steam bath, moistens it with kvass. Petka climbed up on the Morozov fence and started looking around, waiting for the procession and his grandmother. “I’ll find it somewhere in the yard,” Petka would suddenly remember his poor coin. “It won’t be lost!” From the coin to the procession—Where? which church was ringing its bells?—Petka kept listening, and from the procession to Morozov’s coachman, from the coachman to grass and pilgrimage rambled the thoughts of little Petka, Petushok her little cockerel, as Grandmother called the boy. Grandmother came with her umbrella, hoisted herself up to join Petka on the Morozov fence. They pealed at Vvedenie in Barashy—they could see the procession of the cross: the heavy gonfalons burned with golden fire and the bells of Ilya the Prophet rang out. And Petka was consoled. Grandmother would give him a new coin, and if she didn’t, he wouldn’t starve without gooseberries and ice cream! Grandmother had no one but Petka, Petka was the son of her nephew, a grandchild. The nephew was missing, used to be a floor polisher, then got caught at something, spent a long time in Moscow without a job, found one at last in a tavern at Nikola-na-Yamakh, worked the winter there, left the place, went to work at Guzhon’s

factory and then left Guzhon as well, and then must have ended up on Khitrovka and disappeared among the lowlifes there. He came to Grandmother, albeit rarely, he came to ask for money, hung over. Grandmother feared her nephew and called him a robber. Petka lived with his grandmother on Zemlyanoy Val near Nikola Kobylsky church; they rented a room in the basement. Before, when she had strength, Grandmother never sat around without work and could not complain, she never sat down to a table without a loaf of bread, as the neighbors used to say, but now her eyes were weak and she couldn’t work anymore, and she was very old— she was six when Alexander I’s body was brought from Taganrog through Moscow in 1825, so she was so old! Kind people supported Grandmother, she received monthly funds, and they got Petka into a city school. Everyone in Zemlyanoy Val and on Vorontsov Field and in Syromyatniki knew Grandmother Ilynishna Sundukova. They got by somehow. Their room was cramped. Before the Sundukovs, the two old Smetanin ladies lived there, as pious as Grandmother, the Smetanins died, and Grandmother and Petka moved to their place. Before that Grandmother had had a bigger room, now the house painters lived there. Grandmother’s tiny room was stuffed. Grandmother had a chest of drawers, its dilapidation made a secret drawer, you couldn’t open the middle one except from the right side and just with a finger, and only Grandmother knows about it, hidden in the drawer are a silver tea glass holder with grapes and two silver spoons, the handles engraved with fine little flowers with black silver, all that is Petka’s, it will be his after Grandmother.

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Grandmother has a wardrobe that also has a secret: you can open the door all right, but then you’re stuck, the door will fall off—only Grandmother knows how to stick a bolt into some hole and the door goes back into place and the wardrobe can be locked. Grandmother has an oak trunk, iron clad, for her death; in it Grandmother keeps a shirt, shroud, backless slippers, toweling, which she prepared for her death; this was the trunk in which Petka secretly collected cabbage stems in the fall, when they were chopping cabbages: the scamp thought he was helping his grandmother, with snacks for the afterlife. Well, there’s also a couch, which doesn’t look bad at all, but if you’re not careful when you sit down, you’ll bump yourself on a piece of wood. In the corner are icon shelves with three images: the top shelf holds small icons from holy places and all sorts of brass crosses and icons, lower down, the icon of the Moscow miracle-workers— Maxim the Blessed, Vasily the Blessed, and Ioann the Holy Fool— standing one behind the other, Vasily is naked, Maxim wears a belt, Ioann a white tunic, with his arms like that, in front of the Moscow Kremlin, the Trinity above the Kremlin, and over the saints an oak forest—the mother desert—the mountains with caves—and the mountains were like tongues, fiery, as Petka thought, it was an ancient icon; and another icon, painted on gold, the Four Holy Days, four Mothers of God—the Intercession, All Sorrows, Akhtyrka, and the Sign—falling apart, also ancient. Beneath the icon shelves were three balls of rope: one of heavy rope, one of thin rope, and one of multicolored laces, collected over many years by Grandmother. And finally, the turkey hen—and that was all they had.

Grandmother would feed Petka and not forget the turkey. The turkey lived in a shed in the yard, the shed was next to the cowshed, the turkey was wasting away, it was as old as Grandmother, and while it couldn’t repeat Grandmother’s “Lord Jesus!” it seemed to understand everything, through its life, its old age. When he was very little, Petka was afraid of the turkey, but with the passing years he got used to it and liked looking at her: he’d squat in the shed in front of the turkey and look—Petka was interested in the turkey’s head, pink with small pink warts. The turkey would stand there, then fluff its feathers and also sit down. And so the two of them would sit like that: Petka and the turkey. “The deacon’s chickens have chicks, Pushka has kittens, but the turkey doesn’t have anything. Why?” Petka wondered more than once. And more than once, it goes without saying, Grandmother said, “If God would only send our turkey an egg, we’d have little cockerel turkey chicks!” “It’s all in the egg, if God sends the turkey an egg, cockerels will come out!” Petka understood. “Grandmother, what if God sends the turkey an egg?” “May He grant it!” “And then what?” wise Petka tested Grandmother. “She’ll sit.” “How will she sit, Grandmother?” “On the egg, Petushok, she’ll sit like this.” Grandmother sat down, exactly like the turkey. “She sits twenty-one days, three weeks, getting up only to eat, and then only every other day, or sometimes every third day, and then a cockerel turkey comes out.” “Grandmother, where will we put the cockerel?” Petushok the Cockerel

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“He’ll live with us.” “Grandmother, if we put him in a cage, will he sing? Like a nightingale, Grandmother, yes?” “Yes, Petushok, he’ll be so little, yellow with a crest . . .” “Grandmother, we’ll make a balloon and we’ll fly, Grandmother!” “What are you going on about, Petushok!” “We’ll fly, Grandmother, we’ll move into the balloon with the cockerel, we’ll live in the balloon. All right?” Grandmother was silent for a long time. Petka was staring out somewhere, through Grandmother, probably already seeing the balloon where they would live: he, the cockerel, and Grandmother. “I won’t,” Grandmother said. “I’ll die here, but not on the balloon.” “Grandmother,” Petka didn’t hear his Grandmother, he was thinking his own thoughts. “It’s all from the egg?” “Send her one, Lord!” Grandmother truly wanted the turkey hen to lay an egg, and she started dreaming about a cockerel no less than Petka. Petka forgot about the Ilya coin, did not blame the cow for eating his money, he didn’t need money, he needed a turkey cockerel. But how could he get an egg, how could he get God to send the turkey hen an egg, out of which everything would come, the cockerel would come? “I could take one from the deacon, and put it under the turkey,” Petka pondered. “The deacon has lots of hens, they lay lots of eggs . . . And I need just one, that’s all, just onе egg! But what if the deacon notices, they’re all marked”—Petka had sneaked into the deacon’s storehouse!—“with the date and day, they’ll catch me and I’ll be a

thief. I’ll have to go to Khitrovka as a thief. And Grandmother? How will she live alone? ‘I’m only alive for your sake, Petushok, I should have died a long time ago!’ he recalled Grandmother’s words. “No, I can’t take one from the deacon. But where, how, where will I find an egg? And I need just one, just one little egg!” Chance showed Petka the way. Grandmother decided to pamper her Petushok and make him some fried eggs, and she sent him to the store for eggs, to buy three eggs. Petka brought Grandmother two eggs and kept the third, telling her he had broken it. “See, Petushok, the cow ate your coin and now you broke an egg!” Grandmother was saddened by the broken egg. But Petka . . . another time, he wouldn’t have touched the eggs out of regret, but now, with the egg from which everything would come, the cockerel would come, in his pocket, he felt little grief: let Grandmother say whatever she wanted about him. He quickly ate the eggs, didn’t even wipe his lips before heading to the shed. He put the egg under her tail and waited to see what would happen, but the turkey didn’t even look, as if there were no egg at all, she didn’t sit on it. “What does that mean? What if she doesn’t sit on it?” “Sit down, turkey, please sit!” Petka crouched, staring at the turkey’s pink warts and froze in his crouch, not breathing, not moving, with a single stubborn thought, a single burning wish, a single request: “Sit down, turkey, please, sit!” The turkey hen fluffed up her feathers and sat, right on the egg, she sat on the egg. Petka stayed a long time, not taking his eyes off the turkey with a single stubborn thought, with a single burning desire. The turkey sat calmly and firmly on the chicken egg. Petushok the Cockerel

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Petka rose quietly, walked out of the shed quietly, and ran to the back where he fastened his eye to a crack: the turkey was sitting calmly and firmly on the chicken egg. Should he tell Grandmother? No, let her see for herself. How happy Grandmother will be when she sees the turkey on an egg! Petka kept watch all day at the crack in the shed: he watched the turkey and waited for Grandmother. She came to the shed and brought feed for the turkey hen. “Glory to You, Creator!” the old woman whispered, crossing herself, bumbling around the shed, unable to believe her eyes, unable to understand: the turkey had laid an egg, the turkey was sitting on an egg. That evening, after a long day, a marvelous one, Petka went to bed, and so did Grandmother. Petka tossed and turned, waiting for Grandmother to start about the turkey. Grandmother kept turning from side to side: she wanted to tell him the news but she was afraid to jinx it. She held out and held out, but couldn’t stand it: “Petushok!” she called. “Grandmother!” The scamp understood what was coming and pretended to have been asleep. “Are you sleeping, Petushok?” “What is it, Grandmother?” “The Lord sent mercy!” Grandmother even laughed, she was choking with joy. “An egg! The turkey is sitting . . .” “Sitting, Grandmother?” “Sitting, Petushok, sitting  .  .  .” Grandmother said in a singsong voice and coughed. “So, Grandmother, will we have a turkey, a cockerel?”

“A turkey cockerel, a very turkey one,” whispered Grandmother, as if the turkey cockerel held the secret to all the happiness of her life and Petka’s. “He’ll live with us?” “With us, Petushok, where else?” “And we won’t eat him, will we, Grandmother?” Grandmother did not reply, she fell asleep, pampered, overjoyed by God’s mercy—the turkey cockerel that would come out of the chicken egg in twenty days and one. The flame crackled gently in the votive light before the icons and crosses, before the Four Holy Days—Intercession, All Sorrows, Akhtyrka, and Sign—before the Moscow miracle-workers—Maxim the Blessed, Vasily the Blessed, and Ioann the Holy Fool. The mountain mother deserts, fiery in the candlelight, jabbed the Moscow Kremlin with their flaming tongues. “Grandmother, I’m going to love the cockerel!” And Petka, Grandmother’s Petushok, fell asleep. Every day, whether she needed to or not, Grandmother visited the shed to see the turkey hen, and each time she thanked God for the mercy sent down to her, and counted the days. Petka also counted the days and worried no less than his grandmother, he forgot about his kites, abandoned the serpent rattles, forgot that he himself had put the egg there, and believed in the chicken egg as if it were a real one, laid by the turkey. The turkey, contrary to all turkeyish customs, sat calmly and firmly on the egg from the moment she sat down and didn’t even think of getting up to stroll around the shed. Whether it was because she had never into her old age laid an egg and had no idea about any eggs—her own or chicken eggs—or Petka’s will was at work, or Petushok the Cockerel

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Grandmother’s patience had been heard, the brooding fever came upon her, as though she were a real layer, and the pink warts on her head grew pale. Twenty days and one day passed. Petka had not slept all night—“What if there’s no cockerel, what if it’s a dud egg?” How could he sleep! At first light, it was straight to the shed to see the turkey. “The cockerel is coming, bringing the red sun!” Petka hopped on one foot, warming, breathing on the chick, there in the shed and there in Grandmother’s cellar room, as if the turkey cockerel held the secret to all the happiness of his life and Grandmother’s. “Glory to You, Creator! Glory to Your patience!” Grandmother couldn’t even stand up with joy. Fall that year was dry and warm. The sunshine, though short, feathered the turkey cockerel: he grew, crowing hoarsely, swaggered, attacked the deacon’s vernal roosters, and fought like a real cock. Everything about him promised a bright red and prickly comb, sturdy spurs, a loud voice—a turkey cockerel! It wasn’t the turkey hen—how could she? she was wasting away and dying—it was Grandmother who took care of the cockerel, and when the warm weather turned cold, she brought the cockerel from the shed into her room. Grandmother would preserve Petka’s happiness, she would raise the cockerel the way she had raised Petka, preserving her happiness into her old age. With the cold and the October sleet came anxious times, the memorable days of the sacrifices of people and freedom in the revolution of 1905. That the electricity was out on the big streets in the city and that nearby at the Kursk Station shiny, polished locomotives stood and

froze, and beyond the Pokrov gate the terrible red stacks at Guzhon’s factory did not send up smoke, and the red light did not puff beyond the Androniev Monastery, all that seemed to go past Grandmother’s basement room; Grandmother did not need electricity, she did not go out beyond the gates at night, and she didn’t have any place to travel to, and she had no business with Guzhon. But Grandmother was not alone in the basement: the neighbors, just like her, basement dwellers, simple working people, were tightly bound by a heavy chain to both the Guzhon red smokestacks and the shiny Kursk locomotives, and the fact that the chimneys were not smoking and the locomotives were not moving knocked them out of their laboring rut, upset the order of their working lives, shook the earth, and became a doomsday for them. And the sense that enveloped the streets, bursting into daily lives and thoughts as doomsday, traveled from gate to gate, from street to street, from lane to lane, from dead end to dead end, from factory to factory, from basement to basement as a vague premonition of trouble, inexorable misfortune, seized Grandmother’s old soul on the threshold of her death. Grandmother’s nephew, the Robber, who had been lost somewhere on Khitrovka, suddenly appeared near Nikola Kobylsky in Grandmother’s basement room. His hand, crippled by rheumatism, his nose, like three noses one on top of the other—elephantiasis—his black worn raincoat with nothing under it but unwashed, soiled underwear that barely stayed up, rags and tatters, filled Grandmother with fear and dread. And not because Robber would ask for money, would put a knife to her throat, for she would give him her last coin, even though it would be difficult, she and Petka would be very hungry after that, she was Petushok the Cockerel

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afraid because she sensed that her nephew, Petka’s father, Robber, would do something to Petka. What Robber could do to Petka, Grandmother could not explain to herself, but somewhere in her old soul, it was clear that Petka was in danger, that trouble had left its kingdom made of bones and was coming closer, creeping up on Petka’s small, simple heart, and the trouble was ruthless, inexorable, uncharitable. Her nephew had not drunk or eaten; he was hungry. Grandmother lit the samovar for him. Petka came home from school and they sat down at the table. Petka had heard many stories from pilgrims about the lives of saints, how they had come to their sainthood, and he dreamed about becoming a robber, taking sin upon himself and then going to God, living in a monastery, or in a cave. And there he was sitting at the same table with a robber, sharing tea from the same samovar, and that robber, Grandmother’s nephew, was his own father. Petka could not tear his eyes away from his father, he looked at his trilevel nose with the same consuming curiosity that he had for the turkey’s pink warts. Not knowing how to please his father, how to show off, he jumped down from his chair, caught the cockerel hiding under the couch, and brought him over by his wings. “Look at him,” Petka said, “he’s a turkey!” “All Petka and I need is for the cockerel to be whole, Petka and I don’t need anything else!” Grandmother seemed to be apologizing for something, her hands trembling and her head shaking. Robber winked at the cockerel—a fine cockerel! Robber was satisfying his hunger, he rushed, he was making up for his starvation— how a grouse can still leave you hungry!—he ate, he ate Petka’s dinner and Grandmother’s and then started on the tea. The hot tea

heated him, made him sleepy, loosened his tongue. He began talking disjointedly, looking through Petka and Grandmother the way Petka had looked talking about his balloon on which he, the cockerel, and Grandmother would live. According to Robber, almost everything was allowed now, there were no more laws, no law at all, and if not today then tomorrow capital will fall into his hands, and then the reprisals will come, a bloody battle . . . “Intelligentshiyuz  .  .  . revolutyuz  .  .  .” Robber repeated strange, complicated words and twirled his finger near his neck. “I’ll marry a duchess!” The hotter Robber got, the more complicated and unlikely his stories grew. Petka listened to his father, open-mouthed, staring at the robber’s trilevel nose. “All Petka and I need is for the cockerel to be whole, Petka and I don’t need anything else!” Grandmother seemed to be apologizing for something on behalf of Petka and herself. Emptying his final cup, Robber left with the last of Grandmother’s change in his fist. Grandmother was left alone with Petka and the turkey cockerel. They cleared up, cleaned the samovar, washed the cups, brushed the crumbs into a bag, Petka did his lessons, they sat, yawned, played the silent game, and whiled away the evening. Then, after prayers, they looked under the couch: was the cockerel asleep or not? He had fallen asleep a long time ago, and they went to bed, too. Petka tossed and couldn’t sleep. Grandmother turned from side to side: anxiety and fear gnawed at her. “Petushok!” Grandmother called: she couldn’t bear her fear anymore. Petushok the Cockerel

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Petka, tossing in bed with his eyes open, saw himself as a robber, and out of the complicated words his father used he was building himself a robber’s work, a robber’s life. “Petushok, hey, Petushok!” Grandmother called even more softly, more gently. “What, Grandmother?” Petka jumped up, he had heard Grandmother: he thought she had called loudly. “It’s me, Petushok, don’t be afraid.” She was so scared she could barely raise her voice. “Don’t go away anywhere, Petushok . . .” “I’ll join the robbers, Grandmother,” Petka responded in a lively voice. “I’ll be a robber! And so will you, Grandmother . . . we’ll be robbers!” “Don’t leave, Petushok!” she squeaked in a high, barely audible voice, even Petka couldn’t hear her, and lay flat in deathly fear. Every bump, every creak sounded threatening to her now, a terrifying barking dog, as if someone was creeping up to the house, making his way to their basement entrance, a thief, an evil man, coming for Petka, her Petushok. Petka lay there with open eyes, not Petka but a real robber, black, his hair greased with butter like the Morozov coachman, his nose three noses, one on top of the other, his hand crippled, he would take Grandmother with him and the turkey cockerel, and they would fly to Khitrovka in a balloon, and they would be robbers, there would be a bloody battle . . . The flame crackled gently in the votive light before the icons and crosses, before the Four Holy Days—Intercession, All Sorrows, Akhtyrka, and Sign—before the Moscow miracle-workers— Maxim the Blessed, Vasily the Blessed, and Ioann the Holy Fool.

The mountain mother deserts, fiery in the candlelight, jabbed the Moscow Kremlin with their flaming tongues. “I’ve joined the robbers, Grandmother!” Petka muttered in his sleep. The troubled autumn ended and winter came. Grandmother’s anxiety did not cease, and Petka became completely incorrigible: when the scallywag got hiccups, instead of reciting Our Father, which he used to recite and it always helped, he played the Kalechina-Malechina counting game! Grandmother did not calm down, the streets did not quiet down, the icy cold did not chill Moscow’s fever, life did not enter its channel of daily cares and daily work. By unknown paths, unsensed, disaster stalked, attacking the Russian people, ruthless, inexorable, pitiless, it forced them into foreign distant lands to foreign nations where it swept them down for shame and humiliation, led them into the alien Ocean and there drowned them with an unending tempest wilder than storms, and dark, insatiable, it came from the alien yellow land, and approached the very heart, the denounced and bitterly miserable land, the Moscow River. Whether it was for our sins, as Grandmother liked to say, or as edification for the ignorant, as the indigent talkers said at the tearoom in Zatsepa near the Church of Frol and Lavr, or for the whole world in its insane silence, the Russian land, the Russian people, numb, voiceless, frail, punished over and over, having survived so many troubles, was giving itself over to a new disaster. After Nikola’s day, on Saturday Grandmother sat down with Petka; it was dinner time, and they started eating, what God had sent—there was no time for Grandmother at this point, people

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forgot about the old woman, and often Grandmother and Petka spent a week at a time on short rations. “Grandmother!” Petka jumped up from his chair. “Hear that?” Grandmother put down her spoon and picked at the crust of bread. “Grandmother . . .” Petka stuck his head out the small window. Grandmother did not move, her head shaking as it had around Robber. “They’re shooting, Grandmother!” Petka ran out the door. They were shooting in the city far away, shooting on Tverskaya Street somewhere, and the heavy thud seemed to be carried underground to Zemlyanoy Val—the windows shook. Grandmother hadn’t heard it. Petka did. And now Grandmother could hear it and she crossed herself, as she did for thunder. Rebellious days were upon them. Every corner, every intersection was involved: insatiable, dark, punitive, the trouble awaited day and night, in empty places and in public. Grandmother was afraid to let Petka away from her. Sin wasn’t far away: Grandmother saw robbers everywhere, in the renters who moved workers from factories and plants into rooms, the vigilantes, the dragoons, and the Cossacks who rode along Sadovaya to the Kursk Station. The shooting continued, Grandmother could hear it clearly, somewhere on Tverskaya, in Kudrino, on Presnya, and here, two steps away, on Meshchanskaya somewhere, they kept shooting and shooting, and with every hour the roar was louder in the basement, it was like a whip cracking, or dry branches snapping.

Grandmother didn’t sleep a single night after Nikola’s day, she guarded Petka the way she had guarded the turkey cockerel’s life in the first weeks, the way Petka himself watched the turkey hen on the egg through the crack in the back of the shed. The boy yearned to be free, he couldn’t stay still in the room, he was restless. Petka ran with some boys to Sukharevka and Grandmother ran after him. What fun for Petka: in the past, kids built a hill on ice this way, but now they were barricading the street. Petka grabbed a telegraph pole. “Haul it!” the agitated boy yelled to his grandmother. That was a misery for Grandmother: her hands were shaking with fear, how could she haul a pole! She could barely hold a piece of kindling. She picked up a handful of slivers, carried the kindling after the boys and put it down, her contribution, to the civilian outpost—to the mound of piled up crates, gratings, telegraph poles, and signs. “Go, granny!” they joked about Grandmother, and a robber janitor grinned, kicking one boot against the other. “For our sins!” whispered Grandmother, she was exhausted with her sticks, but she wouldn’t move away from Petka. For her boy was a fine one, he climbed up high, to the very top beneath the carmine flag, angled his cap like a daring Cossack, with the patent leather visor, and the flag above him, as red as the covers on the Communion chalice. How could you not try to keep up with him, you’d follow him to the top of the Sukhurev Tower!

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That evening when the bells rang for the evening service and the shooting burst into the peals of the bells horribly, Grandmother started getting ready for church. Petka ran ahead and played with the kids near the deacon’s cowshed: they were playing Cossacks and strikers. Grandmother, dressed in her quilted cotton jacket, tied at an angle, in her black wool shawl, looked under the couch at the hungry cockerel: asleep or not? He was asleep. She adjusted the votive light and the righteous faces looked at her from the dusk: Miracle Workers, the Mother of God, and she felt troubled. She was sorry that they were poor, so poor, the holidays were coming and there was nothing to celebrate with! It was hard for her and time for the grave and she was worried for Petka . . . the little child, if he just could stand on his own two feet! Innocent boy. “Holy Mother of God, Blessed, Lord, Protectress,” Grandmother put her fingers together to make the sign of the cross— “Finish up!” said someone in another room, maybe the painters, maybe the hatters, one of the renters. Grandmother shuddered, turned, and saw her nephew Robber in the doorway. “Give me money, old woman!” he approached. Grandmother shook her head: you can cut off her head, but she has nothing. “Nothing, you say?” “I swear to God . . . nothing.” Robber pulled Grandmother by the scruff of her neck and shoved her nose at the dresser. “Search, I say!”

Grandmother felt around under the icon shelves and silently— her tongue was tied by fear—handed Robber three balls of rope: a ball of thick rope, a ball of thin rope, and a ball of multicolored laces, collected over many years . . . Robber punched the old woman, a ball rolled away, and Grandmother sat down like the turkey hen before Petka and froze in a crouch. Robber was on a rampage: he overturned her oak death trunk, iron clad, tossed out the funeral things—shirt, shroud, slippers, fabric—went into the wardrobe, took off the door, and there was nothing there, grabbed the dresser, rummaged through all the drawers, turned it all upside down, there was nothing! Only the middle drawer wouldn’t open, he tried and tried, it stayed shut . . . The rolling ball of rope woke up the cockerel, he came out from beneath the couch, flapped his wings and sang hoarsely—sang, as if at midnight to his own detriment, so tiny, yellow, with a crest . . . Robber caught the cockerel, wrung his neck, and growled at Grandmother: “Choke to death!” and left. There, out in the yard by the cowshed, it was like Sodom, the kids went wild. With a shout, Petka tore out of the yard onto the street—one gang was pursuing the other—and ran across the street. A passing patrol from Sukharevka, bypassing the Khishinskaya factory, opened fire to clear the way. Petka fell nose down into the snow, grabbed his cap— And did not get up. With an exploded chest, a bullet wound through his heart, stiff, Petka was returned to the basement to his Grandmother along with his cap with the patent leather visor. Petushok the Cockerel

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This is how, this is where, this is whence disaster came, accept the disaster. Grandmother accepted it all. She is so very old, and yet she lives in her tiny basement room, lives on, not missing a single service, and when there is a funeral at Nikola Kobylsky, she goes to the liturgy and the service for the dead to stand with a candle. Grandmother has no one. She gave her nephew the silver glass holder with grapes and two silver spoons that she had saved for Petka; well, now he needed nothing! Her nephew vanished with the glass holder and spoons, he no longer dropped in, and the turkey hen died. The cockerel is coming, bringing the red sun! Grandmother remembered Petka singing the song, she thought of Petka so often. Her Petushok. And softly she recounts, so softly as if someone is sleeping or sick in the room and she does not want to awaken or disturb him with her voice, she recounts everything about the turkey hen and the miraculous egg, about the turkey cockerel, about Robber, and how she and Petka built a barricade on Sukharevka, and how Petka had been returned to her with an exploded chest, his heart shot, stiff, and Petka’s cap with the patent leather visor . . . “I went, Father,” softly, even more softly, said Grandmother, “I went to light a candle for Ivan Oslyanichek the Injured, I wanted to light it, but my hand would not go up . . .” Grandmother raised her shaking hand, and the hand lowered: it was her injury and hurt, innocent, bitter, and mortal, that lowered her hand, darkened her eyes with bitterness, and her hand shook, kept trying to rise but unable; her blue empty veins tightened hard,

her dry fingers tightened hard: she was holding the candle for Ivan Oslyanichek the Injured, saint of God, who accepts the hurt and injuries, innocent, bitter, mortal, all of them . . . “And I did!” Grandmother nodded and now easily raised her hand that way—the way the hands of the Moscow Miracle-Workers, Maxim the Blessed, Vasily the Blessed, and Ivan the Holy Fool are raised, and her hand did not shake: she was holding a candle, its burning, inextinguishable flame, burning the last innocent, bitter, painful hurt in her heart; and her eyes shone gently: that was faith glowing in her eyes, firm, inviolable, carrying a candle to her last days, a holy light through all the disaster, through every trouble, through all the deprivations, when everything has been taken away—the turkey cockerel—Petka—Petushok.

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THE SACRIFICE

03

THE BORODINS LIVE ON THEIR ESTATE AT AN UNSETTLED TIME IN RUSSIA—THE REVOLUTION OF 1905 HAS SPREAD TO THE COUNTRYSIDE, WHERE REBELLIOUS PEASANTS ATTACK THE WEALTHY LANDOWNERS AND THREATEN EXPROPRIATION, DEMANDING THEIR SHARE OF LAND.

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1 Now anyone who’s ever been to Blagodatnoe will in all good conscience, without lying, say good things about the old Borodin nest. Its name, given in the mists of time, was not a joke. You couldn’t come up with a better one, no matter how you try. And even though grapes were not growing and ripening in its gardens and birds of paradise were not singing, still, it was full of grace, as its name told. God’s own grace poured on his good earth!

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The old house with columns, the allée of maples, the fruit garden, fields, forest, cattle, people—everything belonging to Blagodatnoe delighted not only the neighbors but everyone who visited from other parts either on business or just because, both the sniffing barbered St. Petersburger and the shaggy pampered Muscovite. The house was a full cup, harmony and order. I swear, a bee would be jealous! As for Borodin himself, Pyotr Nikolaevich, he was a famous eccentric and jokester, hard to find many like him: wherever he shows up, in any society and at whatever time, laughter ensues the moment he opens his mouth. Both acquaintances and strangers laughed. It didn’t matter. This gray, unchanging jokester had a strange face. Years passed, he turned forty, but the same expression, as if printed once and for all, lay on his immobile, frozen features. It was strange that as people were rolling on the floor laughing, their bellies aching, the face of the deathly pale eccentric remained calm—no smile, no laughter, only spooky glints in his sunken, frozen eyes. And no less strange was that his speech, which made all and sundry laugh, had a mechanical ring to it, like a talking doll. And when someone tried to write down his speech, the paper held only the simplest ordinary words—not the least bit funny. And despite the apparently incommensurate appearance of Pyotr Nikolaevich Borodin with the inappropriateness of some of his jokes, no one ever thought to ask: What is the secret here, what makes it so funny and hilarious?

The rare lover of guessing games—you inevitably find one—tried to give an explanation, aiming as they say not at the eyebrow but the eye: it’s the play of physiognomy, exquisite mimicry, extraordinarily sharp gaze—it’s clear, obvious, understandable. Fortunately, all these explanations that set your teeth on edge then disappeared: no one wanted to ask anything, and there was no need. It’s funny, amusing—what more do you need? Pyotr Nikolaevich had never served anywhere and was not involved in public affairs. At one time he had been elected district marshal of the nobility. That memorable Borodin leadership quickly annoyed everyone! Not because things were bad or they saw any unpleasantness from him, quite the contrary. People couldn’t remember a merrier year: all affairs were turned into an amusement, total laughter and delight, but the result was such a mess, all sorts of contradictions and God knows what else appeared, you couldn’t clear it up. And if you didn’t know Pyotr Nikolaevich, you might at least wonder if he were in his right mind, and I think someone in St. Petersburg actually said that either in a salon or in a report. Only, fortunately, everything ended well. No living person lacks odd habits, everyone has his own quirks. Well, Pyotr Nikolaevich was no exception. Pyotr Nikolaevich had a passion for tidying and putting things away, and he did it so cleverly that afterward finding the tidied object was extremely difficult or impossible: Many things vanished, even very necessary ones. Then he liked to establish order, moving around tables, chairs, and shelves, rehanging paintings, reshelving books in the library,

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which in fact was his constant occupation from morning until lunch every day. At lunch, preferring rich foods like giblets, brains, and thighs, and knowing no measure, he often overate and therefore always complained about his stomach. He liked making fires in the stoves—he was always chilly—and he wandered with a long poker from stove to stove, stirring up the heat. He liked talking to the servants and the workers and even though the conversation always began with work it somehow ended up in complete nonsense, which brought about very unwanted and sad consequences for general order: Not only did no one fear Pyotr Nikolaevich but—no point in hiding this!—they had no faith in him. Besides which, fooling around and making things up, he promised completely unrealizable things: he mockingly gave his land to all and sundry, as the wave of discontent among the landless rose; of course, not a very large measure—three paces long and one pace wide—a joke plot. What else? Yes . . . he had a passion for killing chickens, and he killed them as well as a real chef: the bird with its throat cut did not flap its wings or run around headless, as it often happens with an inexperienced hand. And he also liked looking at corpses, and the more repulsive the dead face, the stronger the sense of corruption, the more attractive he found the corpse. Whenever someone died in the village Father Ivan let Borodin know, and he would immediately have his carriage prepared, drop everything, and Pyotr Nikolaevich would fly to the place or the house where the deceased lay.

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 The Sacrifice

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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. The Sacrifice

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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 The Sacrifice

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Zina, the second daughter, came from Kiev, and high-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

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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! The Sacrifice

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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. ɷɸɷ 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 nothing 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. ɷɸɷ 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. The Sacrifice

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“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! For some reason they latched on to the mysterious guest, the general and friend of Pyotr Nikolaevich, who God knows why once ran off, leaving Blagodatnoe. Everyone immediately decided that the general knew everything, and as soon as he was questioned everything would be clear, as if in the palm of your hand. But where could he be found? Back and forth. People gave up. Someone said: “All of St. Petersburg knows Pereverdeyev.” “Therefore, he’s in St. Petersburg?” “Of course!” A request was sent urgently from the governor to St. Petersburg. Practically the same day a response appeared. They reported that there are plenty of generals in St. Petersburg, and there are some with names that it’s not quite proper to use in the society of ladies, but there was no Pereverdeyev. Perhaps Pereverzev? And while they asked about Pereverzev, judged, and gossiped up and down, someone made of iron, without asking, reporting to no one, was confidently doing his faithful work, someone ruthless was coming in seven-league boots from far, far away to mete out justice and revenge in his own way. Nothing worked without Alexandra Pavlovna, so she forced herself to get involved in the minutiae of life, dropping her heavy thoughts. She did not believe she had the right to abandon house, husband, and daughter—the husband for the love of whom she made such an enormous sacrifice, the daughter for the love of whom she would gladly sacrifice all her peace.

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Had she been mistaken when she offered up the three older children as a sacrifice and forgot Sonya? She had not forgotten Sonya but purposely did not mention her! Why hadn’t she mentioned Sonya then? They would have all survived. But what if all four died? But that could not be: if she had given up everything, and who gives up everything . . . Why didn’t she give up all of them? That was the question that tormented her without end. And what if Sonya dies, too? She had just said she would give up everything, and that meant Sonya, too, didn’t it? That was the question she ran from, like a madwoman, afraid to think. “Sonya, Sonya, where are you?” Alexandra Pavlovna noticed her absence and searched for her daughter, who never left her side. To her suffering over her deed and suffering over her only daughter was added worry over her beloved husband, whose life had cost three dear deaths. Pyotr Nikolaevich could barely move, he no longer left the study, he had turned blue, his hair stuck to him, and the pallid dead skin, separated from the body precisely, hung off him like a sack. The house, all the rooms, were filled with a horrible stench. The house was old and many rats lived under the floor—there was an entire generation there and it often happened that an ancient rat died. That must have been the source of the unbearable stink. At another time, Pyotr Nikolaevich would have certainly found the place where the carrion lay and had the floor raised and the carrion taken away, but now no one had the energy for it.

Everyone who happened to be at Blagodatnoe then sensed that life could not go on like this, that sooner or later—it didn’t matter which—a way out had to be found. They waited. They had another three days and three nights to wait. And two days and two nights had already passed. ɷɸɷ On Saturday night Father Ivan performed the vigil service at the house and waved the censer energetically—he did not spare the incense. After a snack he left, and everyone went off, not without rushing, to bed. “That night,” as Mikhei recounted later, “I hear the master calling me. ‘Mikhei,’ he says, ‘good fellow, bring me a rooster, in the name of Christ, and I’ll never forget you.’ ‘Why do you need a rooster now, master? It’s nighttime.’ He merely winked: you understand what for. I went to the henhouse, caught a fat rooster, brought the rooster and handed him the knife. The master took the rooster, started killing it, but he didn’t have the strength—the rooster was still fluttering. Well, he finished it off somehow. There was a whole puddle of blood on the floor and on him. The master seemed better. ‘It would be good, he says, Mikhei, to look at a corpse!’ ‘Good God,’ I say, ‘what corpse now, as if you haven’t seen one!’ But I felt shivers up my spine—I see that something’s wrong with the master, as if its stifling him, his teeth were chattering and he was shaking. ‘Where’s Sonya?’ he asks and how he looks at me—when my time comes to die I will still remember how he looked at me. ‘In the mistress’s bedroom I say, The Sacrifice

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with the mistress.’ Here the master seemed to calm down, and I went off to rest.” “I woke up in the night,” the housekeeper Darya Ivanovna later said. “I heard a sound like a cat mewing. And where, I thought, did a cat come from? I mewed, but it didn’t reply, just hissed.” “The rooster really did crow,” others stated. But apparently even the rooster did not help. And what a fine cockerel it had been! The old man had no strength, he was about to croak. Pyotr Nikolaevich suddenly rose on the bed: “They were all lost—Misha, Liza, Zina, and Sonya, and all were found, only Sonya is missing!” There was just one overwhelming thought: find Sonya immediately, this second, and it got him on his feet and led him. Holding on to the knife, he crawled from the study to the bedroom. The bedroom door was ajar. The bedroom was lit by the votive candle. Sonya lay on the bed with her mother facing the door. “Chicken, my little chick!” the old man whispered, crawling up to the bed. Sonya opened her eyes. Sat on the bed. Looking at her father, twisted, smeared in blood, in horror she stretched out her swan neck. “Chicken, chickie!” whispered the old man, trying to stand. And—he did. His daughter’s swan neck in the glimmer of the votive light stretched even more beneath the gleaming knife—one instant, and the swan would be felled by a cherry necklace!

But the old man couldn’t do it, his strength was gone, there was no saving him! The knife slipped from his hand and fell with the slimy skin that had separated from his fingers onto the carpet. The old man shuddered and crouched, completely emaciated. Everything—nose, mouth, ears—everything gathered into fat folds and with a puff began to slough off. The slimy mush slid off, cleansing the white bones of vileness. A naked, eyeless skull, so funny, grinning, white as sugar, the skull appeared in the votive candle’s light. At that moment fire slammed open the bedroom door with flames, its red eye stabbing the mother, the stunned daughter, and the dead head of the dead father, and attacking the ceiling with its tongues, fire fanned open like a red rooster. The Borodin house was burning.

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04

IN 1666, PATRIARCH NIKON OF MOSCOW INTRODUCED REFORMS IN CHURCH PRACTICES. THIS PRODUCED A SCHISM WITHIN THE ORTHODOX CHURCH, AND THOSE WHO DID NOT ACCEPT THE REFORMS CAME TO BE KNOWN AS OLD BELIEVERS. SOME OF THE REFORMS WERE AGAINST PRACTICES THAT WERE OF PAGAN ORIGIN OR MARKED BY SUPERSTITION. TO AVOID PERSECUTION, MANY OLD BELIEVERS MOVED OUT OF MOSCOW AND LARGE CITIES TO THE URALS AND SIBERIA, WHERE THEY COULD WORSHIP AS THEY CHOSE. ONE REFORM WAS IN THE WAY THE SIGN OF THE CROSS IS MADE. THE OLD WAY IS WITH TWO FINGERS; THE NEW FORM USES THREE FINGERS, INCLUDING THE THUMB. OLD BELIEVERS CALLED PEOPLE PRACTICING THE THREE-FINGERED FORM “PINCHERS.” ANOTHER TRADITION OLD BELIEVERS RETAINED WAS THE USE OF LEATHER STRAP ROSARIES.

ɷɸɷ

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1 The Divilin house by the river. Old, gray, dilapidated. Every dog knows it. The door to the house has steps leading up to it, and it is narrow, gray, and solid—not a hole, not a crack—and no keyhole visible. At night, your knock won’t be answered. And why would anyone knock at night?—Maybe a thief?—However, a thief wouldn’t need to, he can get in without a door, that why he’s a thief. But what if there’s something, it’s important . . . Well, don’t blame me—there’s no bell. At one time there used to be a note on the door: Entry through the window— Whether that was someone’s idea of a joke or it had to be done because of some reconstruction—actually, there were housepainters nearby at that time. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Go ahead, try to get in!—look where the window is: however high you jump, you won’t reach it, you’ll just pull a muscle. If you could reach from the pediment or the lamppost . . . but the pediment is sinfully crooked: a carter drove past once, didn’t watch where he was going, clipped the pediment, which was knocked over, and it’s been crooked ever since. And there’s no joy with the lamppost, either. If it were just a tiny bit closer, but it’s in the wrong place—just kitty-corner from the Moscow River. So while you climb up and try to jump—it’s not worth climbing: won’t work! All right, there’s no approach from the street. So, go over the fence from the embankment?—the spikes will stop you: some are thicker than a finger, this big, and they’re sharper than a needle. No, brother, you won’t get over that!

If you try the gate . . . If you try the gate, right in front of you in the yard you’ll see a huge shed; once upon a time it was for a horse, and now there’s only the equine smell, manure, and even that is fading. If you get to the shed, make a left and go straight to the dog kennel—there’s no dog in there; there was one, Belka was the name, but it died, so there’s no one to bark. From the dog kennel make another left and you’ll hit the door. The door is upholstered in soiled oilcloth on a block and tackle. You’ll open it easily, of course, there’s no problem, and you’ll go down the hallway and after stumbling plenty you’ll come, finally, to another door. And that’s where you’ll wait! Until your patience runs out—it’s pointless anyway—and you say the hell with it and leave. These people have really sealed themselves in! The street is narrow and deserted: the water carrier in the morning, night soil removal in the evening—that’s all the traffic. Yet the house is occupied. But what goes on in the house is not revealed to a single soul.

2 Old man Divilin, who seemed a holy fool, a saint, was highly respected. Even though he lived like a hermit, he showed himself then and again. The old man was called the Drowned Man. Once, soon after his marriage, he fell into an ice hole on Epiphany and drowned. They searched for him, caught him with a boathook and hauled him out, then picked him up and resuscitated him. Ever since so it went: drowned man, drowned man, nothing else. Ever since so it went: he started drinking hard.

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When the evil moment struck—he immediately threw all his clothes on the floor, and then, naked as he was born, out onto the street he went. Rain, sleet, frost or blizzard—walk on by: he paid no attention. In those moments, he thought everyone was a crayfish and he was a head crayfish, like their mother crayfish. The old man would stretch out his arms, make his fingers like claws and start catching. Whoever came by, he’d catch everyone. He’d go straight to the market and first thing he’d take on the horses. He’d wallop a horse, punch its muzzle until he was exhausted, and then he’d quiet down near the stand. He’d lie under the matting immobile, like a corpse, eyes open, enormous and without whites, goggling—like a crayfish, and he’d be all red himself, like a boiled crayfish. When the time came, he’d revive, get up and start muttering and groveling. Just listen! And the womenfolk wouldn’t let him go. Everything the drowned man ever said came to pass. He never deceived them. He had the gift, you know. The man enjoyed great respect, rarely does any one person get so much respect. But he didn’t care, he didn’t need it. The old man wanted something else. Old woman Agrafena lived as she was in a convent, never showing her nose, just sitting and sitting. Anyone who did see her would never say she was an old woman: around forty, no more, and even that was an exaggeration, and those years are not old, you can really move around at that age, another one in her place would spin such twists a young woman would be jealous. In a white kerchief, all translucent and immobile, she seemed boneless or seedless. Quiet, no smiles. And always the same: not aging, and not growing younger.

But there were times, before her marriage, when she performed all kinds of miracles, such wondrous wonders. So loving: she would comfort and succor everyone, and where she found such words, they would grab your soul and enter your soul and quench any heat. Every old man should know what she knew. Sometimes she would start asking questions or in a difficult moment give some advice, and you listened raptly. Blue eyes, flaxen hair. A monk couldn’t resist, much less an ordinary man. And then this happened—she fell head over heels in love with Ivan the drowned, and Ivan couldn’t figure out why she repulsed him and that was that. But then it happened. She took Ivan, she got what she wanted, but not by her own hands. This is how it went. Agrafena had long been planning a bad thing—to cast a spell. She was just waiting for Easter. On the first day of Easter after the service, when the priest came out with holy water, she noted which sweetened cheese paskha had been sprinkled first and took a pinch of it. She did the same thing with the artos bread that the holy water reached first. She wrapped the artos and paskha in a cloth and hung it around her neck and wore it on her chest until the new moon. When the young crescent moon appeared, she went to a quiet place, stood facing the moon, took her gold cross from her chest for the moon and started reciting—casting the spell. The young moon sees all The young moon knows all, Sees and knows Who kisses whom. She, Argefena, The Little Devil

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Kisses Ivan. So be it forever Kissing and cuddling Like doves! She rides on a donkey Whipping it with an adder, Comes to the moon With artos and paskha. Ivan does not turn away, Does not say a bad word to her. So be it forever, That he never says a bad word, But is always gentle.

Agrafena took off the cloth, removed the artos and paskha, ate them, and saved a few crumbs. She ran to Ivan’s house on some excuse and slipped the crumbs into his tea unnoticed. She waited for Ivan to finish his tea and then she went home. Ivan lost his mind: he couldn’t live without her! She was afraid. She could see that things were not good, she could no longer live as before: she was being drawn somewhere, she was having thoughts that froze her blood. It was all happening so imperceptibly, of its own accord, almost a joke. She felt an extraordinary power within her and if she wanted even the most incredible thing, it immediately came to pass. She was afraid to want anything, afraid to think . . . She took her cross out again, hung it on her neck, began to fast, everything, everything, she followed everything as it was written.

And she grew still. As if she had been struck down. As if the devil had squashed her. The devil gave up on her and went away forever, abandoned her in this world to live in peace, in silence, without fun, without joy, without a single smile, even for an instant. She lived serenely, meekly. Where did it all go? She did not understand. Had there ever been anything? She remembered nothing. As if she had been born this way, as if she had never had fun, or joy, or smiled once. Pray and sigh, pray and sigh. Pray about what? Sins. But what sins?

3 Children were born to the Divilins frequently. And died. A sturdy infant is born, lives over a year, already starting to walk and talk, and then for no good reason kicks the bucket and gives up his soul to God. Only two lived—two boys. The older, Boris, had a great love of study. He covered his part of the house with books. Taciturn, he would sit and read and you couldn’t distract him with anything: not sweets, not games. He graduated from the gymnasium and went to university. The old man adored Boris. Never refused him anything. He wanted him to be a doctor. Sometimes, at a quiet hour, when he wasn’t on a binge, the old man would sit quietly next to his son and keep asking questions: Where did the world come from, where did the earth come from, and man and all the beasts? The Little Devil

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And why did it all happen the way it is and will there be an end to it and will there be something else? And what will the something else be? And why are there causes and pain and passion? And why does death come and people are born and why is his heart shriveling? . . . Did the old man understand what his son told him from books; did the son understand what the old man was asking? The old man kept tugging at his thin black beard, clutching it with his fingers as if they were claws, nodding his head. And as quietly as he entered, he would go back to his rooms and often in the dark, with the tiny light of the votive candle, he paced back and forth all night muttering to himself, clutching his thin black beard, nodding, and then bugging out his crawfish eyes, black without whites, he stood still. He stood a long time; he was like stone. And he would go back quietly to his son and if he found him at his books, he sat down silently, staring at him, and the hollow between his eyebrows grew black, blacker than a deep well. “Why does death come and people are born and why is his heart shriveling?” Boris married early. The young nun Glafira would visit his mother Agrafena at the Divilin house. And it was Glafira he married. They had a baby girl. Soon after, the darkest of dark events happened at the house. One night a “black carriage” drove up to the house. Men got out of the carriage. Went into the house. Took Boris. Put him in the carriage with them. The carriage drove off. Boris left. And never returned. Boris never returned to the house. He just vanished—no word of him again.

Twelve years passed, and still no one knows, and no matter how hard they thought, they didn’t come up with anything, and no one can say: how, what, or why? Twelve years since the old man died, and Boris has not returned and only God knows if he ever will. The old man died of grief. From the day they took Boris away, he did not sleep, he could not sleep. The old man spent every night in Boris’s room in his usual place at the table, and propping up his head, elbow on the table, he stared at where Boris used to sit with his books. “Why does death come and people are born and why is his heart shriveling?” the old man muttered. And so he died. After his death, a few months later Agrafena gave birth to their last child. She christened him Denis in honor of his grandfather. Neither the old man’s death nor the incident with her son disturbed her even, steady life day in, day out. Only once did her blue eyes flash with a blue flame. Only once— and then they dimmed. Serenely, meekly. Pray and sigh, pray and sigh. Pray about what? Sins. But what sins?

4 The entire house and the entire Divilin household were now in daughter-in-law Glafira’s hands. And she dealt with it all as if it were hers. The Little Devil

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As dry as kindling, as skinny as a match, bloodless, predatory, and as mean as Yaga the witch on a splintery broomstick—she was a real Yaga. Back in the convent, she had been quiet by necessity, humble by vow, but here she took over completely in the empty house with its separate apartments, hallways, passages and half-landing, corners, endless stairways and innumerable rooms. Glafira married Boris . . . who the hell knows why she married him. For love, or was she calculating something, or it was just time . . . now she was free and she could freely do whatever she wanted. But what was there for her to do except run the household, in that empty house?—Why nothing. What do you mean nothing? She scolded Antonina and Deniska. Run around the yard or go somewhere beyond it: ride a boat, go fishing—oh no no no! It was only on big holidays that Yaga took the children and walked with them to the other side of town, to the convent beyond the city gate. And she badgered them the whole way and nagged them in church—what kind of fun was that, worse than detention, where Deniska often ended up for laziness and mischief. Deniska is a tall kid, and his chest is iron. In the breaks and often during class, unbuttoning his jacket, he shows the other boys his chest. And they all agree, and how could they not, that his chest, is indeed, iron, and if you knock on it, it has a great sound. When Deniska first started at the gymnasium, he was greeted with the nickname—after his father—of Drowned Man. The very

first day he beat up one of the reckless and wild boys in the school, and ever since they fear him. He’s horribly lazy, you can’t get him to sit with a book. His only passion: he loves to draw. All he does is draw faces, teachers, and various things. His pockets are full of pencils, gum elastic, and other erasers. An eraser was good not just for removing dots of ink but for trouble-making. An eraser is an object that just begs to go in your mouth. The smell of an eraser is pleasant, especially when it is fresh and peels off the paper, leaving a yellow membrane behind. Deniska liked chewing the eraser; he’d chew a while, and then make a little figure out of it: a frog or something silly or whatever would make the whole class howl as one and stopping them would be impossible. Then he would blow a bubble and then when things got quiet, he would squash the eraser so that it popped. It popped, the sound of the bubble bursting filled the classroom, but the cause was invisible. That eraser put Deniska into detention so many times, and he also had to come in on Sundays, and if you try to add it up, you’ll lose count. Reading books was like genuflecting for Deniska. And the books they sent home with students brought on such yawning from the first few lines, and he looked so angry you expected him to pick up those books and tear them to pieces. Deniska knew lots of stories, they came to him by various paths: he heard plenty and he made them up himself. The detention cell at the gymnasium was watched by Gerasim the old doorman. Sometimes, Deniska would be inside, and old Gerasim

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had to sit and keep an eye on Deniska through the little window: he couldn’t go anywhere; he’d be responsible if anything happened. So the old man told stories out of boredom. And what wouldn’t he tell about: battles, the village, wizards, and corpses. And when he told fairy tales—you’d be happy to spend a century in the cell!—that’s how good he was. Antonina also studied at the gymnasium. But last winter a catastrophe befell her, and they took her out of school. With the first snowfall, Antonina and Deniska ate some snow. It was like water off a duck’s back for Deniska, he developed a cough, and that was that, but Antonina ended up in bed. She was so sick that they lost all hope she would get up. But she did, except her legs were bad: she could step only on one, the left, and only on the toes, while the right leg just dangled like a tail. The girl had to use crutches. And what happened to her blond braid—just little tufts of hair stuck out and no sign of the braid. At first Antonina continued going to school after her illness. She was the naughtiest—no less than Deniska—and most talkative girl in the class, and now she sat, head back, like a hunchback, and the crutches stuck out behind her back like two devil signs. Her pale face would sometimes begin to contort into a silly face and her lips would twist, ready to give out a laugh that would make the teacher and blackboard roll on the floor, but nothing came out—just something pathetic, horrible, and tortured, you wanted to turn away. The teachers avoided calling on her, and when they did. they allowed her to reply sitting down . . . Yet she used to be unable to sit still for a minute! The girl was fading. So they took her out of the school.

And now Antonina was at home from morning till night under the eye of her mother—Yaga. The children did not like Yaga, just as Antonina did not like her school matrons, as Deniska did not like sissies, clods, suck-ups, supervisors, the director, and the wardens. But it was the opposite with old Agrafena. The children often visited her rooms. They called her babinka, instead of babushka. That’s what they called her: babinka, babinka. It was warm and cozy in her room. The walls were covered with pictures; the pictures were embroidered in silk and beads: there were flowers, and terrible beasts, and a monastery, and Chinese people, Amazons on horseback and plain Amazons, swans, castles, and more Chinese. In the corner there were icons, along the sides holy things: caps, shoes, cuffs, ribbons, belts, crosses, laces—all from the relics of saints. The tables were covered with boxes—with beadwork, or leather, or painted, or crystal. Babinka wore a white kerchief, and, as if she had water in her mouth, she never said a word, she only prayed and sighed. And what a rosary she had! With white leather petals for each step, sprinkled with round pearls, the pendants on the gold velvet were on pearl branches, and the edges and trim were pearl, and every pendant was a step on the whole pearl path. The children rummaged in the boxes, opened trunks, took out exotic things, looked at everything, touched everything. What wasn’t there! . . . In the meantime, without stopping her prayers, the old woman unlocked one of the cupboards and took out a plate full of dried apples, and pears, and plums, and grapes and set it on the table for the children. “Berry, berry!” her faded lips whispered. The children dropped the boxes and caskets and set to eating. The Little Devil

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“Berry, berry!” the old woman whispered bloodlessly. And the plate grew empty. “Good-bye, Babinka, thank you!” the children kissed the old woman and went back to their nursery.

5 The nursery was in Boris’s rooms. After the old man’s death, all the books went in the fire, and there wasn’t a single overlooked book left in the house. Boris’s disappearance was attributed to the books. “Everything comes from books,” Yaga said. “Books are from the devil and keeping filth in the house only pleases him and gathers dust.” It was in that empty room, where every corner was once filled, that Antonina spent her days. She just waited for Deniska. Deniska was late coming home: either he’d be held there or he’d get into mischief was the boys. Deniska told Antonina scary and bizarre stories, and Antonina loved listening to them. She asked him to tell them. She took every story, every bit of bravado, with passionate pain. She knew very well that her fate was to sit right here, like this, and there could be nothing else for her to the end of her days. She chafed herself, teased herself, listening to stories and picturing the bravado she was once capable of. Looking up at the ceiling somewhere, like a hunchback, she laughed, raucously, as loudly as she could. Her eyes glittered with laughter and tears, and she bounced and the crutches behind her back bounced. “Denka, dear. Denka, tell me more! . . .”

Deniska was about to pick up a pencil—he wanted to draw a monster. “Denka, about the woodpecker!” Antonina banged her fist on the table and she furrowed her brows: either she would cry or hit him with her crutch. The story about the woodpecker started; Deniska started the story. Everyone knows the folktale, about how a dog fed a man and his wife, and how they chased away the dog when she got old, and how the dog found herself in such a horrible situation you could just lie down and die. “So the dog decided to go out into the field and feed on field mice.” Deniska stretched out his lips and squinted cleverly, as if he were catching mice himself. “So the dog went into the field, the woodpecker saw her, and they became comrades.” Then come all of the dog’s adventures. A long and cruel story. Deniska tells it with passion, as if the fate of the dog and the woodpecker were his own. The woodpecker stuffed the dog with food and drink. “Now I’m full and drunk and I want to laugh!” “All right,” the woodpecker replies. They saw that workers were milling flour. The woodpecker sat on one laborer’s shoulder and pecked at the back of his head; the other fellow grabbed a stick to hit the woodpecker but knocked the worker off his feet. The dog rolled on the ground laughing, rolling and rolling . . . The crueler the dog’s tricks, the more playful Deniska’s eyes. The dog finally gave it up—a man was driving into town to sell pots—the dog got caught in the spokes of a wheel and died.

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The woodpecker was angry, Deniska continued, he sat on the horse’s head and started pecking her eyes out. The man ran up with a log, wanted to kill the woodpecker; he ran up and wham—the horse keeled over dead. The woodpecker flew to the load and ran around the pots, flapping his wings. The man went after the woodpecker and kept hitting his load with the log. He broke all the pots and headed back with nothing. The woodpecker flew to the man’s hut, flew right in the window. The woman was feeding the fire and a small child was sitting on the bench; the woodpecker landed on his head and started pecking. The woman noticed and started chasing him but couldn’t get him out: the woodpecker kept pecking. So she picked up a stick and hit hard: she missed the woodpecker but she killed the child. The man came home and sees: all the windows are broken, all the dishes are broken, and the child is dead. He chased the woodpecker, got all scratched and banged up but caught him. “Kill him,” the woman said. Deniska drew a three-inch nose, added feet, and smacked his lips. “No,” said the man, “that’s not enough, I’ll swallow him whole.” And he did. Antonina’s pale face is covered in red splotches, a nervous tic runs under her eyes, and she starts laughing. In the empty nursery with empty bookshelves and two beds in the corners, with long walls completely scribbled over in faces, noses, and tails, the light burned long past midnight. Then Yaga, her slippers slapping, chased them to their beds, but even in bed they keep talking, bursting into laughter, and squeaking like mice. The steady light of the votive lamp and the steady beat of the clock hinted and whispered to them that night in the empty house.

6 The only guest at the Divilins’ is the roach exterminator Pavel Fyodorov. The children kept away from the exterminator and the exterminator did not like children. “Filth,” the exterminator said. “Devil’s spawn. Conceived in sin, fed by sin, they multiply sin. Filth.” Burdock grew in infinite amounts in the yard, and Deniska, when he could slip away unseen by Yaga, collected the prickly burrs and surreptitiously stuck the burrs on the exterminator’s most private parts. If ever there was a human face with such an amazing resemblance to that of a dog, it was Pavel Fyodorov’s. Probably there never was a greater resemblance. He was simply a dog and no question. Overgrown, wiry, toothy, and a deep bark instead of a voice. Wheezing dog. Pavel Fyodorov went through famous merchant houses and killed cockroaches. He had a black leather bag with white poison over this shoulder and a stick with a leather tip in his hands. He smeared pig fat on the tip, took out a jar with white powder from the bag, carefully opened the lid and dipped the stick inside. Then he whispered some cockroach word and set to work. He walked along the wall where there were cockroaches and slowly applied his tip, so that the entire wall was covered with white circles like the white tongues of flames. The exterminator applied the tip slowly, with measure and with taste. The cockroaches, no longer fearing light, crawled to the bait and ate the white circles, crawled out of their hidden nests, all the cracks and fissures with small children, The Little Devil

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with eggs, and ate the white circles. Sated, they sleepily crawled back to the nests, crack, and fissures, never to come out again not only in light, but even at the height of the whiskered cockroach life— at night. The exterminator considered his work big and important. As if in the rustle of cockroaches he imagined the Devil himself, and the exterminator’s most important and primary commandment was to conquer the Devil, to wipe the Devil from the face of the earth. Tearing himself away from his work, he talked only of the most important issue: “The entire world is in thrall of the evil one, everything is caught in his nets, his satanic paws are everywhere. Children are not born to praise the Lord—filthy spawn!—they are born to do the Devil’s bidding. The end is nigh, the earth is rotting from filth and foulness. The time is near . . . The world is doomed, the last righteous men are dying, the devil’s sons are breeding like sand in the sea. There is no point in hiding now. He will sit on the throne, like tsar and judge, he will rule and judge his slaves from sea to sea and turn his kingdom into hell where the worm dies not and the fire is unquenched.” The exterminator had never seen the Devil face to face. But should the Devil appear before him, the exterminator would not fear entering into battle. After killing the cockroaches, Pavel Fyodorov closed his jar, put it back in the bag, hung the bag over his shoulder and started on the stick, rinsing the tip three times in boiling water, wiped it with a dry rag, put the stick on the porch, then, splashing and snorting, he washed his hands and beard and, under his beard, whispered a farewell to the cockroaches, prayed, and then sat at the table to have tea with plum jam.

God forbid the jam not be made the way the exterminator liked it. He would refuse to sit down and give you a scolding. “You have to cut the plum in half first, sprinkle it with sugar, and put the pan in the oven overnight, in the morning take it out and then start cooking. Then the plum will be separate from other plums, like cockroaches from cockroaches.” The exterminator would take his stick, shove his hat on his head and leave. And you could ask and beg, he wouldn’t come back for anything in his anger. But if everything was done correctly, then a conversation begins about the most important thing over tea. The hosts pour out their heart, going over all the sadness and misfortunes of their family life. “Filthy,” the exterminator barks, “it’s all filth.” Wherever he went, whatever he heard, whomever he saw, it all reeked of filth, evil spirits—he imagined the Devil. The exterminator had never seen the Devil face to face. But should the Devil appear before him, the exterminator would not be afraid and—he believed, he believed he would vanquish Him. Should the Devil appear before him! ɷɸɷ Pavel Fyodorov’s life passed in killing cockroaches. He did not visit anyone just like that, not for work, except the Divilins. And only sometimes, and this did not happen more than five or six times a year, he tore off the black bag with white poison and tossed his stick with the leather tip any old where. The Little Devil

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It came on unexpectedly. Severity and grimness suddenly reached a tipping point. He started trembling, his eyes grew veiled, his teeth opened in a snarl. A canine howl rose in his chest, and if he were chained then, he would have howled like a dog. He locked all the doors, shut the curtains, rummaged in corners, looked under the bed—he was drawn, he touched every hollow object, took out glasses and cups, removed glass lampshades—he was drawn, his soul was on fire, his heart thumped, and his belly was turned inside out. Teeth chattering as if in a fever, the exterminator would rush out of his room and walk, enveloped in turbidity, with a heavy, dull head, his brain squashed as if a solid layer of some kind of crust lay upon it. The exterminator blindly made his way to the zoo. There, in the zoo, he wandered in silence from cage to cage, from rabbit to guinea pig, from monkey to elephant. Then just as silently and blindly, when twilight fell, he left the zoo, came out on the main street, and the nocturnal open life was awakening on the street. He walked even more tensely and agitatedly, looking straight ahead, not making room, giving way, letting others pass, barreling ahead. And if an evil spirit had moved someone to try and stop him, it’s hard to claim that he would not have choked him on the spot or if he had a knife that he would not stab the miscreant. And he walked down the street more and more slowly until he froze on the spot: then the next woman he saw was doomed. He did not lead her, he dragged her into a hotel room or a room. There he attacked—toss a hungry dog a bone, that’s how it attacks! or a fish  .  .  . with the bones, skins, guts, growling and wheezing, it gobbles it all down, gnaws the rotten delicious meat bones, skin, guts and all, and there was something terrible and head-spinning about it and it lasted for hours, the whole night.

Silently, without looking, the exterminator abandoned not a human being, not a woman, but silently, without looking, the exterminator abandoned a corpse, and went along home, to fall into a deep sleep, and refreshed, start his ordinary life and his work—killing cockroaches.

7 The exterminator’s adventures remained a deep secret. As mysterious stories, they occasionally floated up to the surface, but no one would have believed they were his handiwork. Everyone considered the exterminator unusual and not simple, but to do that . . . it would never occur to anyone. The exterminator was on everyone’s tongue. Recently people were interested in his visits to the Divilins: he won’t cross the threshold of anyone’s house without a job, but the Divilins—look!—he’s there every Saturday. The house is isolated, you can’t get near it, and there’s no way to find out what he’s doing there. But everyone was very curious about finding out what he’s doing there. Someone joked: “Everyone in the house is long dead, not a nostril left of them, and instead of people there are cockroaches, and the exterminator is socializing with the cockroaches; what a jerk!” “What about Deniska?” someone countered the mocker. “The boy’s gallivanting to school every day!” Jokes aside, you can’t get by with jokes here. So then the guesses started. They recalled the old man—the drowned man. Couldn’t get by without the drowned man. They said: “The drowned man had no intention of dying, he’s alive and in hiding, he only talks with the exterminator.” The Little Devil

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They said: “The exterminator and the Divilin women want to start a new religion.” And others said: “The exterminator can’t make a new religion, all the religions are already made, he’s just having affairs with the Divilin women; with Glafira out of love and with the old woman, as with a child, by deceit.” “He’s not human at all,” the clever ones noted. “Humans are given power over creatures, and him the cockroaches obey.” “A cockroach is not a cow,” interrupted the interrupter, “be it cow, horse, ewe, or sheep or other cattle, they are all blessed by God to serve man, but a cockroach is not under man’s power, there’s nothing said about cockroaches or mice anywhere.” There were women, the women insisted that they had seen with their own eyes how the exterminator turned into a cockroach and then heard with their own ears how he grunted like a pig. “What does a pig have to do with it?” demanded the ingenious man of the ingenious women. “The point is not about pigs, and pigs have nothing to do with it, but what happened to the drowned man’s elder son, Boris?” “The books.” “Of course, the books. But which books? An ordinary one won’t kill you: he was reading a black book.” “And where did he get it?” “From the drowned man.” “And where did he get it?” “Well, that’s why he’s the drowned man.” “There is no black book.” “What do you mean?” “Just that, very simple, there isn’t any.”

“Wait, are you saying then that God doesn’t exist, either?” And if not for Fedosei, they would have beaten the poor fellow so hard he would remember a long time. Fedosei is a wise man; you can’t get a word out of him, but if he starts, he doesn’t have to look far for words. “The black book exists,” Fedosei said in ringing tones, and everybody bit their tongues, “the black book was written by the Serpent, from the Serpent it went to Cain, from Cain to Ham. When the flood came, Ham hid the book in a stone. When the flood was over, Ham came out of the ark, went to the stone, rolled it back, took the book and gave it to his son Canaan. The book went from son to son in the Ham tribe. And the sons of Ham decided to mock God the way their father Ham had mocked his father Noah. The sons of Ham decided to build the great tower of seven rays, to join what God had separated—sky and earth. But God was angered and he mixed up languages, scattered people over the face of the earth, and the book ended up in Sodom. There wasn’t a crime that the cursed city didn’t commit. The cursed city collapsed, sins and evildoing, but the cursed lake would not take the book and fire would not burn it. The book came to King Nebuchadnezzar. And all kinds of iniquity transpired. And iniquity lasted forty-two human generations, until the kingdoms were destroyed and the book landed on the bottom of the sea. There, under the fiery Alatyr stone, the book lay for unknown time. And then an Arab was taken prisoner for his sins by a righteous king and imprisoned in a copper tower. But the devil liked the Arab and taught the Arab how to get the book. Through evil spells the righteous city was burned down, the righteous king died and his Christ-loving army, and that Arab came out of the copper tower, went down to the sea bottom and got the black book. And it began The Little Devil

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moving around the world until it was locked up in the walls of the Sukharev tower. And to this day it is there and no one has yet been able to get it out of the walls of the Sukharev tower. It is bound by a horrible curse for nine thousand years plus a thousand.” “How did he get to that wall; you can’t get close to that object bare-handed!” “No problem for the drowned man, some brain you are!” “It’s not the drowned man at all, it’s the exterminator.” “Of course, the exterminator!” they all gabbled at once. “Stop running in circles,” a commonsensical man interposed. “You keep trying to solve a puzzle when it’s as clear as daylight. The Divilins, thank God, are not pinchers, they observe the law, you have to have services, you can’t live like a dog, so the exterminator comes to them to perform the services and nothing more.” “The women are awfully suspicious . . .” someone said doubtfully. “You keep harping, the women, the women; you’re no better than an old woman yourself!” “They say old Agrafena knew the evil one and she bore the older son who vanished from the devil, and that Glafira is a real Yaga.” “And what’s the reason the drowned man’s granddaughter Antonina sits legless? No-no, something is wrong here.” The guessing resumed. Tongues wagged. They argued, and fought, and made up again. Inappropriate things were discussed. Extremely inappropriate. There was a man of their kind, who not only read books but wrote some divine things. They went to him with questions, but they learned nothing and grew even more confused. The man hurled a word at them that made their knees quake and their beards shiver.

“It may turn out that Misha has started working in cockroaches, too,” they decided, not having decided the main question. There were some so diligent that they watched to see who went to the Divilin house, but they did not encounter anyone but the exterminator. They agreed on one thing, that something extraordinary was going on in the house. And with time, no one doubted that there was evil in the house. But what goes on in the house is not revealed to a single soul. Every Saturday the exterminator Pavel Fyodorov came to the Divilin house. They all gathered in the icon room. Pavel Fyodorov donned robes and the service began. The service lasted a long time. When the evening vigil ended, exhausted Antonina was practically carried by Glafira to the nursery and Deniska was hurried off to bed with a smack and slap. On Sunday morning, the liturgy was served. After the service they dined. And the exterminator went home. That was all. That is the way it was when the old man was alive. That is the way it was now, after his death. Back then the drowned man was the priest and the exterminator the deacon, now the exterminator was the priest and Glafira-Yaga the deacon. That was all. The services were done exactly as written and strictly as the fathers had once decreed. The exterminator served in a singsong, his voice resounding throughout the house, and it’s a good thing the walls are thick; otherwise the fish in the river would be spooked. The exterminator’s rosary was a leather strap, with red petals and white and blue branches, Yaga’s rosary had black velvet blossoms The Little Devil

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with a blue border, embroidered in gold, and they glowed like stars in the candlelight. That was all. And people . . . what won’t people say!

8 Once after the long vigil Deniska was chased off to bed. Deniska lay down, but he wasn’t sleepy. He lay there and then called to Antonina. Antonina did not respond, snoring—she was exhausted by all the standing and genuflecting. Nothing to it, Deniska got out of bed, walked around the room, and he got the idea to wander around the house in the dark and if he could, scare Yaga. Scare Yaga so she would stop smacking him on the head. Thinking about how best to do it, Deniska left the nursery, went down the stairs, and was about to open the door to the hallway that circled the women’s part, but the door wouldn’t budge, the door was locked. What was this? He walked around. He put his ear to the keyhole—he could hear nothing. He came from the other end, and it was the same thing. And so he went back with nothing. Deniska tossed in bed a long time, his head working on the problem: why was the door locked—the door was never locked— and he could hear nothing, not even the whine of a mosquito. Deniska had dreams all night of terrible robbers, the robbers either wanted to swallow him live or chop off his head—do something or other truly horrible. But Deniska was made of stern stuff; he bit the chief robber’s finger and woke up. “This business has to be investigated; it can’t be left like this!” decided Deniska, and, making a plan with Antonina, he pretended

to be sick the following Saturday. He scratched, and twitched, and coughed, and rubbed his eyes, and then his arm was numb, and all the unshowable parts were drying up, and something was  drilling right into his brains, really hard, and the ringing in his ears—so much more than the peal of Ivan the Great! By the time of the evening vigil, they naturally left him alone; how could you bother someone like that: at death’s door, ready to inhale incense. When the service began, Deniska leaped out of bed, jumped down hard into the corridor, and pocketed the key from one of the doors. He went back to the nursery and got into bed. The service ended, Yaga brought Antonina, and he was tossing and turning as if with a high fever, making rude signs and sticking out his tongue. Yaga shut the door, shuffled a bit on the landing, and then went down. The house grew still. Deniska bided his time and then went quietly into the corridor to the door. He thought now he would see, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. But no, not at all—he pushed, but the door would not open—it was blocked. Deniska looked around thoroughly, pushed hard with his chest—made a small crack and slipped through. And went. He went past the dining room, the storeroom, the small prayer room, and the icon room. He put his ear to the icon room and heard: the exterminator was gabbling on about something, but he couldn’t understand what. Just gabbled and gabbled. Then silence. Then more gabbling, banging on like a woodpecker. Deniska waited, listened, and had just decided to leave when out of nowhere someone’s gigantic foot appeared—and stepped on him with a big boot. Good thing Deniska had an iron chest, he’d have been nothing but a wet spot, the boot would have crushed The Little Devil

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him as easily as swatting a fly. Deniska rolled up into a pea, shut his eyes and crawled on the floor, rolled on the floor, rolled to the door, through the crack, along the corridor, up the stairs into the nursery, and fell into bed. His ears were full of the exterminator’s gabbling. What was this magic? Deniska and Antonina racked their brains. Deniska tried to talk to Babinka, he tried every approach, but the old woman wouldn’t give him even half a word; she just prayed and sighed, prayed and sighed. Pray about what? Sins. But what sins?

9 The rumors that things were not right in the Divilin house traveled many roads and at last reached the gymnasium. The geography teacher, nicknamed Woodlouse, asked Deniska, as if inadvertently, “Hey you, Divilin, is it? What devils are being summoned at your house?” Deniska stuck his tongue out at Woodlouse. Woodlouse went into a fury: he made Deniska stand for an entire hour, without moving, and stood opposite him, watching constantly. Deniska, sticking out his iron chest, stood the entire hour, not only not moving but not even blinking once. Not because he feared and obeyed Woodlouse but out of bravado and stubbornness. “And I’ll do it, so—eat that!” every muscle hardened on his tender child’s face. But the affair did not end with Woodlouse. They called Deniska into the director’s office. When a pupil was called to see the director,

it meant that he was going to be expelled from the gymnasium. Deniska went there expecting that. The director harassed Deniska for a long time. Deniska stood and looked at the director. The director’s shaved lip rose repeatedly, showing his canine tooth, and then was sucked in completely. “What do your parents do?” asked the director, without looking at him. “My father is dead,” replied Deniska. “What do your parents do at the present time?” “Chop cabbage.” The director scowled. “I’m not asking you about cabbage,” he said, his finger drumming on the table. Deniska was silent. “You’ll work hard for me, obnoxious boy!” the director’s finger threatened him and the sharp stone on the ring sparkled and went right into his eyes. “Stay after school.” Deniska thought even harder than before. He had unlocked the door of the corridor with the hidden key, made his way to the icon room, eavesdropped, and heard the exterminator’s gabble and nothing more. And then, as if for spite, there were events at the gymnasium, such that there was no possibility of continuing his observations. Deniska had to spend many Saturdays standing at detention. Over a trifle. Once at the lunch break, running past the inspector, Deniska came nose to nose with him and shouted: “Leonid Franzevich, in which ear do I hear ringing?” The Little Devil

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“The left,” the inspector replied, without thinking, and suddenly turned red: he was so stunned by Deniska’s unexpected, unacceptable, actually impossible question. And for that question, or rather because the inspector replied to his intolerable question, he was punished cruelly. Deniska had to do his time in detention standing up. He stood like a post, on the director’s orders, hands along the seams, head like that. And the old doorman Gerasim, his gray soldier’s brows furrowed, also and watched through the window, as if he were before the Turk. Deniska stood there, but his thoughts were on what was happening at their house, people were actually asking, and everyone wanted to know, yet he not only didn’t know but couldn’t even find out. Returning late in the evening from detention, missing dinner, exhausted by the long all-night vigil, Deniska talked for a long time with Antonina and tried to guess, and it was all about one thing, their house, what was going on in their house? Antonina said, “Maybe they’re making children there . . .” “That’s not how you make children,” Deniska replied seriously. “You don’t understand anything.” “Well what else is there to do?” Antonina tried to correct her statement. “There are no cards in the house, the exterminator took them away.” “I hate that dog, he’s such a dog,” snarled Deniska. “And you think Babinka . . .” Antonina stretched out the words and was figuring something out. “Babinka is crazy.” “That’s a sin to say; she’s your mother.” “Who?” “Babinka.”

“And your mother is Yaga.” Antonina did not respond, she just frowned in a bad way. “Yaga says your father vanished from books, of course, that’s Yaga. Teachers are made from books.” “I don’t like the exterminator, either,” said Antonina. “You know, Antonina, I’ve figured it out. I’ll climb through the window.” “You can’t see anything through the window,” she said, shaking her head. “Then here’s what I’ll  .  .  . Antonina! I’ll drill a hole in the icon room, a small hole.” The girl’s eyes flashed. “And you’ll see everything!” “Of course, I will, and how!” “And you’ll tell me!” They slapped each other’s hands. But precautions were being taken in the house. Either it was rumors in town, or other suspicions, or simply intuition: but now it was not only on Saturday night but in ordinary times that all the doors and all the rooms were locked, so that there was no opportunity or almost none to penetrate into the corridor. Glafira acted like Yaga, the exterminator like the devil. Only old Agrafena meekly and serenely prayed and sighed, prayed and sighed. Be that as it may, Deniska managed under various excuses to find a few minutes to dig a hole in the door. He worked for several weeks, and the hole was done for one of the Saturdays. How he managed to stand through the vigil, God only knows. When things quieted down, he went down from the nursery, unlocked the door with his key, made his way into the corridor The Little Devil

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and through the dining room, storeroom, and side room—right to the hole. Antonina could not fall asleep waiting for him. She waited a whole hour for Deniska. Crippled thoughts passed through her head, vile, not childlike—crippled, and they teased and attracted and raised her hair in horror and squeezed her painful parts. The minutes dragged, they seemed to be passing on crutches, too. Deniska raced headlong into the nursery. “Do you know what they’re doing?” “What?” Antonina asked fearfully. “Praying.” Antonina burst into tears. She was exhausted by crippled thoughts and the expectation of something horrible and unusual. Deniska knew no peace. One thought nagged at him, he kept thinking and thinking: how best to hurt the exterminator and Yaga at the same time, what could he come up with, what trick to pull while they were praying? Evening after evening passed this way. He couldn’t concentrate on anything. Deniska wasted so much paper: he’d start drawing and then tear it up. “They pray,” he repeated and tried to catch a thread, a path that led him to a hilarious prank. “The three of them stand in a row . . . they kiss . . . that dog and Yaga . . . they pray . . .” “What are they praying about?” “Praying. You can only see that their lips move, and then the lash of the leather rosaries, they’re whipping themselves.” Antonina grew wary. “What if . . . Antonina, you know, I’ve got it! This Saturday I’ll sneak into the icon room.” Deniska shook with laughter and burned

with the thought that had flashed in his crazy head. “Understand, Antonina? Do you?” He whispered right into her ear, squinted at the door, rubbed his hands in glee, and grabbing the eraser from the table, chewed as hard as he could in pleasure. Red splotches blazed on the girl’s pale face, her eyes lit up with laughter and tears, and she suddenly broke into laughter, laughing, choking, as loudly as she could laugh, bouncing, and the crutches behind her back bounced, too. “Him?” Deniska winked as he took out the gum eraser from his mouth and started making a strange devilish figure with it. “Him!” Antonina laughed all in tears.

10 Saturday was a special one—during Maslenitsa, the week before Lent begins. They had overindulged in blini all week; their bellies were huge, like mountains! It wouldn’t even go down the throat, the soul didn’t want any, but still they ate. And it wasn’t plain old Maslenitsa but Wide Maslenitsa, the last four days. The service dragged on with so many innumerable genuflections and such difficult ones: you kneel and then can’t even get up unaided. Yaga took Antonina to the nursery, the girl was simply falling down, but Deniska hung around, went to fix the votive light beneath the icon of Three Joys. And he was taking too much time about it, so the exterminator pulled him off the chair and kneed him in the back. The exterminator was very severe and grim that Saturday. Either from the blini or because that was coming on again—his soul was catching fire, his heart thumping, his belly turning inside out—God only knows. When he sang, when he read the prayers nasally, his The Little Devil

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teeth were bared, and he shuddered as if in the throes of a vicious fever, the most vicious of all of Herod’s daughters. Deniska tumbled around on the threshold, but the exterminator picked him up and hit him so hard that Deniska was in his bed in a second. Antonina and Deniska pretended to be asleep. Waiting. Their hearts hammered—so hard! ɷɸɷ The house was dark and quiet. All the doors shut and locked. Yaga tries the key of the icon room once again. The prayers began. He is supposed to arrive today, the Devil himself would arrive, and not in a hidden form but in his manifest countenance. This terrible day is supposed to be the last day. They are ready. Let Him appear to them. They will enter into battle. And He will be vanquished. They are three. Three faithful ones. The world and the earth are in sin. Sin is growing. With every hour sin enters deeper into the heart, into the roots of the heart. But they are three. Three faithful ones amidst disbelief and sin. The guardian angel is leaving earth. With weeping and bitterness, the angel is flying up to heaven. His censer is empty. No incense of prayers and repentance. No human deeds pleasing unto God. The Devil has won. But they are prepared. Let Him appear to them. They will overcome Him. And so they swear. In the name of God, the name of Christ, the name of the Holy Spirit. They swear by their love of them. God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit.

They swore. They would lay down their own soul, destroy their soul, to preserve it. They are prepared. Let Him appear to them. They will annihilate Him. They will burn like a bonfire. The earth and all creatures will burn with them. And the earth and all creatures will be white and radiant like the white radiant garb of the Lord. And now it is meet for them to repent before one another. Glafira and Agrafena have a great sin on their souls: there was a chance to show their faith and love for God, but the Devil confused and muddled them: they rejected faith and love in God in the name of love for a person—filth. When the old man died, the exterminator proposed sacrificing Antonina, but even though Glafira and Agrafena did undertake it, they couldn’t do it. They repented before each other. “You told me,” Glafira confessed, “that the child I had borne was the most beloved thing I had, and in the name of my love of God it had to die. You ordered me to give the child to mother. I gave her the little girl. And as you said, I remained alone in the room. I knew what was being done beyond the wall and listened. I heard the girl squeak. Then everything grew still. I scratched the wall with my nails and my heart blazed with grief. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I disobeyed. I rushed into the room to mother, and the girl was still alive, my daughter, sitting on her lap and her mouth laughing. I fell on my knees and begged mother: ‘Mother, do not kill her, leave her!’ Lord! Lord! Lord! Forgive me!” “You ordered me to choke the infant,” old Agrafena whispered, “and I took Antonina from my daughter-in-law and brought her here into the icon room. I sat her on my lap, put a noose around her neck, The Little Devil

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and the child smiled, it was funny for the little one, the noose tickled her neck. I pulled the noose tighter, I pulled on the rope, and the girl started to cry, it hurt, she wept bitterly. I released the noose, took it from her neck and put it on mine, like a game, and the girl was smiling and laughing and clapping her hands, the tiny infant, Antoninushka. Forgive me, Lord!” “What about now?” The exterminator’s eyes stopped terribly. Glafira lunged at him, predatory, her nostrils flaring, like a mare’s. It is meet to magnify you, Mother of God, The most pure and praised Immaculate Virgin, Theotokos . . .

sang the exterminator and turning sharply to Glafira, lashed her face with his leather rosary belt. Yaga did not move, but a line of crimson blood flickered on Yaga’s deadly pale face. “What if we are not worthy to see Him?” the exterminator asked in a whisper and then shouted loudly, his eyes piercing the red votive light: “I adjure you by the living God, the Holy Trinity, the Mother of God, stand here, Satan, stand here! Stand! Stand!” A heavy, unbearable silence enveloped the icon room. It took you by the throat and suffocated you. “Cold, oh, it’s so cold!” screamed Yaga and fell dead: a star on her rosary flashed on the floor. The exterminator, making fists, ran his horrible eyes around the room. The old woman’s blue eyes blazed with a blue flame, she bent over and it seemed she would attack the exterminator, dig her teeth into his throat and drink his blood the way the Devil himself would

drink it. The exterminator grabbed her white pearl rosary from her hands and reeled back, shuddering from head to toe. On the icon of the Three Joys, where the pearl robe of the Virgin Mary merges with the pearl shirt of the Infant, near the Infant’s hands raised in a blessing, a black devil was affixed, its skinny legs spread and its mouse-like tail twirling. And it came on. The hour of the exterminator. The curtains and embroidered towels on the icons bled before him in long bloody streams, the flame of the voice light engorged. It was coming. The old woman smiled . . . Her blue eyes flared with a blue light. The exterminator’s teeth chattered, as if they were not his, as cold as ice. A veil came over his eyes. He was suffocating. It was coming inexorably and fast, coming closer, reaching his heart, shaking him with all its might as never before back there at home with the locked door and the hollow vessels and glasses, or at the zoo, or on the street, or in the filthy hotel rooms. Suddenly it struck and stunned him. The exterminator dashed at the icon and brandishing and whipping the pearl rosary in the air, he jumped up inhumanly, and he jumped and jumped, hitting her, white, snowy, immaculate, tearing off the white robes and whipping, whipping her. It is meet to magnify you, Mother of God, The most pure and praised Immaculate Virgin, Theotokos . . .

The little black devil on the surviving pearl of the infant where the Virgin’s pearl robes merge with the infant’s shirt, latched on with its tail, invincible, seemed to be fidgeting and spreading its skinny legs. The Little Devil

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The pearls rained down like hail, showering the exterminator, hitting his eyes. The pearls flew, jumping on the floor, dancing on Yaga, and blazed in a blue flame in the old woman’s eyes. A deep canine howl cut through the night, the night and the room, as if a thousand dogs were howling and growling, fighting over the only piece of filthy sweet meat. The old woman was smiling. Deniska, face in his pillow, choked on laughter. “Him!” squealed Deniska. “I attached him to the Three Joys!” “The Three Joys,” Antonina repeated with hot lips, pressing her crippled body to Deniska’s iron chest. The maddened howls from below and a virginal scream coming seemingly from the earth, from the blood, did not disturb the laughter, did not disconcert the hot embraces, hot and happy. “Him,” Deniska choked, “black, with paws and tail.” “With a tail,” Antonina’s hot lips whispered. And Deniska and Antonina fell asleep this way. Deep slumber filled the nursery. The faces and tails on the walls slept, the empty shelves slept, pencils and erasers and pieces left over from the little devil slept, as did the impenetrable gray walls of the Divilin slumber in wakeless sleep. Through the dream, it seemed there was a nameless one who guarded the sleepers’ slumber. Who was he? What was his name? Where did he come from and why? He stood on the landing, opened the door slightly, and boneless, quietly tiptoed to the beds. Antonina and Deniska, turning onto the other side, opened their frightened eyes under the enormous penetrating fire of his sharp eyes.

He was like the Amazon in the picture in Babinka’s room, except his head did not seem to be on his neck but on a screw, it kept turning, not finding a place for itself, kept turning as if on a screw. His long thin lips—repulsive—were smiling slightly. “Him,” muttered Deniska. “Him,” repeated Antonina. The dawn was showing gray, the gray day was rising out beyond the window. There, beyond the window, lay the river, covered in gray rumpled ice. Smoke hung over the city from warm chimneys. People were stoking the stoves early for the last day before Lent— Forgiveness Sunday.

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05

THIS STORY IS SET IN THE TURBULENT PERIOD OF THE AGRARIAN REVOLT OF 1905–1906. LOCAL VILLAGERS LAUNCHED ATTACKS ON THE PROVINCIAL ESTATES, LOOTING AND SETTING FIRE TO THE MANOR HOUSES. IN THE OCTOBER MANIFESTO, NICHOLAS II GRANTED SOME CIVIL LIBERTIES, WHICH WAS SEEN AS LICENSE TO APPROPRIATE LAND FROM THE GENTRY. IN THIS STORY, THE BOYS (BOTH THE SON OF THE LANDOWNER AND THE BOYS FROM THE VILLAGE) PLAY AT EXPROPRIATION, A VERSION OF COPS AND ROBBERS CAPTURING A MOMENT OF SOCIAL TRUTH.

ɷɸɷ

1 Everyone talked about the old Versenev house. Krutovrag was an unclean place. They said a lot of curious, and of course, terrifying things about the house.

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Sergei Sergeyevich Versenev himself was not an eloquent man, and anyway he kept to himself, but Elizaveta Nikolayevna and the children—gymnasium students Gorik and Buba—liked to talk about the olden days, and with pleasure, the way Nanny Solomovna liked to talk with the chef Prokofy Konstantinovich and the valet Zinovy over tea, only in a whisper. In the garden by the sand hill, they pointed out the shady pond built in the serf days by children and old men, which in the fiercest cold of winter froze only on the edges around the icy swift-flowing spring which, they assured people, was bottomless. Allegedly a troika drove out of the pond at night, turned down the linden allée, and silently pulled right up to the balcony: a gray old man got out—Versenev’s grandfather—went up onto the balcony and strolled sniffing the flowers or, full of flowers, went through the salon to the cellars and then returned by troika to his bottomless pond. Two vaulted stone cellars lay beneath the house: the big empty one and the small one, where the wines were kept. At night moans were heard from the empty cellar, where they had punished serfs, and in the small one, which had held the Versenev treasures in the olden days, ringing noises were heard, like the clink of gold being counted. In the house, guests were first taken upstairs to the corner room, where the window opened on the road. Ancient dresses and fancy shoes, grandmother’s finery, were in the wardrobes of this room. They said that Sergei Sergeyevich’s mother, Fedosya Alexeyevna, abandoned by her husband in Krutovrag, sat by the window day and night and died by the window, watching the road, vainly ruining her eyes.

It was sad in the bright sad room and eerie, eerier and emptier than in the big cellar, the walls of which were sprinkled with brown drops, as if of blood. No one lived in the room next to Fedosya Alexeyevna’s; toys were put away there. They took down the gallery, which divided the house into two halves, and brought it across the spacious entry into the tall, twostory hall with tall narrow mirrors between the balcony windows. The mirrors, reflecting the chandelier, insistently followed their heavy mirrored gaze. To the right were the inner rooms, ending with an added-on kitchen, to the left, the formal rooms. In the living room beneath family portraits were card tables, which had known high-stakes nights in their time. At night, eyewitnesses reported, the father of Sergei Sergeyevich appeared, Sergei Petrovich, a wild gambler, who blew his abandoned wife’s enormous fortune abroad: he wandered from table to table, raising a leaf and feeling under the cloth, apparently hoping to find a forgotten gold coin. From the living room, people were taken to see the library and study. It was here, in the study by the cabinet with the dark astronomical globe, huddled in the corner, that Sergei Petrovich had died, having seen before his death the most real devils, i.e., without horns and tails. Only Sergei Sergeyevich knew about this, his father allowed only him to come to him before death, but the story of real Versenev devils, without horns and tails, could be heard all over Krutovrag, in every corner, from all the animals, starting with the deaf gardener Uncle Gordei and ending with Krutovrag’s all-mighty seamstress, Anna Fyodorovna Rafael. The Profaner

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The late Sergei Petrovich called every simple, ordinary person without exception an animal. Having seen the formal rooms and the inner bedrooms of the right half, separated by a wide, dark corridor, and having peeked into both cellars, the guests were invited to the dining room, where recently wine had poured the way, recently ringing gold had showered down in the living room. In the long and low-ceilinged dining room the Versenev talk and reminiscences ended. There were many more curious and of course terrifying things said about the house. That is why candles burned so long in the bedrooms, and were not extinguished, and at night the creak of the parquet floor chased away sleep from the house. The white columns, as heavy as elephant legs, supported the sturdy roof that rang in the wind and they alone seemed to dream calmly, day and night, unbothered by the stories, or the nocturnal bedroom fears, or the bats that landed on them like flies did on Nanny Solomovna, and also the old trees, poplars that had grown taller than the house, rustled on clear days and cloudy ones. ɷɸɷ The doors of the Versenev house were wide open: come in whoever and whenever you want. The Versenevs have guests continually; it was a name day party year round.

Relatives and friends, neighbors and people from town often descended on Krutovrag, and as in grandfather’s day, not alone or in couples, but with the whole household—with the family. The Versenevs managed even on the most discordant days to get along with everyone and were happy to welcome everyone. It must have been fun in Krutovrag. And why shouldn’t it be fun in Krutovrag? It’s not all nighttime with its horrors, there is also daytime. And what is night, even if it is a Versenev one with all its silly horrors? Elizaveta Nikolayevna, who enjoyed all kinds of amusements and was a top horse breeder, did not inhibit her children and gave them free rein. Gorik and Buba had many peers: Gorik had boys from the gymnasium and Buba had girls. They put on plays, charades, tableaux vivants; there were constant fireworks, picnics, and all kinds of riding in carriages, horseback, and in boats. What could there be to fear and how could they not be merry! All they lacked was an airplane, which they dreamed about at the Versenevs, the way in older times students in gymnasiums dreamed about the same old eternal America—to run off to America. But if an airplane ever ended up in Krutovrag, that would be the end: the Versenevs would fly up beyond the highest clouds, into the darkest storm clouds, with only one way out—head first. Every amusement and every game were undertaken and begun with heat and passion, with too much passion and ridiculously seriously, as if it were a decisive life event without which it was the end—can’t stand, can’t sit, only one way out—head first.

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The adults, infected by merriment, joined the children. The Versenev rambunctious days turned into entertainment. It must have been fun in Krutovrag. Creating entertainment was costly—it required expenditures and care and many hands. Misfortunes occurred. But what is a fortunate undertaking without misfortunes! Eduard, the gardener, imported to Krutovrag practically from Riga, hard-working, a philosopher, and with great taste, spent one summer not doing his actual work—caring for the flowers and astonishing people with his artistry—but setting off rockets in the evenings. He got very handy at shooting rockets, but the flowers perished, and what flowers they were! There were many other incidents—the entertainments were costly. It was a rare evening without a fire. In the last few years there were so many fires that even the stars— the dim little Krutovrag stars, sparkling fearfully over the Versenev house—were not frightened by the red blazing. Houses were burned in all the villages. They didn’t blame carelessness so much as arson: so much wealth and all sorts of people around. You would think they should be more careful—sin is never far!— yet the very first pleasure, the first Versenev amusement was fire. Rockets, fireworks, bonfires: they baked potatoes in the woods and set up bonfires—on summer nights the bonfires did not go out until dawn—and in the garden there were fireworks and more bonfires. Without it a game wasn’t a game, an evening wasn’t an evening; they would forget about dinner but not about some Bengal lights,

stinking up the garden and setting sparks flying all over the place— they would never forget that. The Versenevs burned wherever it was possible, and when it was definitely not, they burned whatever came to hand. In this dangerous game Elizaveta Nikolayevna not only supported and urged on the children, she came up with the ideas and was the main initiator. All the dangerous ideas came out with a childlike recklessness, as if she were not Buba’s mother but her sister, and ceding nothing to the children, she did everything with the same madcap heat and passion, ridiculously seriously. Restive and fidgety—theaters and those bonfires in the summer, all kinds of parties and visits to neighbors in the winter—Elizaveta Nikolayevna gave the impression of being an extremely frivolous person. But in fact? It turned out that it was all done for the children and all the enormous expenses were for the children. She spoke of her duties sincerely and with conviction and with such righteousness that all her cunning, which seemed so obvious, suddenly hid in her frightened eyes. The neighboring ladies, who had an extraordinary gift for recounting all kinds of trifles with accuracy in the silliest details, district celebrities on gossip and feuds, with the artfulness of harmless bedbugs hopping into the most secret niches, even they couldn’t get a handle on it and could not make a story of it. The children were not very healthy, and because of their rather reserved nature, might have withered away—but she turned the children into bandits, she was the chief bandit, she made it so much fun to be in Krutovrag that you didn’t want to leave.

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The undertakings would not have been taken without her and all the bonfires would have gone out—it was all the work of her hands, small, sneaky, and so tenacious . . . You couldn’t say that Sergei Sergeyevich was inhospitable; on the contrary, he was warm and kind and happy to see every guest and what fragrant cigars he offered, Havanas with Brazilian leaves or Mexican! But it just so happened and it seemed that it could be no other way: the guests who readily visited the Versenev house avoided the host. The secret was very simple: being with Versenev was intolerably boring. Otherwise he was fine, neither in looks, manners, nor habits did Sergei Sergeyevich appear strange or bizarre—a man like any other man, really, just like everyone else, and he even really snuffled, perhaps more heavily than Krutovrag’s leader of the nobility Turbeyev but more quietly than retired General Beloyarov. He dressed foppishly, not yielding to the Zemstvo director Pustoroslev, famous for his unprecedented forgetfulness in both personal and business affairs. Well, what else? And even though he was always ready and always thoughtful and those Havana cigars, yet being face to face with Versenev for a minute . . . it was better to spend an extra night at some abandoned station than be with Sergei Sergeyevich for a minute. Interrupting his interlocutor in mid-word, Sergei Sergeyevich began frowning, trying either to remember something or to pick a word that would be clearer than ordinary usual words, while something began squeaking somewhere in his throat. Having held the stunned interlocutor in tense anticipation, he would suddenly

wave his hand, accompanying his distress and impotence with his favorite word: “The devil!” “The devil!” was repeated endlessly at all hours day and night in the house, the garden, the woods, the meadow, and the river, wherever Versenev showed up. Versenev, keeping up with the merry company—he was constantly drawn to people, where the noise was highest—snuffling and wheezing, followed like a shadow. Shunted aside, remaining in the shadow, he repeated to himself, amidst music, dancing, laughter and screams, the crackle of bonfires, and shattering rockets his sole black word that covered everything, distress and impotence: “The devil.” Everyone was so used to it, so accustomed to Versenev’s devil that they stopped noticing it. Only Nanny Solomovna—Efimiya Avessalomovna, who had nursed Sergei Sergeyevich—made the sign of the cross and shook her head. And in the kitchen or the maids’ room, discussing the masters’ affairs, Nanny complained not about the expenses or the Versenevs’ profligacy or the master’s eye—none of that!—but she complained that the devil was constantly on the master’s tongue. Everyone knew, and they knew this from Solomovna, how that ends. “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!” the nanny insisted, making the sign of the cross over her mouth and shaking her head. The Profaner

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Everyone agreed with Nanny; especially if it was getting late, no one contradicted her. The chef Prokofy Konstantinovich himself did not mock her, the coachman Anton said nothing, and all three maids—Kharitina, Ustya, and Sanya—were there and with them the laundress Matryona Simanovna and the carpenter Terenty, the smith, nicknamed Turkey, shaggy and not believing in any supernatural powers, himself practically a wizard or God knows what, kept silent, the taciturn Zinovy did not laugh nor did his helper, the little servant boy Peter, who cherished his only belief, in the catfish, terrible with whiskers, which ate a calf and appears once every twelve years from the river, God forbid you should ever see it. “So,” Solomovna said, “the late master Sergei Petrovich had just one name for everyone. ‘Animal,’ he would say, ‘come here!’ He even called the priest an animal. A great sin, but not as bad as this.” Sergei Sergeyevich, shunned by his own, unobtrusively appeared in the kitchen or maids’ room and, snuffling, would stop. The startled servants jumped up, expecting orders, ready for any shakeup. Sergei Sergeyevich did not move and stared at shaggy Turkey, who was himself a wizard or God knows what, and frowned, trying either to remember something or to pick a word that would be clearer than ordinary usual words, while something began squeaking somewhere in his throat. And having held the stunned servants in the most tense and oppressive anticipation, he would suddenly wave his hand, accompanying his distress and impotence with his favorite word: “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, louder than the music, dancing, laughter, screams, shattering rockets and crackling bonfires. And in the sky the stars—the dim little Krutovrag stars, used even to the red blazing glow—shone rather anxiously over the Versenev house.

2 How and why Versenev developed the bad habit of mentioning the devil was known to no one, because no one ever thought about it. “If you notice all the phrases, quirks, and jokes and then think about them, your life won’t be long enough, and more importantly, you might end up like them and there will be nothing left of you: there are all kinds of bywords! Now marshal of the nobility Turbeyev always adds as they say to every last trifling word, and everything is well and good with Turbeyev. The Krutovrag shopkeeper Khabin, imitating the leader’s manner, almost went bankrupt. And how could he not? Take the most common shopkeeping term of all the common shopkeeping terms: “It cost this much!”—a clear expression that gives an accurate price in rubles and kopecks—but when Khabin used the leader’s pet phrase it was a different thing completely—not “the goods cost this much” but “as they say, this much.” Or: “Send it, as they say, immediately.” The biggest fool understands “immediately” but even some smarty could be confused by “as they say, immediately.” It was the same with Versenev’s devil: if you start thinking, examining and digging, you’ll immediately pick up the habit, get used to saying it yourself and you’ll be lost. Old Solomovna is right about everything—Solomovna is a serf, she’s seen a lot and heard quite a bit, learned many things through her patience, The Profaner

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and Solomovna’s words are right: “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.” This was the thinking of Krutovragites and non-Krutovragites— of everyone who had come into contact with Sergei Sergeyevich intentionally or not, and moreover these people were not just anybody but well-read and curious folk—homegrown archaeologists and mechanics. This was the thinking of the Krutovrag priest Father Astriozov, always looking, in everything, in relations and in deeds, for the connecting link, and not a simple iron one, but the iron connecting one. There’s no need or point in talking about other acquaintances of Versenev. They let his devil pass by them, not giving it the slightest importance. “So Versenev mentions the devil, and let him! There are expressions that reveal high position and haughtiness—Pustoroslev’s deign to see—and there are religious ones given to people of a rapturous bent—Lord Jesus—and sometimes it happens that people have position and breeding, take retired General Beloyarov for example, yet express themselves in unprintable terms, and not out of confusion or because they have been caught unawares or out of fright, which can happen with anyone, even those most meticulously careful and refined in speech, but no, simply out of habit, just a bad habit.” This was the thinking of the indifferent. No one dared ask Sergei Sergeyevich about the devil. They teased of course, but never asked straight out. It’s awkward to bring up every trifle. Versenev didn’t notice anything off about himself.

For if he had noticed, then once, by accident, unwittingly, he would have apologized. But he never did, not in a name day toast, nor in any welcome, all of which ended with the devil. Not a single speech, not a single conversation, not a single phrase without the devil. But still, how did that silly devil get on his tongue and why? One thing was clear: there was no Astriozov iron connecting link, not even an ordinary, not iron one—Versenev’s devil hung in the air no higher or lower than the nobility leader’s as they say, and it was also clear that without that devil Sergei Sergeyevich was unimaginable, for take it away from Versenev, and the person in Krutovrag would no longer be Sergei Sergeyevich Versenev but some stranger. ɷɸɷ Versenev remembered his mother. Fedosya Alekseyevna—from Moscow, of an Old Believer merchant family. Long evening vigils, early liturgies, the possessed at the Simonov Monastery, Maslenitsa sledding in Rogozhskaya, the red Easter candle, the Kremlin bells, the green Sokolniki park on May first, the quiet nocturnal tales of wanderers, walking to Troitse-Sergiev, processions of the cross and her father’s strict rules at home—that was her cradle song, her nannying, tying her first braid with a crimson ribbon, blowing out the first burning flame and in her crestfallen heart and wide-open eyes, her first pain saddening her first smile. Morozov’s old Moscow, and then suddenly the Versenev mansion—Krutovrag with its bottomless pond and large vaulted cellar, stained with brown drops, like blood. The Profaner

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From his vague early recollections, she arose in his confused memory. He could never forget his mother throughout his life—at the window upstairs, in the corner room, by the window day and night. He slept in her room—always inseparable from her. Often, waking up in the middle of the night, he saw her alone at the window. When he grew up and learned that he had a father, like the other children, but his father was far away, abroad somewhere, very far from Krutovrag, when he learned that his mother was waiting for his father and that’s why she did not sleep at night, he began waiting for his father, too. Letters came from his father. The boy would rush over to his mother with such impatience, demanding that she read aloud what his father wrote in the letter. The letters were brief and always the same: first about money, then he would set the day of his arrival to Krutovrag. The day would come, but his father would not; his father did not return. His mother tried to hide her disappointment, she did not weep, she sat at the window as usual, but he could feel with his sensitive child’s essence that heaviness that lay on her heart, tormenting her, making her shiver like frost, and feeling it he wanted to help but did not know how, and he wept quietly and without reason. His father’s return to Krutovrag became his dearest dream. The letters kept coming. The letters spoke of money and set a date for his return. The day would pass, but still no father. Once, when he seemed to have lost the last of his patience and waiting any more seemed impossible, he ran out onto the

road and ran along the road without stopping, without taking a breath, and suddenly narrowing his eyes, raced back to the house. “Papa is coming! Papa is coming!” he shouted to his mother with such unfeigned and righteous joy, so confidently, so persistently, he could hear, and his mother heard, a bell ringing far along the road beyond Krutovrag. She believed, she ran to the porch, fell on her knees and, holding her son tight, holding onto him as if he were her only protection, her beloved brother, the loyal witness of her painful suffering, sleepless nights, bitterness and hurt. No longer restraining laughter or tears, she could not restrain a scream, it tore from her chest, from her heart—from her entire heart. Mother and son, they looked at the road— And it seemed that that they had the same eyes, with one set of eyes they looked at the world, looked at the road, and they believed and did not believe. The bell rang far away along the road. Barrels of tar passed by, the wheels squeaking. The dust settled a long time. But then dust rolled away—settled, the road no longer had raised dust. The road lay to the very edge, and everything around was empty, deserted, no bells rang, it was so deserted and lonely, only the trees rustled in the garden—the poplars rustled. A new life began for the boy that day: from that day he began playing Papa’s arrival. He came up with this game. He was amused at how his mother, hearing his call: Papa is coming!, would jump up from the window and tremble, all pale, without The Profaner

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a drop of blood; he was entertained by her scream, each time growing fiercer and shorter, and how her heart froze . . . Playing, he believed it, just as his mother believed him every time. Mother and son, they looked at the road— This was so long ago and not so long, right here, on this land. How the trees rustled in the garden then—poplars! Unwittingly to these sad shores . . . “The devil!” Briefly recalling his early impressions, Sergei Sergeyevich waved them away. His mother did not see his father; she died by the window, looking at the road. Soon after her death his father returned. The boy was frightened by his father: it wasn’t that Papa, not the real Papa, about whom he thought so much and awaited so impatiently. He hid from his father, screamed at night and wept. His father, not known for conciliatory impulses, took his son firmly in hand: he was strict and he punished him—and you’d forget your tears, and go to bed quietly, and stop acting wild. In the fall he was taken to the city and entered the cadet corps. A new life began for Versenev and it was probably the merriest one. Coming back to Krutovrag on vacation, he gradually got accustomed to life there and no longer felt either depressed or alienated. His mother was not mentioned at home: Sergei Petrovich never mentioned his mother, and he didn’t dare mention her first. The corner room upstairs which, besides holding old family furniture—the wardrobe with dresses—carefully preserved the familiar setting of his mother: her desk, mirror—this cherished room attracted him less and less.

At first, he would stealthily run upstairs and even wept, sitting by the window where his mother once sat, but then he became interested in horses. So he never did learn, and he was sorry later that he had not, why his father had abandoned his mother. Her portrait hung in his father’s study, always, to the final days. Had he loved her? Life was in full flow at Krutovrag, there was a lot of card playing, but his father was glum. But if he loved her, why did he leave her? Why did his father leave his mother? Why had so much suffering, so many bitter days and nights, become her lot? Unwittingly to these sad shores . . .

“The devil!” Sergei Sergeyevich would shrug it off, recalling the former Krutovrag. After graduation, he went to St. Petersburg and joined a regiment. Life was easy for him. He never needed money: his father did not begrudge him money and sent it frequently and regularly. His father cared very much about him and did everything to make him happy. He could not complain about a thing. With his connections and money, a most enviable and happy future awaited him. He led a life that was customary in his society: he played cards, participated in sprees and binges, danced at balls, told jokes, made witticisms, flirted with ladies, got involved in the details of regimental intrigues, worried, argued—and everything went smoothly and very much like the day before. If anything did occur that seemed exceptional and extraordinary, it still did not go beyond the generally The Profaner

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accepted and possible in his society: so once he lost a lot of money at cards, but who hasn’t lost a lot once? All the other exceptions were in the same vein, no more, no less. St. Petersburg life flowed smoothly, with insignificant jumps. It seemed that there was nothing for Versenev to remember out of his successful, easy St. Petersburg life, with such big promise, but smoothness. There was only one memory that was always there. Of course, it wasn’t anything special and the incident was the most ordinary. But is there much in the world that is extraordinary? Later, back in Krutovrag, Sergei Sergeyevich often thought about it and asking himself, alone with himself, judged and decided himself. He had understood long ago that the whole point lay not in the uniqueness of the incident, startling and way outside the acceptable and usual, that often what remains in the soul is completely unnoticeable—like crumbs, like leftovers. “A comet flies by, a star falls, an earthquake destroys an entire city—and it will be forgotten, pass by, devalue like yesterday’s snow, while some little light, beneath a bridge shining from somewhere, winking at you, or some stupid looming lamppost—a kerosene torch smack outside your window on the street—trifles, but they stay with you all your life.” Yes, he thought about it a lot, judging himself and deciding, he looked into the darkness, into the murk of his soul. But how much can you see? And even if you do see, how much can you make out? And if you do make it out, will you be able to communicate it?

And if you can, will you have the courage? “Killing or deceiving, slandering and betraying, what could be worse?—they are crimes, a great sin, punished by all kinds of laws. But if you check it, what then? Why the murderer . . . he doesn’t care a fig about murder—so, he killed someone, and it’s like water off a duck’s back—and his story, his pain, punishment and reward, everything that he will bear to the last minute of his life, everything that will be meaningful whether he’s killing or saving himself, it doesn’t matter, it will not be the murder but the fact that a day, a week, a month, a year, maybe ten years before the murder, walking down the street he pushed some beggar girl who was making a pest of herself—these beggar girls hustled around the streets with soiled cards: buy a fortune!— and not because he pushed that beggar offering him a fortune, but because the beggar, a frozen girl, gave him a look then, a look he would remember his whole life.” “The devil!” Just briefly recalling his St. Petersburg incident and his reflections, Sergei Sergeyevich shrugged it off. One of his comrades had a bride: he was from a very important family, while she came from a very unimportant and poor one. The groom’s relatives were against the relationship and interfered in the wedding. Sergei Sergeyevich, who took his comrade’s story to heart, visited him constantly, sincerely wishing every happiness for him and his bride. And when, at last, after trouble and fuss, everything was settled and the wedding day set, everything suddenly ended unexpectedly sadly, and the wedding was off: The bride refused the groom. The Profaner

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Versenev remembers the evening, a St. Petersburg autumnal evening with piercing damp wind and streetlamps blurred by drizzle, remembers her room somewhere on Ruzovskaya Street near the barracks. She asked him to come see her because of the dissolved engagement. He believed her but when he came to her, she revealed the truth . . . He remembers her face, how she turned pale—the way his mother did when he ran into her corner room: “Papa is coming!” She opened up to him, she had fallen in love with him, she loved him, she loved only him. But he did not love her at all. Had he ever given her reason to think so? He was attentive to her as the future wife of his friend; he sincerely wanted to help them: her and him. But he never loved her and did not love her at all. He remembers how she stood—she stood by the window, moved into the corner by the window, and in the window there was rain—the rained tapped, without cease, evenly: drop by drop, rivulet by rivulet. He remembers how she looked at him, without blinking, with downcast mouth, and the eyes that followed him out, not moving, as if turning to stone—for all the blood of her body, all the strength of her soul, all the hope of her heart he had taken away with him: Just like that, took them and out the door!

The next evening, he met her again, quite accidentally, by Kokushkin Bridge. It was she; he wasn’t mistaken. He recognized her right away by her gaze—she looked at him the same way as the night before, without blinking.

And then he heard something plop into the nasty viscous water— into the black canal. But he did not even look back, he went his own way. Had he pushed her head into the canal—into the nasty viscous water? “The devil!” Just briefly recalling his St. Petersburg incident, Sergei Sergeyevich shrugged it off. Soon after his incident he was called back to Krutovrag and left St. Petersburg: his father was dying. Old Versenev, Sergei Petrovich, was dying alone, permitting no one near him—not the doctor, not the priest. Only in extreme cases, one animal—the valet Zinovy—came to him. The old man refused food and did not sleep at night. No one in the house slept at night. It was eerie in the house, and they were afraid to speak, afraid to whisper. The lights were on in all the rooms, all the doors were open wide, and they were tightly shut only in the old man’s study. Sergei Sergeyevich arrived late at night and in order not to disturb his father, wanted to see him in the morning. But his father guessed and through Zinovy called him into his study. The old man was in an armchair, hidden in the corner by the cupboard beneath an old astronomical globe, terribly emaciated—what kept his soul together! The old man gasped for air, as if someone were squeezing his throat, and his eyes were dead—the pupils dark, dead, only the iris shining with an unpleasant harsh shine. The son took the old man’s hand and bent over—the old man’s hand was cold. The Profaner

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Bent over to kiss his cheek, he felt an overwhelming revulsion and disgust and kissed him in the air. They said hello. The old man kissed his son—his lips were so cold, colder than his hands. The son, after a moment, bent down again: “Well, how are you doing?” “The devils are coming,” hissing, the old man said through clenched teeth. “What kind, little ones with a tail?” the son tried to turn his father’s response into a joke: he knew how to get along with old people and how to talk to them. “Not at all, real . . . devils!” his father hissed, and his eyes grew even darker. Versenev remembers those eyes, completely dead, with dark dead pupils and the harsh living irises and how the harsh living irises narrowed and suddenly glinted with a red flame. He grabbed his hat and stepped away from the old man. “Real ones,” the old man hissed and scratched at his chest and suddenly jumped up in his armchair with a screech and landed with his nose in the carpet. So this was the person about whom he thought so much once and awaited so impatiently! But what was tormenting his father? Whom did he see? Who came to him? Who was real? What real person with the last of his conscience, the last of his will, with his final word put his hand on his heart?

Who was he? “The devil!” Sergei Sergeyevich shrugged it off, recalling the death of his father, whom he thought about so much once and awaited so impatiently. By the new year Versenev retired and moved from St. Petersburg to Krutovrag for good, took up running the estate and got married. Why he married he no longer remembered clearly: he must have taken a fancy to Elizaveta Nikolayevna then—she was so quiet and meek—a quiet angel. And he was bored alone in the old house. Sergei Sergeyevich did not run things for long. He tried serving in the Zemstvo assembly, but that didn’t work out and he dropped out. All over silly trifles. Gradually, completely imperceptibly, he estranged himself from everything. A responsible and reliable manager, a Latvian nicknamed The Mule locally for his grimness, plus Elizaveta Nikolayevna, who managed to fill the old house with endless noise and merry guests—all the business was on them and so was the entire Versenev destiny.

3 Gorik and Buba were good students and graduated from the gymnasium with medals. Gorik went to the university, Buba to a women’s college. The last summer passed with even more noise and fun and daring. The Krutovrag boys, both the bullied ones—Whale Whisker, Horse Hair, Shovel—and the wild ones—Igonka, Igoshka, Enka, Ezhka, Ermoshka—under Gorik’s leadership played expropriation The Profaner

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and played the raid so realistically that the neighboring Ingush from the Beloyarov estate practically shot the ataman. Rockets and Indian fireworks sparkled over the house, bonfires sent up smoke in the garden, and there were fires all around sending ferocious red light to dissolve in the black nights. When it was time to go to St. Petersburg, Elizaveta Nikolayevna also began packing. The children left with their mother and they never returned to their merry Krutovrag. Elizaveta Nikolayevna told her husband so, that she would never return to Krutovrag nor would the children. There was no slyness, no mischief in her words; it was clear that she had made up her mind firmly and irrevocably. Sergei Sergeyevich did not understand at first, refused to understand—he was hurt and saddened, he did not want to be separated, it was hard to start life anew, to learn to give up what he was used to, get used to something else, he simply could not imagine a different life—the Versenevs had been together for eighteen years! He tried to argue with his wife, and each time he merely waved his hand: all his arguments boiled down to a tortured squeak that rose somewhere in his throat followed by the usual devil. Nothing came of it. Finally they pulled out the bristle from him, as Nanny Solomovna put it—they remove “the bristle” from cranky children in the banya, the steam bath, so they stop screaming!—he agreed to everything and signed the necessary papers. The money matters were resolved easily and simply.

The Latvian manager, presenting the situation of the Versenev affairs clearly and sensibly, took it upon himself to send all accounts to St. Petersburg to Elizaveta Nikolayevna. Krutovrag emptied. The Versenev event flew over the Krutovrag fields and down the high road, turning left and right from estate to estate. For some reason no one was particularly surprised by it, no one was particularly upset, as if they had long expected it and had said nothing; it was only to spare him, the way a hopelessly ill patient is spared news of his coming death. The family disagreement to which they ascribed Verseneva’s departure and severe decision, or the family dis-ass-agreement as their neighbor retired general Beloyarov put it, enjoying a picturesque style, interested only the district ladies who took delight now in their secret suspicions. “It’s perfectly clear that there has to have been an affair, obviously, a real one, and even though there was no mention of the secret sweetheart, obviously there was one, otherwise why the disagreement?” This was the ladies’ thinking. But no one wanted to get into it, there was no desire to get involved in someone else’s problems—none of my business, it was easier that way. Unquiet lay the fields and the golden autumn forest rustled, unquiet were the stars—the dim little Krutovrag stars shone rather anxiously over the Versenev house. The house was emptied and even a loaf of bread couldn’t lure them back.

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However, at first three ladies showed up—friends of Elizaveta Nikolayevna. Unable to resist, they came to Krutovrag to sniff the air, as they later explained it. The ladies besieged Versenev and rattled in his ears so that he couldn’t even let loose his devil for all the rattling. Even though Solomovna explained in plain Russian as she saw off the guests that “the master’s illness stuck in the mistress’s back like a tooth” and that’s why it happened, the ladies could not accept that and having gone back to their houses insisted that there was a sweetheart somewhere. This, they say, is when retired General Beloyarov, at a party at the home of one of the ladies, expressed himself about the Versenev disagreement in his own way—picturesquely, and then added a softener: “Everything has weight and measure.” The affair ended with that. Of the neighbors, the Zemstvo leader Pustoroslev came to visit, bringing along the agronomist Ratseyev, whom he introduced as a famous St. Petersburg orator with cartilage instead of bones. Ratseyev in fact kept twisting no less than a sturgeon, but he did not utter a word. However, Pustoroslev gabbed all evening, going over events from his well-known unmatched forgetfulness. He told the story of his infamous trip abroad on some special assignment both before and after dinner. Sergei Sergeyevich had heard the story several times: sent by the ministry to France, Pustoroslev went to Spain from France, and from Spain to Italy, and from Italy somewhere in Algiers, and demanding support all the time and spending tons of state money,

he only remembered upon his return to Russia why he had in fact been sent abroad. “Oblivion is the fate of the gods!” Pustoroslev said, drawling out his deign to see and winking with his white, seemingly sightless eyes, hinting apparently at the disagreement. The shopkeeper Khabin came just once to have tea. In the empty house, Versenev was very pleased to see even Khabin. Khabin stayed a long time. Over tea in the low-ceilinged long dining room, starting conversations unrelated to anything over some remote objects and swearing for the thousandth time to give up his vile habit, he got stuck in his as they say, while Sergei Sergeyevich, staring at his confused guest, waved his hand and released his devil. “Habit, as they say, is second nature!” babbled the shopkeeper, all red, soaked in sweat, and tormented, unable to find the door anymore. It was only the priest Astriozov, who never gave up his primordial idea of finding the connecting link, not the ordinary one, but iron, kept looking in on Versenev. The priest, not the boldest of men, left alone with Sergei Sergeyevich grew even shyer, and having developed a taste for cigars, chewed on a cigar and sent into Versenev’s devil his short link, stronger than the sign of the cross. “Link,” the priest repeated, flicking off ash when it was needed and when it wasn’t, both from the Mexican leaves and the Brazilian. In the empty house, Versenev was very happy to see the priest. Otherwise he was all alone, entire days alone.

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Sergei Sergeyevich stopped going to church—he couldn’t restrain his devil even in church during the service, which led to great temptation of the congregation. There was even an unpleasantness: the churchwarden Goloveshkin during a royal service tried to box the freemason’s ear. Sergei Sergeyevich stopped attending church. In a white flannel jacket, with a cigar, Versenev wandered through the empty house. The red cigar fire made a red flame flicker in his sunken, dulled eyes and turned his strong gray mustache green. He had nothing to occupy his time. And how to occupy it? He couldn’t play with toys! He had become so accustomed to the noise and continual guests, to his wife and children—the Versenevs had spent eighteen years together! Many a time he spent hours at the balcony door, counting crows—the crows circled the leafless naked linden trees, screaming . . . so many of them and what were they screaming about? Or he’d go upstairs to the corner room where his mother Fedosya Alexeyevna used to sit and sit down like his mother staring at the road—where did the road lead and did it have an end? Or he listened to the trees rustling in front of the house— poplars . . . what were they rustling about all the time? Or he’d sit in his father’s armchair beneath the enormous astronomical globe and stare at a point, perhaps the very point from which real devils without forks and tails came out to his father, and fall asleep there. “The devil!” was repeated day and night, awake and asleep, echoing through the empty house.

With the cold weather, they put in windows and the balcony door, filling the cracks with fresh putty and smoothing it. 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! ɷɸɷ 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 Profaner

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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. The Profaner

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“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. ɷɸɷ 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. ɷɸɷ The Profaner

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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. ɷɸɷ “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.

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PRINCESS MYMRA

06

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.

ɷɸɷ

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

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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.

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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 warmred 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 around 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. Princess Mymra

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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!” “My young sexton,” his grandfather says, praising him, “tomorrow we go to Polom for a service.” And Atya and his grandfather travel around the villages and settlements, holding services, eating beef and buckwheat. Atya’s beginning to think that he’s a real young sexton and when he grows up he’ll be a priest, like his grandfather, and then Uncle Arkady won’t cut off his hair: it will be long, to his waist, and he won’t have two braids, like Grandfather, but twenty-two. Uncle Arkady! Well, at long last! Uncle Arkady arrives, bringing with him nets and rods and so many hooks they barely fit the biggest basket. Atya’s fishing. Fish like Atya: once he caught such a big bream that they didn’t have a skillet large enough to fry it, might as well let it back into the water. Atya laughs— It’s fun in the evening: in the evening the jackdaws fly, finding a favorite spot to sleep, spend the night, and in the morning you look—better not go into the gazebo after them! But it’s stuffy inside. You’re not going to have tea inside because of the jackdaws?! Tea has Princess Mymra

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to be enjoyed properly: tea is respected in Kluchi—plain and with a warm-up; it’s good in the open air. And so Uncle Arkady scares off the jackdaws: when he shakes the trees and shouts at the top of his voice—not just the jackdaws!— the fence clatters, the windows in the church rattle, and the corpses beneath the belfry would gladly hide somewhere, well, in the old banya at least. Atya can’t learn to scare off the jackdaws and shout like Uncle Arkady. “Grandfather! The bees are singing!” Atya brings the news. Drop everything: no time to drink or eat. The whole house is up. Grandfather, Uncle Arkady, his godmother, Panya, Sasha, Kuzmich, and of course, Atya, with a sieve on his face, spend the whole day crouching near the hive, watching where the queen will fly. When the queen bee comes out, they will all rise as one, like the bees, and run after the swarm, any which way, through the vegetable rows, the bushes, the wattle fence in the field, until they catch up with the queen somewhere beyond the field in the forest. Thank God, there’ll be another hive, and enough honey throughout the whole winter until spring. The winter crops are bulking, the oats are growing tall. It is the day of the feast for the Our Lady of Kazan icon. In Kluchi there is a fair for the Kazan festivity. The clairvoyant Brother Sysoyushka comes to the village. Guests will come from all over. The godmother makes a savory pie, a kulebiaka; you’d give everything you have for her kulebiaka, and that’s not enough. Oh, so much fun!

“Why doesn’t the Kazan holiday last forever!” thinks Atya. The women dance a khorovod outside. The maidens make a circle and stamping their feet follow one another in a line to the monotonous thrum and jangle of the enticing balalaika. Uncle Arkady takes Atya to watch the circle dance. Uncle Arkady and Atya stand to the side with the men. They stand in silence, they won’t cross the line. Atya senses something uncanny: at first he wants to throw himself into the circle and when they twirl in the circle, twirl and fly up like a bird, when they fly up in the circle; then he remembers the ten funeral tolls and his heart contracts—was it them in wreaths out from beneath the belfry leading this horrible and enticing dance? Dark mists cover them, and at night pale stars appear in the sky. “The dead giving their souls to newborns,” Kuzmich tells Atya in the attic that night. “I’d like to see how that’s done!” thinks Atya. Kuzmich is Atya’s friend. Kuzmich chopped off his hand with an ax, and how can you work without a hand? Kuzmich can’t do anything and for years now has lived at Grandfather’s as a watchman at the church. Atya learns many marvelous stories from Kuzmich, but he finds monsters on his own, coming nose to nose with them in the forest. Once, walking into a grove, Atya meets the forest spirit Lesun. Lesun likes to frighten people who go into the forest. But it is noon—and who goes in at noon!—Lesun was wandering around without anything to do: skinny, no taller than a chamber pot—one hand, one leg, one eye, but a mouth and nose like Atya’s.

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This is scary: under an old fir tree, in the moss, all scrunched up, wheezes Kuz-Pinyo, the most horrible one, with long teeth, and nearby, at his feet lie gnawed white human bones. Atya looks at the monster out of the corner of his eye and then barely makes it to the road: jokes aside, he’d eat you alive, no use begging! And once Atya is picking strawberries and Iskal-Pydo comes out of the ravine. He is not bad: his face is just like Kuzmich’s, he has a club over his shoulder, but his legs are shaggy cow legs with hooves. Atya feeds him the strawberries. It is fine, he eats them. Now he never did see the forest spirit Leshy or the water spirit Vodyanoi, but Atya does know where Vodyanoi’s nest is on the Kosa River, and when the weirs were torn apart in fall and the water rose, he knows what it means. “If I could only be at Vodyanoi’s wedding, just once!” Atya dreams at night. “The Water princess is beautiful, and the Sea princess is even more beautiful . . . like Klavdia Guryanovna.”

2 Atya keeps his thoughts to himself. Atya tells no one: Kluchi is his secret. Even Romashka and Kharpik are only partially privy, but Atya would reveal his secret to the one and only Klavdia Guryanovna! And why, he doesn’t know himself—that’s what she’s like, Klavdia Guryanovna.

Atya feels that he is drawn to her room, that he likes it when she has tea with him, when she offers him chocolates and oranges, and when she makes him laugh, and when she takes him with her for walks along Nevsky, and when she goes into stores with him and the “electric theaters,” the cinematograph. Atya knows that she is special; you’ll never find another like her: white face, sprinkled with white powder, curls lowered over her brow, painted red lips, narrow eyes, and everything so tiny, it’s as if there’s nothing there—no face, and she’s so tiny, and her rustling dress with a low neck, and her voice is special, no one speaks like that; he could listen to her and look at her forever. Atya comes into Klavdia Guryanovna’s room for no reason and stands silently, staring at her, and when she asks him something, he replies meekly and so shortly that you can’t understand what he’s saying. “Oh, you silly, silly boy, come on, laugh!” Klavdia Guryanovna would say. And she would laugh first—she laughed in her throat. Atya thought: that wasn’t laughter, ordinary people don’t laugh that way. Once, unable to hold it back, Atya said: “It’s good in Kluchi, you should come, Klavdia Guryanovna!” “You know where they are!” Klavdia Guryanovna exclaimed happily: she had lost her wardrobe keys that day and couldn’t find them no matter how much she rummaged. “It’s too soon,” thought Atya, “it isn’t time yet, first I have to do something outstanding, and then everything will be possible.” That evening his mother scolded Atya. “Don’t wander into Klavdiya Guryanovna’s room so often, she might take offense and move out.”

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Since they had a large apartment and his doctor father’s business was worse than last year, they had to rent out a room. Klavdia Guryanovna had that room. The appearance of Klavdia Guyanovna brought a new life. She was the object of constant conversation. They took care of her. They treasured her. For her, Atya’s mother wore a corset and did not spend the entire day, as she had done, in a robe. The doctor did not talk about his operations at dinner. Uncle Arkady got her tickets to the theater and concerts. Atya listened attentively to everything that was said about her, and did not let a single remark go by. They forced Atya to wash every morning: a tub was set up in the kitchen, and he splashed in the tub. “You’re not a baby, walking around naked, if Klavdia Guryanovna comes by it won’t be nice,” his mother said. That happened almost the first day the mysterious resident moved in. But Atya did not understand the point of the remark then: it became clear only later and confirmed his own observations. “If he always washed and walked around without his shirt in front of the cook Feklusha, mother, and in Kluchi in front of his godmother and Panya and Sasha,” Atya reasoned, “then that is permitted because they are all like everyone else but it is impossible and not allowed before Klavdia Guryanovna because she is the only one.” He soon learned from Feklusha that Klavdia Guryanovna was a mistress. He had never heard the word before and it took on a special meaning: for him “mistress” was no more and no less than the word for the smartest and richest women.

“Mistress,” Atya thought, “if at school the master is the most important and wisest man, then a mistress, being beautiful, is even more important in the world.” That was why, in his observation, everyone turned to Klavdia Guryanovna with questions, getting her opinion about something important at the moment, and that was why she had such a long chain, which dangled to her knees, and her fur coat was white with black tails, like a royal cape. The doctor came home late one day and, fuming, said nothing throughout dinner and then when he was served a soufflé which unfortunately sank, he said angrily to mother, “You let a prostitute into the house . . .” A difficult word, prostitute, and you can’t blame him! Atya tried to understand, but in vain. “Of course,” he thought, “it’s a Latin word and we’ll have it in the second year, but I can’t wait until next year, I’d better ask Uncle Arkady now: Uncle Arkady speaks Latin!” The very first Sunday that Uncle Arkady came to visit, Atya asked him to explain the word. “Prostitute is what they call,” Uncle Arkady started to explain, without a smile, “everyone who graduates from an institute, and an institute is an educational institution which accepts only people of noble birth, so that you, for instance, as a doctor’s son, could never get in even if you exploded into bits.” Here Atya almost exploded into bits, not from despair of not being able to be a prostitute but with joy: he was right, she was unusual, not only a mistress, that is, wise and rich, she was a prostitute, which meant she was noble. Princess Mymra

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“She,” he decided on the spot, “is a duchess. And since she’s a duchess now, then next year she’ll be a grand duchess, and then, in another year, she’ll be princess!” “My princess,” Atya whispered, walking past the forbidden room. Klavdia Guryanovna did not have visitors, except for one. Her  guest would come either early in the morning or late in the evening. In the evenings he stayed after midnight: she played the piano, he sang. Everyone called him the Deputy. “The Deputy is here,” mother would say, “don’t make so much noise and straighten your jacket.” The doctor, hearing singing, grimaced. “The Deputy is singing?” “The Deputy,” Mother confirmed. Who the visitor was, what Deputy, quickly became clear. Mother told Uncle Arkady the news: the doctor decided not to subscribe to newspapers any more, since a member of the State Duma visits their tenant and the tenant knows everything better than any newspaper. “An unusual visitor,” Atya pondered, “from the State Duma! Of course, he was higher than Ivan Martynovich and Ivan Evseyevich, he’s probably like Greek teacher Kolosov, the homeroom mentor in the third grade.” Once, running into the guest, Atya clicked his heels and bowed, as if he were the school inspector, and noticed that the visitor was bald like the priest Kitaets and so well dressed—forget Uncle Arkady, Uncle Arkady couldn’t hold a candle to him, despite being an actor. In the evenings, Klavdia Guryanovna usually sat with his mother in the dining room, talking about all sorts of things.

Atya, pretending to be doing his homework, listened from the next room. The conversation circled around the guest, the Deputy, member of the State Duma. Gradually, from their conversations, Atya learned that the Deputy had a family, two grown daughters of marriageable age, and that he loved his wife so much, he couldn’t breathe without her, and only his work forced him to live separately in St. Petersburg: they don’t even write letters to each other but exchange telegrams every day.

“When we met,” Klavdia Guryanovna said, “he told me: ‘Klavdia Guryanovna, my dear, I can’t live without you, live in St. Petersburg while I’m a member.’ ” My princess, whispered Atya, forgetting his exercise notebook, I will be with you forever! Klavdia Guryanovna was wonderful at singing. Alone in her room, she sang a tramp song—songs like that are accompanied by an accordion out in the back courtyard. The song was all about love: Oh, if this night Were not beautiful My breast would not ache My soul would not suffer.

Atya heard something familiar in the refrain, as if the song had been written about him and sung about him. Princess Mymra

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His princess stood alone before him everywhere and always. Atya though the world was for her—for his princess. Everyone knew her, but they couldn’t speak aloud about her; it was not permitted to pronounce her name. Everyone awaited her and hid their anticipation; it was a secret. Why else in Kluchi, when people heard the jingle bell, did they rush out of their yards and watch the road with bated breath: was it she? When Grandfather raised his arms in the altar during the service and prayed quietly over the chalice with the Host, he was praying to her. And his godmother, if she looked happy and everything worked well for her, it was because she had seen her in her sleep. And Sasha and Panya, if they laughed all day and didn’t know why they were laughing, it meant that someone had hinted that she was coming to Kluchi. And when Kuzmich did not finish a story saying that he wouldn’t tell the end and there was a smile wandering on his lips, it was clear: the end of the story involved her and how could he say the secret word that could not be spoken, pronounced, uttered? Atya kept her in his thoughts always, that’s why he laughed, why his eyes burned . . . “Atya’s in love with Klavdia Guryanovna, congratulations!” his mother declared. “That means he’ll be held back!” Uncle Arkady said unruffled. “Hard heads have good luck,” Feklusha commiserated. “Children love me,” Klavdia Guryanovna laughed throatily. “I have to distinguish myself in something, otherwise it won’t happen,” thought Atya. “Conquer India or America, give her a sign, then she’ll recognize me and reveal herself.” “My princess!”

3 Hopes for a summer visit to Kluchi sank. Father said that if Atya was held back, don’t even think about it— he would spend the whole summer in St. Petersburg. It was already spring, the final quarter coming to an end, and Atya’s fate would be decided soon, and it was clear that the decision would not be in his favor. At penmanship class, Kharpik played “nibs” with Atya and was losing—the pen bounced and fell not belly down but on its back—and so he dropped the game and said, “Want to run away to America?” “I do,” Atya replied. “So does Romashka.” “How will we do it, we’ve been figuring it out since Christmas, but we didn’t say anything until we knew for sure . . . Do you have America?” “There’s Africa hanging in Father’s reception room.” “We don’t need Africa. We have to ask Romashka, his father is an architect, he should have it. We’ll pick a desert island and settle there.” “We’ll build a palace!” Atya got into the game. “A palace, or a castle, whatever you want.” “And there won’t be anyone there, not a single soul?” “Just hippopotamuses.” “It’s starting,” thought Atya, “Now I have to act and whatever I want will happen: Kharpik and Romashka are slyboots, they’ll find the road to the end of the world.” The next day Romashka brought in South America. Princess Mymra

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The map was unmarked and incomplete, just a fourth of the map, but still, it was America. The hour they spent after school, kept by Ivan Martynovich for a number of shenanigans, passed unnoticed. Kharpik and Romashka were in charge, filling Atya in on all the details of their escape, and then each with his own piece of paper drew uninhabited islands. They picked one circle—their island—then folded up the map and slapped one another’s hands: they would set out tomorrow after school.

“You go straight to the train station and wait there, I’ll bring the money,” Kharpik said. “If we could get a passport,” wondered Romashka. “I can get a passport, that’s very easy,” Atya announced. He remembered how quite recently Uncle Arkady went to Moscow and took the cook’s passport by accident and lived there without anyone bothering him for a whole week on the cook’s passport. And so it was decided: Kharpik brings the money, Atya the passport, Romashka the map.

He just had to live until tomorrow! Atya never closed his eyes. The night was like day for him. He lay in bed thinking. Not about Kluchi, but about America.

On the desert island he would build a palace like no one had ever built; the palace would be made of peacock feathers with gold and silver staircases and windows of precious stones. He would bring his princess there on hippopotamuses and they would live there, surrounded by the sea, beneath the eternal sun, eternally. She would be called Princess Mymra, and the island he would give her would bear her name—Mymra Island. Then he would conquer many islands for her and eventually all the countries, the whole world. And then she would come out of the palace and illuminate the world . . . In class, Atya, Kharpik, and Romashka behaved tolerably, they didn’t pull any tricks, they were rather distracted and when called upon responded out of sync. They all got a 1, the lowest grade, in their grade books. But it didn’t matter anymore! As soon as the last class was over and Atya recited “We thank Thee, Our Creator” in a ringing voice, Kharpik without ado tossed his books under the desk and rushed home. No one was at home: his father was in court, his mother at the Gostiny Dvor shops, there was just the cook Vasilisa. “Vasilisa, give me three rubles,” Kharpik asked. But Vasilisa didn’t have that kind of money and after hanging around in the kitchen, Kharpik went into his father’s study, and he didn’t have to rummage for long: there was change under an old briefcase. Kharpik counted it: exactly three rubles. What luck! “Farewell, Vasilisa, we’ll never see each other again,” Kharpik said from the doorway. “Where are you going?” Vasilisa inquired. And suddenly Kharpik felt so sorry for Vasilisa that he was about to blab the secret, but fortunately caught himself. Princess Mymra

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“Going to the Nikolayevsky Station, Vasilisa!” Atya and Romashka were waiting at the Finland Station for a long time; many trains had left before Kharpik finally showed up. Without wasting time, they got a ticket to Terioki, in Finland, settled in the train wagon and—farewell gymnasium, farewell Russia!—set off for America right to uninhabited Mymra Island. The trip was fun. They sang “Stand, Rise Up” and smoked. They imagined the road was America and the passengers all detectives, Sherlocks. Near Kuokkala, Atya pulled out their cook Feklusha’s passport and showed it proudly to his friends. “Now we can travel to the devil, it will be fine: the passport is real,” Kharpik said approvingly. “We’ll show those detectives,” Romashka confirmed. And so they reached Terioki. Disembarking from the train, the students headed for the dachas and wandered around until late evening, doing whatever they wanted: they climbed roofs, stairs, and trees. Romashka suggested swimming in the sea but one thing stopped them: they were too lazy to undress. It was getting cold, they were hungry: after all, it’s hard without dinner. Back at the station they bought some bread right away and finished it off. They had to think about where to sleep. It was too cold to spend the night on the sleepers and it had started snowing and they would lock up the station. They thought and thought what to do and decided to ask the watchman for permission to sleep in his hut.

The watchman was agreeable, he didn’t resist, he agreed. But before letting them in the hut, he made them clean up the station and sweep the rails. They cleaned up the station and swept the rails. And then they slept so hard, they had never slept so sweetly. They dreamed only of sweet things: entire boxes of chocolate and marmalade and plain candy—eat as much as you can. If not for the watchman, swear to God, they would have slept all day. “Hey, martyrs and sinners!” the watchman joked in his own way. They went back out to the station, bought bread with the last of their money, snacked, and started back for the dachas when a gendarme appeared in the doorway. “Where are you going?” the gendarme asked angrily. “We’re from Nazarov’s dacha,” Romashka replied for them; Romashka had lived in Terioki last summer. “The Nazarov dacha?” the gendarme asked and after a quiet conversation with a gentleman who came up to him, it must have been a detective, he said very gendarme-like and angrily, “You’re under arrest!” A train was approaching from Vyborg. The travelers accompanied by the gendarme and the detective glumly went to the train—they had to go back to St. Petersburg. “What would he say to his princess now, how could he approach her, where was his India, his America, where was the uninhabited island, where was Mymra Island, would she receive him or was everything lost?” Atya worried, looking out the window at the black spring road. Kharpik and Romashka were very worried: they’d really get it, farewell, America! Princess Mymra

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4 Days moved like weeks. And they moved badly. Of course, the meeting at the station was not terrible at all: Atya’s mother simply wept with joy, and things went well at the gymnasium, he was allowed to take exams. But what did Atya care about the gymnasium? He did not get the island, and how can you approach empty-handed. Klavdia Guryanovna kept mocking him. She called Atya a retired American. “I have to come up with something,” Atya kept thinking, “maybe I should chop off a finger and give it to her or gouge out my eye, let her feel my emotion.” “It’s all Grandfather’s fault,” Mother complained to Father. “I know how things are done in Kluchi, the boy is useless, the lessons don’t reach his brain. First he was in love with Klavdia Guryanovna, now he’s dreaming about some Mymra.” His father the doctor held that in treatment it was necessary to employ the beer and castor oil method, since all sorts of ills come from a clogged stomach. And in upbringing, it required convincing, since words alone were not enough, and therefore he decided to give Atya a beating at the first opportunity. But it happened that he couldn’t catch Atya: either work held him up, or Atya was at school, or not at school but hiding somewhere, as if the earth had swallowed him up. One morning Father looked into the nursery: Atya was sitting on the bed in just his shirt and thinking about something, naturally, he was thinking about his Mymra!

Holding his breath, the doctor crept up unnoticed, and one more tweak, one more step and he would have him—he would whip Atya so that he would not forget. The strap was squirming joyfully in the doctor’s hands, but Atya was no fool, you couldn’t get him alive—hop!—and only his heels flashed before him. Sauve qui peut! Without any thought, dashing as if from a fire, he ran into Klavdia Guryanovna’s room. The door was unlocked. Klavdia Guryanovna was in bed. Atya jumped in and hid under the blanket. He could hear his father come to the door, stand for a bit, and go away. “My princess, you saved my life from the death penalty,” Atya whispered, his head spinning with joy, “you will forgive me, forgive me, I came to you on my own, without an island, with nothing, forgive me, I did not manage to get you a kingdom, I will get it for you: India, America, all the islands, all the countries . . . everything, everything . . . the whole world!” He was gasping, it seemed that his soul had embraced her soul and held it tight, his heart lurched and his body trembled: for she was so close, his Princess Mymra, the inaccessible and proud. Klavdia Guryanovna covered her laughter with her hand.

“May I?” the Deputy’s voice interrupted outside the door. “A minute!” Pushing Atya away, Klavdia Guryanovna pointed under the bed. Atya obeyed meekly and once under the bed, froze, trying not breathe and shutting his eyes, so as not to look.

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The visitor Deputy would not notice him! He squatted just the way he had long ago in the chicken house on goose eggs, sitting to hatch geese. He did not breathe, did not look, but he heard everything. The Deputy was undressing. The Deputy took of his jacket, took off his shoes. The Deputy’s cufflink fell, pinging, and rolled on the floor, stopping at Atya’s feet. And Atya felt unbearably hot, as if it wasn’t a cufflink but a coal breathing heat on him. They talked. Their words were the most ordinary. Everyone talks like that; the words were spoken by everyone. And as Atya listened more closely, he grew cold and then hot: not the words, but the shape of the words, the connection of the words, the speaking of the words to him sounded like the vilest of profanity and insult. He did not understand what was happening, he did not understand anything yet, but he understood with his heart and through his longing, through his love he understood and with his insulted soul he saw that she was not the one and only, not Princess Mymra, but was like everyone, like his mother, like Sasha and Panya, like his godmother, like the cook Feklusha, just the same . . . And the desert opened before him. He would have punctured his ears rather than hear, but he heard everything. His soul and body felt as if he were being beaten as once in Kluchi they beat a thief who had hidden under the bed in the kitchen, they beat his head, his face, his belly. His eyes were glassy. “Finish him off!” “No, they shouted, “He’ll wait!’ They’d let him go and beat him again . . .

And then, as if someone had smashed his temple with a butt, the bed shook above him, the floor shook beneath him, everything juddered—it was the end of his life. Only when the visitor was let out the front door to the street, and Klavdia Guryanovna was dressing, Atya came to his senses and crawled out from beneath the bed, without looking back, and when she asked if he’d come with her for a walk on Nevsky after lunch, he said nothing. ɷɸɷ Without books or lunch Atya went to the gymnasium. He didn’t notice a thing. He didn’t remember how he got to the school. Having sat through the beginning of class, he asked to be excused. They allowed him to leave. He left the classroom and was alone in the bathroom. It was empty in the bathroom, water gurgled in the pipes. And when he remembered, remembered it all—stones were lighter: his princess did not exist! The tears rolled down. Atya wept. For the first time in his life, he wept. That is how the earth will weep the final time, when the stars fall from the sky. Oh, if this night Were not beautiful My breast would not ache My soul would not suffer. Princess Mymra

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The tramp song of a tramp singer came from the neighboring yard to the gymnasium yard and from the yard with the spring air through the window to Atya. And Atya, through the tears, seemed to be laughing— Where should he seek his star—his princess?

PANNA MARIA

07

RUSSIAN READERS WILL UNDERSTAND THAT THE STORY IS SET IN POLAND. KOSTEL AND KSENDZ ARE THE RUSSIAN WORDS FOR A POLISH CATHOLIC CHURCH (KOŚCIÓŁ) AND A POLISH CATHOLIC PRIEST (KSIĄDZ). THE HONORIFICS FOR THE WOMEN ARE POLISH— PANNA (MISS) MARIA AND PANI (MRS.) JADWIGA.

ɷɸɷ Our region has poor villages, small towns, and swamps. Occasionally, through the trees, you can catch a glimpse of church crosses and a bunch of gray huts huddled along the swamp edge. On Sundays, the tinny, dreary ringing torments the soul with its peal. Fair-haired girls and women in white scarves, like white birds, seem to float, mistily, along trodden paths to our old church, dark and low, grown into the ground. How beautiful it is in a place where bright flowers grow and the sun breathes deeply, but nothing can replace the stifling longing of swamps and fogs and dreary Sunday bells.

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When the service was over and the priest went to the confessional, Pani Jadwiga fell on her knees before him, complaining about her miserable fate: again there were problems with her cow, and she has just enough to feed the children but not enough for oil. “Shame on you,” the priest stopped her. “You are pestering God with complaints about your trifles. Follow the example of Panna Maria: she was blind at birth, and being as beautiful as an angel, she sings in church or plays the organ and always praises Jesus and his Holy Mother. You will never hear a bitter word from her, she only thanks the Creator and praises Him.” So on her way home Pani Jadwiga stopped by to see the pathetic woman for whom, according to the priest, misfortune was the source of the great joy of thanking and praising. The tall pale young woman walked silently across the front garden, and her big blue eyes were incredibly tranquil and you would never say that they do not see, and only the light movements of her fingers showed that she was blind. And Pani Jadwiga told her, as she had the priest, about her sorrow. In response, very simply, as only very exhausted people who have accepted their suffering, with almost no words and just her touch, Panna Maria comforted the poor woman and even gave her money. Receiving her handout, the happy Jadwiga grew talkative: she wanted to say something very amusing to entertain the maiden. She told her about some young man who had come from Warsaw to visit Russian neighbors. “He strolls past your front garden very frequently, and he’s going back to Warsaw in a week.”

She chatted on for a long time, exaggerating the beauty and charm of the man. Maria listened indifferently at first, as if to ordinary village news, but suddenly regret that she could not see a thing, that she was blind, rose in her soul, but she caught it immediately and began reciting a prayer, blessing the will that decided her blind fate. Jadwiga left very pleased, and everything continued in the same old way. In the evening Panna Maria went out into the garden, she always spent the evening alone with the flowers, and sometimes she felt bitter, but that bitterness was the usual blessed state, blossoming, like her garden, with dreams. But this time, and she didn’t even know why, a special feeling overcame her: she was listening closely, as if expecting someone. But there wasn’t a soul about and there were no steps on the road. When it was time to go back inside, she didn’t know why her heart was filled with such sadness. The next day she had the same feeling, but stronger, and the sadness was more profound. And quite unexpectedly she told herself plainly that she was waiting for him, that man Jadwiga told her about, and she was sad because he wasn’t there. It was only on the third evening, when she waited agitatedly in her garden, that the jangling of spurs along the road struck her ears and a voice so closely familiar chilled her heart. Of course, it was he, that man. And there were others with him, and their voices were like owl screeches. ɷɸɷ Panna Maria

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Panna Maria counted the hours, the minutes until evening when she would go into the garden and sit down to wait: once again the jangle of spurs and the voice—if she could only hear that voice once more! The days passed, replaced by evenings—what heavy hours, what racing minutes!—and no one. And so, imperceptibly, came the seventh, final day. She firmly remembered Jadwiga’s words that he was leaving in a week. And would she never again hear his voice? And if she did, would she never ever see him? “Jesus, let me see just once!” In a bitter longing she fell before the Crucifix with arms crossed and begged. “Jesus!” And she wept, the way you do when you pity the whole world until it hurts and you feel guilty before everyone and you could just weep, and never had her tranquil eyes fluttered that way, they fluttered like wings. “Jesus!” Her head burned, her heart throbbed. “Jesus! Once! To see!” ɷɸɷ Without any hope, Panna Maria went into her garden and sat on the bench facing the road.

The grass rustled and something moaned squeakily behind the house—a bird perhaps, or wind, no, not wind, the wind was catching clouds, gathering rain. Her heart stopped. She could hear nothing, only the rustling, only the wind. And then her sensitive ear heard steps in the distance. Yes, she was not mistaken. And soon the spurs jangled down the road and now she would hear his voice. Small and shabby, a puny lieutenant with a face like a squeezed lemon walked down the road and someone was with him. But she looked—and saw only him. She had never ever seen anyone and she did not need to see anyone else. Her heart was illuminated, she wanted to cry out—and she fell dead on the bench.

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THE KIND GUARD

08

A TALE OF THE SUPERNATURAL , “ THE KIND GUARD” IS SET IN ST. PETERSBURG, WITH MEDICAL STUDENTS AND THEIR PROFESSOR. REMIZOV RETURNS TO THE THEME OF DESTINY IN THIS STORY. THE ACCEPTANCE OF ONE’S ABILITIES PLAYS A KEY ROLE IN A MAN’S DESIRE TO BETTER HIMSELF.

ɷɸɷ

1 In one of the wretched attics of the Eremeyev rental building on Vasilevsky Island in St. Petersburg there lived Lapin, a student at the Medical Academy. Studying was hard for him, but getting a piece of bread was even harder. However, he was brave, diligent, and persistent. Sashenka, a hat maker of a minor sort, just as poor as he, shared his labor and helped how she could. Deep in need and cares, even with the flickering lamplight he somehow did not notice whether

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she was beautiful or not, and after his midnight work he fell right to sleep. On his name day, Lapin invited his comrades over and, deep into the night, when Sashenka was already fast sleep behind the cotton curtain divider, they drank beer and vodka. Gusts of wind from the sea reached the attic, but the noise of their voices muffled them. They began to talk about who was braver. They decided that each would perform an extraordinary deed. First was the student Prokopov. “Let’s do this  .  .  . A week ago, as you know, our professor, the famous surgeon Petrov, died; he had lived his whole life unsociably and was considered a wizard. He is buried, as you know, at Smolensky—we’ll invite that loner over to visit!” The approving laughter of his friends, like the wind, carried off the words. “And to keep him from being stubborn,” hothead Prokopov continued, “we’ll remove the temporary cross from his grave. The one who dares to do it will bring the cross here as proof of his bravery.” Laughter, even louder, exploded in the attic. They just lacked a daredevil. “I’ll do it,” said Lapin, “I’ll go and invite him, but I won’t take the cross; that would insult the deceased.” “What will be the proof of your invitation then?” shouted his comrades. “Someone should come with me, and he can be the witness.” “All right,” said tall dark-bearded Smygin, the grimmest and strongest of them all. “I’ll go.”

Accompanied by the laughter of their comrades, the two left the room, swaying. When they got downstairs and came outside, the wind practically knocked them off their feet. But that did not stop them at all; determination was more intoxicating than beer and vodka. They reached the cemetery through viscous mud and ravines. The moon, melting in swift cloudy flight, glimmered from afar. Flattening wind gusts dusted the air with drizzling rain. This was the hour when the Flying Dutchman sails on the Northern Sea. After lengthy searching, they at last found the professor’s fresh grave and his white birch cross. Lapin took off his hat. “Esteemed scholar,” he said, addressing the grave, “your entire life was devoted to easing the sorrow of others. You saved a thousand lives from death, illness, and misery. Now, when you have received just reprieve from your labors, I invite you to share the company of your former students; I’m assuming that you have some free time behind the coffin boards.” Lapin wanted to put his cap back on, but the wind tore it from his hands, raised it above the cross, and carried it off. At that same moment, Smygin grabbed the cross with both hands and wrenched it out of the ground. “Don’t you dare!” Lapin shouted. But it was too late: the friable soil easily gave way. When they returned to the attic and Smygin showed them the professor’s white cross, there was no end to the comrades’ delight. Only Lapin, suddenly sagging, muttered, “Forgive us, we have insulted you.”

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The party was coming to an end: the last of the drink was poured and consumed. And soon everyone fell asleep. Lapin went to bed, too. But he could not sleep. He was falling into a floating abyss and in horror he turned over onto his other side, and then he was being swayed and everything beneath swayed without any support. And so he got up. Leaving the room, he forgot why he had gotten up, went down to the yard and found himself on the street. Here he noticed that the weather had changed: the full moon glowed clearly and it was very calm. His legs carried him to the cemetery. He found the familiar grave without difficulty and fell down helplessly. “Forgive me, we insulted you!” he muttered, face down in the torn-up, sticky earth. And, as if in reply, gold-rimmed spectacles, a bald pate, and reddish beard sparkled before him. “You did not insult me, Lapin,” the professor said clearly and distinctly. “I remember you and I know how diligent you are. But you are a mediocrity: your mind and your heart are useless.” Beyond that Lapin saw nothing and heard nothing. When he awoke, it turned out he had slept on the floor right at the door and very uncomfortably. The traces of yesterday’s party and his comrades spread out every which way seemed extremely repulsive, and he hurried outside. Walking through the courtyard, Lapin was surprised to see his cap hanging on a nail outside the janitor’s room. No, he wasn’t mistaken, it was his peaked cap.

He took it, stood there, and understanding nothing, quietly went back up. He must have stood in the courtyard a long while: his comrades were no longer in his room and the professor’s white cross was gone. Maybe it was only a hangover? Maybe nothing had happened at all: well, all right, they had been drinking, here are the bottles, but the cross and the professor . . . Calmed by the idea of a hangover, Lapin cleaned up the room and sat down to work, as usual. And life went on. About three days later, all memory of the name day party was squeezed out of his head, and everything was forgotten.

2 With his attention concentrated, Lapin sat behind a pile of books, like the most diligent of students. The wind howled outside the window, and Sashenka snored lightly behind the curtain. Deciphering the learned work with difficulty, right after the midnight chimes Lapin heard someone speaking behind him: “You are a mediocrity: your mind and your heart are useless. But I will change your heart and mind, because you were kind to people.” Lapin shuddered and turned in his chair: before him stood the late professor: gold-rimmed spectacles, bald pate, and reddish beard sparkled as they had in the fog; he was wearing a white coat and a scalpel gleamed in his hand. He imperiously indicated the cot. Lapin, frozen in fear, obediently rose from the chair and lay down.

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The professor raised the scalpel above him and in a single sweep cut his chest and belly in a Greek tau, then cut out his heart and spleen, got replacements from a plate on the table, inserted the new heart and the new spleen, sewed it up, and bandaged it. “Lie still till morning!” In horror, Lapin held his breath and shut his eyes. In the morning, awakening on the cot, he saw that his jacket was unbuttoned, his shirt torn and showing drops of blood, and on his chest there was a thin bloody scar like a shoelace—tau. He immediately awakened Sashenka and showed her his carved-up chest. Even though she looked closely, Sashenka, understood nothing, and if she did have any thoughts, they were about their extreme poverty when there was no money to repair the shirt. That same evening Lapin noticed that the work was very easy for him. Where previously he could barely master ten pages of it over an entire evening, the learned book was his in a single session. Now he had time to rest and he no longer suffered the exhaustion that he usually felt falling into bed barely conscious. And once he glanced at Sashenka, he was struck for the first time by her ugliness—everything was so tiny and insignificant, and those milky gray eyes, spread out nose, nothing remarkable at all. “Lord,” he thought for the first time, “what did I ever see in her?” There was no end to his sorrow. And only meek Sashenka’s willingness to serve and acquiesce, her care and coddling made him accept his cruel fate. His studies were going well. When the examinations started, they did not remind him of his previous suffering at all. The final paper, recognized as brilliant, wrote itself.

Lapin felt like a different man—with great knowledge, equilibrium, and not without imagination. He got through the exams better than everyone else.

3 After the last examination, Lapin came home late. Carefully putting away his books, he sat on the cot and suddenly saw the professor sitting bent over the table. With a gentle smile and sly wink, the professor offered his hand and said, “Well, Lapin, are you pleased?” “I never even dreamed of such success, but, honored professor,” Lapin spoke not without a swagger, “couldn’t we make my Sashenka a little prettier?” “With your mind and abilities,” the professor chuckled, “beauty is a snap!” Before Lapin realized what was happening, the professor stepped behind the curtain and with a sure movement of the scalpel cut off Sashenka’s head completely; tossing it over his shoulder he took another head from the plate on the table and attached it to the body. “This one will be pretty, the brains unchanged.” When she awoke, Sashenka out of habit reached for the thin braid that hung down to her shoulder, and suddenly her hand bumped into thick luxurious hair. In disbelief, she raised both arms to undo her hair, and instead of the washed-out blond, golden-red tresses snaked around her shoulders. She cried out in horror. Lapin rushed in and, seeing the head of an antique goddess from the Hermitage on Sashenka’s body, he remembered last night and mentally thanked the professor gratefully. The Kind Guard

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The new head spoke with Sashenka’s tongue, and everything was very well attached; only there seemed to be a thin shoelace showing red on her neck. When Sashenka went downstairs to go the market, there was no end to the oohs and aahs of the residents of the Eremeyev house. The next day the kids from the whole neighborhood shouted after her: “Switched skull!” If any of them had been a little sharper, they would have shouted the same at Lapin, but Lapin’s change was not noticeable even to the most vigilant eye. The mockery made Sashenka weep and they had to move to another apartment.

4 On the Seventh Line in the Makarov house, where Lapin and Sashenka moved, a horrible event had taken place a week before their arrival: the landlord Makarov’s daughter was violently killed— robbers burst in, and, having finished off the maid, cut off Nyuta’s head and carried it away with them. Old Makarov, grief-stricken, was extremely outraged: Nyuta wore a pearl pin in her glorious braids, and they could have pulled the pin out of her hair without cutting off her head, and now he couldn’t bury her with dignity—how can a headless woman receive final kisses? The policeman Erast Apolinarievich told the old man to make an arrangement with the aunt of the murdered maid Marisha, cut off her head and put it in the coffin of Anna Vasilyevna. The old man might have done it, but his wife wouldn’t hear of it.

“I don’t,” she said, “want to kiss the maid Marishka.” And so they buried her. Soon after the funeral, old Makarov went outside and froze on the spot: right in front of his own house his late daughter, Nyuta, stood hand in hand with a student. There could be no doubt—it was the living Nyuta!—and to the great surprise of Lapin and Sashenka, the old man shouted: Help! A minute later they were all at the precinct, where the old man told the bailiff himself, pointing at Lapin, “He stole my late daughter’s head and attached it to this girl!” The bailiff, who knew the old man was respectable, commented carefully: “Vasily Alexeyevich, why would they need someone’s head? The young lady has her own. Don’t be upset, this is impossible.” And when Sashenka spoke and the old man saw that Nyuta’s head spoke in a completely different voice, he had to let it drop. And so they separated. The old man spent the night in tears, and when he started to sleep he suddenly saw Nyuta, as if alive. “Father,” Nyuta said, “my head was chopped off by the hooligan Yashka, and the late famous professor and surgeon Petrov took my head and attached it to the young lady you saw at the police station. I am not completely gone from this world. Part of my soul is connected to this young lady, and you must love her like a daughter and not think any bad thoughts about her. I will defend her like myself.” Fear made it difficult to find the door: he wanted to tell his wife right away. But she was already coming to him and didn’t let him speak; she had just seen Nyuta in a dream and repeated his dream word for word. “Nyuta’s will is inviolable!” the old couple decided. The Kind Guard

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The old man found Lapin through the house register, adopted Sashenka. And the Lapins got married. They lived without need as if with their own parents, everything supplied. The old couple adored Sashenka. The time came for the final exams. Things were going better than ever. Lapin was considered one of the best students at the Academy. The professors were proud of him. After receiving his degree, Lapin started dreaming about the future as he was preparing for bed. His dreams were so heated that he didn’t even notice the appearance of the professor and it was only the familiar voice that brought him back to reality. “I can do much for you, but not everything,” the professor said. “Destiny is irresistible. You will not achieve fame in science, but you will be an average scientist. Don’t strive higher! We will meet again, for the last time.”

5 The days of Professor Lapin passed smoothly and tranquilly. He lived in a distant university, universally respected and esteemed. He had his own clinic, where he gave lectures and saw patients. He never complained about his fate. The past had moved so far back that even if he recalled anything, it was light and happy, like a marvelous dream. Lapin considered himself a lucky man. On a rainy autumn evening, when it’s good to read in the lamplight at the table, Lapin leafed through the journal with the latest

news that had just come in the mail, listening to his tranquil thoughts, which calmly repeated the same thing, like wind in the chimney. And at the quiet hour, the door opened softly and someone came in. Lapin, not letting go of the book, tensed, waiting for the stranger to come out of the shadows. Suddenly he felt his heart beating for some reason. “Professor Petrov,” the words sounded clearly and distinctly, and the gold-rimmed spectacles, bald pate, and reddish beard flashed in the section of light. “Professor Lapin,” he replied, and stood up, tensely regarding his guest, and suddenly he really felt that he couldn’t breathe, and, unconsciously opening his mouth, he tried to catch some air. “The final journey,” the familiar voice said clearly and distinctly. “Fate is irresistible. You received everything a man can have; you enjoyed happiness and tranquility. Let’s go, don’t be afraid! And there you will continue—” Lapin moved toward his guest: did he want to ask a question or had he already agreed? “You will continue the very same life.” The scythe cut, and, suffocating, Lapin dropped his face onto the table—it was over.

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THE VENERABLE LIS

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THE STORY IS SET IN A REMOTE MEDIEVAL RUSSIAN MONASTERY. THE MONKS’ NAMES ARE VERY ARCHAIC AND UNFAMILIAR TO MODERN SPEAKERS, INCLUDING THOSE OF REMIZOV ’S GENERATION. NOT AN ALEXANDER, VLADIMIR, OR DMITRY, VERY COMMON NAMES OF RUSSIAN SAINTS, ARE AMONG THEM. THE PROTAGONIST ’S NAME, LISII, SOUNDS LIKE “LIS,” WHICH IS “FOX” IN RUSSIAN.

ɷɸɷ

1 Tikhonov Monastery, its name dear to every pilgrim, lay in a low valley, hemmed in on all sides by forests, and its white walls and towers were barely visible because of the trees. Pilgrims wended their way to the monastery along a crooked narrow bridge consisting of three logs and no handrails. The peals of the monastery bell rang thinly in the damp smoky air.

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Crossing the bridge they first ended up beneath the low vault of the gates, and then came out into a courtyard overgrown with burdock, where a small stone church stood on the highest spot. The brothers’ cells and the services were hidden behind stands of birches. The pilgrims approached in bunches. A handsome monk, neither old nor young, ageless, met them under the vaults and questioned each one. It was to this gatekeeper monk that a thin, sharp-nosed and bundled up monk appealed. “Ah! To Father Superior!” said the little monk happily. “Right away!” And had him follow. They crossed the courtyard through long passages among the birches and, passing the church, came to a small stone house. The dirty door, from which came the odor of Lenten life, opened with difficulty, and in the semidarkness they went up rickety stairs that led them to a narrow and cramped entry with a threadbare rug. The visitor took off his excess rags and turned out to be an ordinary middle-aged monk. But his colorless face with its long, thin nose and strangely receding chin, and the thin reddish sideburns and long thin hair immediately called to mind a bird or a fox. Squinting curiously at the monk, the little monk led him into the reception room. Habitually, in accordance with the rules, the monk bowed and took out a packet of dirty papers from inside his robe, and as he handed them to the abbot spoke in a babbling voice, incidentally quite appropriate to his unusual appearance, either avian or vulpine, asking for permission to stay at the monastery. “All right,” said the abbot. “Stay a while and we’ll see.”

The monk bowed humbly. “Give him,” the abbot said to the little monk, “the cell where Father Iegudiil had lived! What’s your name?” “Lisii, venerable father, named on Mount Athos.” “Lisii?” Probably only now seeing that avian or vulpine aspect, the abbot squinted like the little monk, and drawled not indifferently: “Well, all right.”

2 A low white room, a semicircular casemate window, a bench for sleeping, table, stool, and rug on the floor. Lisii liked it. Since he liked order, he first of all swept and cleaned up the cell and set things out once and for all. He quickly figured out all the aspects of the regulations in church and fit in without difficulty with the brotherhood. At first they all looked askance at him, his vulpine or avian aspect seemed odd, but then they got used to it. Only the elders were suspicious: his excessive gentleness and rule-following repulsed such pillars as Fathers Mardarii and Siluyan. The hermit from the apiary, Father Varakii, who had grown two-inch nails, declared that Lisii wasn’t human at all, but was born out of frog slime and it was a sin to consider him a person. The silent ones, Germogen and Amfilokhii, dispassionately repeated but one phrase: “Judge not!” And really, Lisii was a monk like any other, and besides which he was hardy and gifted, so even if there was something foxy about him, well, what of it, you can’t go against nature and especially since it was so harmless. The Venerable Lis

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When the hungry months came, a time of grumbling for the brothers, except for the select, Lisii fasted wonderfully, without getting into arguments or whining. Lisii chewed on some sedge, and it turned out that foxes ate that very sedge. When the little monk Panka told the cellarer Didim about the fox sedge, it came as a revelation to the latter. “Brothers!” Didim exclaimed. “We didn’t notice, he really is of the fox breed, I swear to God!” That’s when the whispering started that Lisii was a fox, and since he was a monk, then he was venerable. “Venerable Lis!” Didim dubbed him. And Lis himself did not reject it. Once, someone shouted, “Hey, Venerable Lis!” Lis turned, folded his hands at his chest, and bowed. And so it started.

3 Having spent his life in wandering, Lisii knew many marvelous and useful things, which he could recount and recommend. And yet, he had no rancor. Lisii became popular and the brethren all liked him. But the elders rebelled: the fox sedge strengthened their distrust and the fact that Lisii readily responded to Lis elicited only anger and even greater suspicion. “A skinny rascal,” the cellarer said, encouraging the elders. “We have to test him and see how Lis will act.”

Twice a month they brought in women from the neighboring village to wash the monastery floors. On such days the devil watched the brothers very closely. And even though the methods against lewd thoughts indicated in the Nilov regulations on monastery life were applied very strictly, falling was inevitable: if not one then another— someone would be tempted by the devil. They usually started the battle with psalms, after the psalms came the prayer to the martyr Fomaida, but the attacks by the foe did not cease, and the final part was raising eyes and hands to the heavens. The brothers’ raised hands let pilgrims know that the church was closed: floors were being washed. It was difficult for everyone, but hardest of all for the one who had to supervise the washing. And the cellarer blessed Lisii to do the task. The women were all of a kind: all young, strong, and tall. In hightucked skirts, white shirts, rosy with heat, they brought in a lot of confusion, disgrace, and shame. Lisii, his vulpine eyes modestly lowered, gave orders in a business-like way. The most suspicious eye would not have seen the slightest tremor of his being. The abbot who came in unexpectedly was amazed by the diligence and order and praised him encouragingly. Now Lisii had the abbot himself, and no one dared make a peep. “Didn’t work!” the cellarer moaned, and purposely appointed Lisii to that difficult task the next few times. I can say this, Lisii was inscrutable and elusive.

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4 A year passed and Lisii was now the most necessary monk in all domestic affairs, they turned to him for every trifle and not in vain: with his skill, knowledge, and quick wit he established model order and appropriate cleanliness. In a year or two, every female pilgrim knew Father Lis. Yet the elders did not quiet their distrust, the elders only tolerated him. Lisii tried and sought all kinds of means to support the priory and completely selflessly. Once he asked the abbot to bless him to go collect. “I know,” he said, sniffing in his way, “many places in this country and to the south, I can go ask on behalf of our priory.” Listing the needs of the monastery, he pointed to the urgency of renovation and renewal of the church. Renovation and renewal hit the bull’s eye. A few days later, with sack and folding icon, Lisii came out from the vaulted gate and, his thin hair shaking merrily, he stepped on the bridge. “Mark my words,” said Didim the cellarer, “we’ll never see him again, like our own ears.” The elders cheered up: you couldn’t fool their eyes and sense. “Judge not!” the silent monks repeated dispassionately. As for the abbot, not a day went by that he did not mention Lisii, he worried about him and waited for him impatiently. Despite the gossip and cellarer’s assurance that Lisii would certainly trick them, Lisii appeared earlier than planned under the vaulted gate.

Lisii had been strange, but now he was a real fox: the hair tucked behind his pointy ears, the cheekbones like two fists, the deep-set black eyes, and the nose sniffing the air. “Oh Lis, is it you!” the gatekeeper monk was stunned. Nose twitching, Lisii lumbered with heavy steps into the cellar. The monks came running: everyone wanted to see their Lis, they were very happy to have him back. When Lisii began pulling rolls in rags and money from his pockets and gold showered onto the table, Memnon the reader proclaimed loudly: “Wisdom!” and kissed Lisii thrice. The abbot came in. Receiving his blessing, Lisii said modestly, indicating his haul: “Not as much as I expected: a bad harvest!” “Go get some rest!” the abbot said kindly. “You look awful.” And he truly did. Lisii went to his cell, lay down, and stayed there: his body shuddered mercilessly, and he shut his eyes, rambling in a whisper “To bite—I’ll bite—the ear . . .” Upon hearing this Didim the cellarer merely winked and repeated the mysterious “To bite—the ear.” The wordless elders nodded their beards: Lisii’s delirium confirmed their distrust—the nonhuman breed was showing itself.

5 Whether it was the going after alms or the illness from which Lisii arose—all skin and bones—his way of life changed sharply: he was

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no longer interested in housekeeping and if he continued visiting the gardens and haggling with calling merchants, it was only out of obedience so as not to sadden the abbot. Lisii spent entire services kneeling and sighing, the tears pouring from his eyes. They always found a puddle on the cast-iron stove where he usually prayed: the tears were so copious. “It is unseemly to raise yourself insolently!” the elder Mardarii told him. “You’re not soaring, father!” the elder Siluyan lectured him. But Lisii responded, just as he had to the name Lis, with hands folded at his chest and a bow. Tearful prayer was not the limit of his feat, he ate almost nothing, and his answer to the abbot’s exhortation “Don’t exhaust yourself immeasurably” was a meek, “I’m not hungry, Father Abbot.” His strength was fading visibly. And once he did not get up from the bench. To the abbots’ question: “What hurts?” He whispered barely audibly: “My side.” And after much effort and almost by force they got a doctor: it was a feat just to get to the monastery. The doctor found Lisii in bad shape and needing to be cut open. “They’re going to chop up Lis!” The spoiled little monk Panka rushed boldly into the refectory. “Will you do it?” “That’s the trapper’s job!” replied Meletii the cook, a serious monk. “It’s God’s will, I won’t be treated!” Lisii whispered clearly at the doctor’s decisive sentence and never said another word.

6 Lisii took three days in silence to die. In those three days everything was upside down in the monastery. Mitrofan the baker announced that he had seen a tail on the dying man. “A sort of trembling of a tail and waving.” Some were found who believed. “Yes.” Others did not believe and said: “No.” And the brotherhood was divided into tails and tailless. It started as a joke but ended in seriousness: the tails and the tailless began accusing each other of the gravest sins and not face-toface but slinking among the pilgrims. It was a great temptation. Lisii was silently counting the minutes of life while all around there was a commotion: does he have a tail or not? His minutes were hard, but he was not left in peace for a second, they disturbed him: the doubters, not only monks but pilgrims, too, came into his cell and used all kinds of excuses to look for a tail. And when the last minute arrived and the deceased was thoroughly examined without any embarrassment, there was no alien tail, as was to be expected. The affair did not end there; an argument ensued: was Lisii a saint or a sinner? The clamor lasted at least a day and night; and why hide the sin?— There were blows and blood, and in the end Lis’s holiness prevailed: the abbot was on his side.

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The burial took place in reverent silence. Many wept. Lisii lay in the coffin under a veil, and his inhuman big-nosed face showed stiff beneath the veil. A plump pale woman in a white scarf stood apart behind the coffin and with her were two little girls, wrapped in gray knit shawls, in mittens, one pointy-nosed, the other red-haired—fox kits.

MARTIN ZADEKA

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REMIZOV BELIEVED THAT DREAMS FORETOLD THE FUTURE. HE KEPT DREAM BOOKS AND WROTE MANY STORIES ABOUT DREAMS. MARTIN ZADEKA WAS A POPULAR GUIDEBOOK TO DIVINATION THROUGH THE EXPLANATION OF DREAMS, AND TATIANA LARINA TURNS TO IT AFTER HAVING A TROUBLING DREAM IN PUSHKIN’S EUGENE ONEGIN. THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN IN PARIS, WHERE REMIZOV MOVED IN 1923, AFTER EMIGRATING FROM THE SOVIET UNION TO BERLIN TWO YEARS EARLIER.

ɷɸɷ DREAM BOOK Neither Scott, nor Byron, nor Seneca, Not even the Ladies Fashion magazine Could entrance like this: It was Martin Zadeka Head of the Chaldean wise men, Fortuneteller, interpreter of dreams. Pushkin, Eugene Onegin

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POLODNI OF THE NIGHT Was von Menschen nicht gewusst Oder nicht bedacht, Dutch das Labyrinth der Brust Wandelt in der Nacht. Goethe, An den Mond.

All that steals, by men unguessed, Or by men unknown, Through the maze of his own breast In the night alone. (Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans., A Harvest of German Verse, 1916)

They call it “polodni” when a heavy warm steam rises from the thawing earth in spring—the earth is breathing. “Polodni” of the night are dreams—the breath of the night.

1 As far back as I can remember myself, I have always had dreams. And if you didn’t knock on my window or ring, I would no longer be able to distinguish hectic reality from hot visions—the thinness of my night. A night without dreams is like a “lost” day for me. After the necessary awakenings into daytime, I wander through “life” half-asleep; there are always remnants of sleep in my memory— the fringe on my day clothes.

An enviably rich fate—my world, what a great reality!—but it is therefore harshly avenged in life. Even though reality is not at all as clear and mathematical as people like to conclude from their sober dull eye, just think of “coincidence” in life!—but in dreams there is more than nonsense and incongruity under the sign of “coincidence.” A dream is like a conversation with a “touched” person: you listen and everything seems human but invariably somewhere they will break off, without a “because” or with some very unexpected definition—he’ll be talking about veal and suddenly the veal will turn out not to be meat but “planetary meat.” But you have to live, how else could it be: dream and reality are tightly bound and interpenetrating. But it is wrong to swagger and insist that there are immutable “laws of nature”: life could easily come to fit completely different laws if you look at it from your dreams and not from the laboratory. But living with nothing but dreams is a losing proposition—mush and confusion, I know from my own experience. My watch has only one hand, the big one fell off, and it’s always fast, I live approximately, not distinguishing days, objects, and events clearly. But I have noticed: when I cut my finger sharpening a pencil or cutting pages in a book or peeling potatoes, blood sobers me up immediately. So I think: blood is reality and there can be no reality without blood. Cold also brings me to life, but that’s also related to blood. I can go weeks without food, I won’t notice—I don’t know what hunger is, only thirst. When I have coffee and cigarettes, everything seems to move by itself—yesterday’s spectral dreams continue in bloody reality. Martin Zadeka

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You would think this is the place for an interesting story with all kinds of twists and transformations and comic laughter over the imagined confidence of the “right person”—judge of “measure and number,” the soul of things quick and dead. But in fact, I don’t have anything in particular to tell. Not for lack of memory—now I can judge myself, I have memory enough for the day and the night, no, my poverty is in my nature: it’s my soul—I don’t dig deep and I don’t see far. Or it’s human nature, it’s become ossified even compared to the time of Shakespeare and Erasmus, the perception of another world has coarsened and we see only what it is under our noses or what we can feel. Or on your own, at your own risk, even if you are bottomless, you won’t achieve much. For success you must have a ladder—“material,” as in Novalis or Nerval, some kind of cabbalistic-occult support. Or Dostoevsky’s epilepsy, Edgar Alan Poe’s and E. T. A. Hoffmann’s alcohol. You need some kind of twist, “vice” for the skin to crack and blood to boil, or to translate that into speech, for the “primal sound” of the word to resound clearly. I’m first and foremost “normal,” healthy blood, strong heart, a singer’s lungs—I feel embarrassed before those “marked” people with a deeply cleft soul, whom I love and revere. And of the cabbala and occultism, I know nothing.

2 Every night I have dreams and in the morning I write them down. Over several years I kept a graphic diary: I drew the dream and around it the day’s events.

In the books On the Cornices and Whirlwind Russia I tried an experiment: to show the overlap of dreams into reality—the incidents of the night immediately appearing in the events of the day. People who dream cannot help noticing them and do not go past their nights indifferently, but usually they recall and recount one dream, maybe two, no more. Or this happens: before some event you have a dream, the contents have vanished but this remains for the rest of your life: I dreamed something special, but I can’t remember. That happened to S. T. Aksakov; he writes in his memoirs about a prophetic dream that vanished without a trace.1 Dreams are very short—or is one’s memory for dreams short? But there are dreams of “high breathing”—if you write them down there’s enough for several pages: one after another, like a dismantled day; there are days like that, it starts in the morning and on it goes, something keeps happening, right until nighttime. However incongruous a dream may be, and the less justified, the more “dreamy” it is, the measure of daytime consciousness holds it tight: even in the dream you can say, “I’m dreaming this.” In literary dreams—dreams in stories—it is always interesting to see where the daytime (reality) of the dream will “crack.” The art is in that crack. Leo Tolstoy had great artistry in describing dreams; he observed his own dreams and noted the law of “lawlessness” in dreams. Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Leskov, Pushkin, Gogol, and Lermontov also have that great art.

1. Sergei Aksakov (1791–1859) described a “fateful dream” that predicted the day of his mother’s death in his family chronicle Childhood Years of Bagrov the Grandson.

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Gorky writes dreams, good ones that approximate the sleeping soul, but are just a “caliber smaller.” Lacking in dream talent were Goncharov, painfully so, he called the best chapter in Oblomov “Oblomov’s Dream,” and Korolenko with his “Makar’s Dream,” and strangely enough, Chekhov, who wrote “The Black Monk.”

3 In dreams the daytime forms of consciousness are destroyed or cracked, and the dreams seem to proceed in the habitual forms of waking: when asked 2 times 2 you reply with great thought and uncertainty, “I think 5.” But space, with its geometry and trigonometry, is shot to hell—that happens in a hot dream, from which one awakens as if from a shock, and your pulse races. In a boring dream everything remains in place, as in life: “I dreamed I was knitting a sock . . .” (from the dreams of our witchlike concierge). There is no past, no future—time spins like a top: events that have not yet happened but will occur pile up onto yesterday’s events, which appear in the present—not before and not after. The action in a dream is not “because” but “how terrific” and “for no reason.” The law of “causality” in life hits you over the head— everything that happens is “because,” yet is everything in life explicable? But in dreams it’s total confusion. Action in dreams can be imagined as a series of accumulations. With no meaning, in the usual sense of the word. A true dream is always nonsense, meaningless, gibberish; somersaults and messes.

“He who does nothing can never be judged for anything.” But in fact that’s not the case: they judge and how—they sentenced people to death. “He who keeps silent can’t tell secrets.” But people go and chatter and give everyone away. “A bass can’t squeak in descant!” Listen, he’s squeaking, incredibly, and yet so clearly. It’s all untrue about the do-nothing and the silent one and the squeaking bass; it’s all from out of the dream “gibberish”—from the truth of dreams. A dream is the image of every crime. Crime is the soul of all actions in dreams. Unpunished. Yet crime is the daydream of life, in the inexorable reality wrapped up in laws, in the kingdom of punishment. Macbeth’s “murder sleep” is the last and final word of death.

4 Is dreaming tied only to life or does life only capture dreams, coloring or mixing in its crimson color and squeezing them into its form? “To dream” means “to be.” Therefore “being” and “dreaming” are one. Then I can say that a person leaving life enters into pure dreaming, or this: dreaming continues after life, but without awakening. People’s dreams are commensurate with their concept of life after death, until the content of faith is exhausted and a man’s life flies like a spark into the ocean. Those who have no connection to “heaven” continue “darning stockings” or stringing together words, continuing the work of their lives.

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The continuing existence of the dead is revealed in the dreams of the living. Dreams are the only place for communication between “this” life and “that” one. This is the only way the dead can enter the life of the living and perhaps the living can change something in the fate of the dead.

5 Dreams have form and color, sound, and smell—“I sensed the sea.” The colors are green, red, light blue, silvery snow, but I don’t know, I’ve never seen the sun in my dreams. In my dreams it is always a moonlit night—Astarte, the color of the dead. The sounds—hailing, conversation, songs, music. Form— from the usual daytime ones to the monstrous—everything that you can imagine violating linear perceptions. And sometimes it happens that everything is upside down and flying—can’t imagine what it is. Or I have to do something like this: tear through paper and move the drawing not to another page but up on sticks—tricky.

6 If I only feel a connection with the world of the dead through sleep, then what can I say about the connection with the world of the living? Through dreams you learn things about yourself and others that you had never suspected. No conversation, no close observation can reveal what a dream can so simply. In dreams there is no daytime conformity and nothing is embarrassing, and no need to be embarrassed by yourself—the soul is wide open, and the other person is in the palm of your hand, full-size.

You can learn about your previous life only in dreams, and also about others, but not with the same clarity and detail; and about your future and also about the future of others.

7 Dreams are the most reliable conductors of thoughts if the doors are open and not cluttered with the objects of life. Dreams can be wan and indifferent, and they can be hot: thoughts are conveyed along hot paths. Of course, it is necessary for the other—to whom the thought is addressed—to catch it. A sleepless person is like a wall at which you throw dried peas. Someone thought hard and sent me a letter, and I dreamed about him, a stranger. In the morning I get a letter—it is the letter from him: that means his thought penetrated me. There is no empty space, but the pathways are stuffed with daily necessities. The connection is torn; rather, it is obstructed. Of course, why do we need dreams when we can transmit the deepest thoughts by radio, but for the other world, there is only one path and no other: dreaming.

8 Dreams reveal the next day. Here is an example for everyday life: in my dream I see unknown children; I remember two girls, twins. “I wonder why I dreamed that?” was my first question when I woke up. And I forgot it, it wasn’t important. And what do you know, I’m in the metro and I see a mother and two girls enter the train—just like in my dream. Martin Zadeka

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But nothing happened that day; therefore my dream was not important, it was just that my dream showed me my waking tomorrow. I’ve seen entire scenes from the future with details and not about trifles. What does it mean? Either everything is already prepared down to my last day on earth with living people; and my “want” and “don’t want” are self-delusion. I will not want to do something only because I cannot want to do it and all my caution and calculations are a mere game: playing at having a will. It is there, but fate (predestination) will take its own. The most accurate predictions come not from rationalization but from dreams, if only . . . if only the dream would come! That was the case with ancient oracles, which attracted only dreamers.2 But are there many people on earth who see dreams! I think there are more than people think. And so what? In our days predicting the weather is no prediction and no one pays attention. But no one publishes anything about events in people’s lives. Martin Zadeka has divinations about general things: war, catastrophe. But mine—I can only make predictions about myself or people with whom I have ties—whom I can penetrate. Not by eye, only in dreams: dreams about themselves and dreams about me. There’s no point in discussing reliability: I don’t believe myself first of all, and others even less so.

2. The Oracles were eighteenth-century books predicting the future, like horoscopes, but based on dreams.

9 There are many puns in dreams. Here’s an example: I see Baranovskaya; she stands before me made of bones and tiny bones. In my dream I start thinking the way I would in life: what is holding her together, why doesn’t she fall apart? And suddenly I understand and want to express my thought, but at the instant of my reply another appears, an answer prepared by someone else: I am brought a bundle of baranki (bagels) and out the window I see a herd of sheep (barany) and there’s a ram (baran) under my window and through the tail I can clearly see: a zinc counter, shot glasses—“why it’s a bar,” I say. Baranovskaya, there’s music: a bar with music.

10 There are calendar dreams: predicting the weather. I can’t say anything about good weather, but rain and snow are open to me. It’s funny: I dream about our learned Spanish specialist and philosopher critic K. V. Mochulsky every time. I don’t need to develop corns or broken bones; without them I can speak as if I had a barometer: according to Mochulsky, rain’s coming.

11 Can we establish the symbolism of dreams? Or compile a “dream book for everyone?” Symbolism is handed down by tradition—inculcated from childhood; does that mean then that something can be established and followed? Martin Zadeka

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It can, but not for certain: the symbolism of dreams is not constant. Just as the speed of light vacillates depending on time, changing every hour of the day, so the symbols change by person and his spiritual state. According to all dream books the classic “guano” means “money.” In Russian that makes sense: “guano” is a Sanskrit word that means “goods,” as in property. But it happens like this, too: you dream that you step into a pile or get smeared, but in the morning not only do you not get any money, you’re handed a bill for gas or electricity and you have to pay. So much for “guano”! The same with money: money is silver, which is tears, and apparently nothing but trouble ahead, and instead—bam! A check for 1,000 francs. How’s that? You can’t get far with dream books, even the “eastern” ones.

12 There are dry dreams and sticky ones. The dry vanish at the first call, even before your first thought of waking up. The “sticky ones,” they hold on tight, at least until evening, no bustle will dislodge them. And beneath them walks the man, bumbling or burning all day in yearning.

13 The most difficult thing in dreams: the return from the past: events and faces seemingly forgotten forever. Or nothing vanishes and the past lives in the present in layers, not dying off? What a weight my soul bears!

14 Writers’ dreams take on literary form, the habit of craft: I wonder how it is for musicians? What is amazing is that people who have nothing in common with words suddenly dream—and often it is the only memorable dream, and for life—in poetry. It is equivalent to stones that are revealed only to the eyes, mute stones, suddenly singing! Or perhaps “poetry” is in fact the very heart of our mysterious life—the soul of the endless world.

15 There is a method to learn how to remember dreams, but it has nothing to do with how you recall the past in life. Here is what our legendary Martin Zadeka tells us: “Upon awakening from dreaming the tension is closer to the top of the head, from where you must grab it and drag it out, paying no attention.” I will try.

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“ SAVVA GRUDTSYN” IS A FAIRY TALE VERSION OF HISTORICAL EVENTS, ACTUAL PARTICIPANTS MIXED IN WITH FICTIONAL ONES. AFTER THE TIME OF TROUBLES AND THE ELECTION OF ALEXEI, THE FIRST ROMANOV TSAR, IN 1613, WAR BETWEEN ORTHODOX RUSSIA AND CATHOLIC POLAND AND LITHUANIA CONTINUED. MERCHANTS TRIED TO PURSUE THEIR PROFITABLE COMMERCE, WHILE WAR RAGED ON THE BORDERS. THE SIEGE OF SMOLENSK WAS LONG AND PAINFUL, AND THE RUSSIAN VICTORY IN 1633 WAS A MAJOR STEP IN KEEPING THE COUNTRY TOGETHER. IN REMIZOV’S FICTIONALIZED ACCOUNT, SEMYON THE HOLY FOOL AND VIKTOR THE DEVIL FIGHT OVER SAVVA’S SOUL.

ɷɸɷ Veliky Ustyug, Glenden in the olden days. Its neighbor is Solvychegodsk. The Stroganovs live in Solvychegodsk; the Stroganovs have Siberia with an eye on China. The Grudtsyns live in Ustyug; the Grudtsyns have the Kama and Volga with an eye on Persia. Russian eyes beyond the Moscow borders, important names.

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Veliky Ustyug is the city of Prokopy, a holy fool in Christ, the golden-domed Cathedral of the Birth of the Mother of God in the square, and Usovye is the white house of Foma Grudtsyn. Foma has a son, Savva, and the story is about him.

I 1 Savva is the only and desired son, the love and hope of his father and mother. Savva had no friends, for where could you find a peer for him? Only in books. His father had a wall of books up to the eaves: spiritual and worldly books. The Great Reader-Menaion is where Savva started his study. After the exploits and miracles of the holy martyrs came the exploits of the kings: Alexandria, the acts of the Two-Horned King; The Book of Sinagrip, king of the Adors—the tales of Akir the Wise; Gesta Romanorum (Roman Acts), “the great mirror of human life,” Roman-Byzantine and Eastern stories with morals, the sourcebook for Shakespeare; The History of Seven Wise Men from Sindbad Name, material for Boccaccio; Tales of the Wise King Solomon; The Tale of Varlaam the Hermit and Joasaph, Prince of India (The Book of Bilaukhar and Budasfa) and his beloved Stefanit and Ikhnelat, about animals; and Chronograph and Physiologies, the history and marvels of nature. “And everything that he obtained with his eyes, perceived by hearing, was kept in his heart, fixed by memory, taken in mind and will.”

That is how the Arabic Kalila and Dimna would describe Savva, but in Russian you would say, “suckled by book-learning.” Savva started copying from the books he was reading: it made the difficult easier to understand and lightened the dark. He achieved great mastery of the art of letters. For the saint day of his father and mother, Savva gave them a letter ornamented with the thin firs and ferns of the Ustyug winter, for the feast of St. Foma and St. Elena. When he was copying from a book, Savva did not stick to the letters and did it in his own way, both in meaning and tone: his outer and inner eyes opened early. “Philosophizing,” said the dogmatists from Vologda and Kostroma and Yaroslavl. Neither his father nor his mother stopped him, did not call him “apostate and heretic,” but felt joy and pride: the only one! It was a dangerous time, troubles caused a whirlwind in Rus: people turned on their own kin, Cossacks and scouting Poles, boyars and peasants, all and sundry muddied the land, destroyed cities, the order imposed by the Stoglav was falling apart. False “tsareviches” arose everywhere and every thief dreamed of being tsar in Moscow. Hard times ensued. It wasn’t to seek fortune but to protect and save his son that Foma left Ustyug and moved with his whole family to Kazan: things would be quieter there. And while things settled down, he lived five years in Kazan. Once the Poles were thrown out of the Kremlin and a tsar, Mikhail Fyodorovich Romanov, was elected, and the inextinguishable Rus rose from extinction over the “straight” and the “crooked,” leaving the sins of the Time of Troubles in oblivion, Olena, Savva’s mother, returned to Ustyug, while Foma went back to the interrupted business of the Grudtsyns.

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2 On his river strugs loaded with freight, Foma sails along the Volga: his path is to Astrakhan and then from Astrakhan to Persia. He is busy but happy: he’ll be able to spread out—sitting for so long in Kazan without business, you wither and get covered with moss. Foma sent Savva to Solikamsk: Savva is nineteen, time to learn trade. Next summer, God willing, they’ll go together to the “Redtops kizilbash,” the Turkmen: to see people and to be seen; Foma can’t get enough of his son; now let everyone else see him: “tsarevich!!” “God blessed me, can’t complain, such a son can gather up Persia for Moscow!” Savva did not reach Solikamsk in his father’s vessels; he docked at the Usolsky city in Oryol. He unloaded the cargo, rented a warehouse, and opened his business. He settled at Kolpakov’s inn. The innkeeper was a friend of Foma and received his son with honor and helped him in business: it was not easy for Savva to move from books to trade accounts. A wealthy merchant lived in Oryol, the richest man in town, an old friend of Foma, Bozhen the Second—a name renowned for his wealth and his exemplary life: just and firm in his faith, “straight,” and his brains were not scrambled. Bozhen heard that Foma’s son was a guest in their city. Friendship and many years tied him to Savva’s father: they started their path together and helped each other. “I’ll take Savva home,” Bozhen decided, “he’ll be a son to me.” And as Savva left the warehouse and walked to the inn, Bozhen came toward him. Bozhen recognized him by his father: “Grudtsyn!”

He was so happy. And the questions began: father, mother, Kazan and Ustyug, and how did he come to Oryol and for long? “And you’re not ashamed,” Bozhen rebuked him, “your father and I, we exchanged crosses, he is my blood brother, you’ve heard my name, Bozhen the Second? And you haven’t called on me all this time! Forget it, I’m not letting you go back to Kolpakov, you’ll live at my house as my own son.” Savva was happy, too: family life is not an inn. That same day, bidding farewell to Kolpakov, Savva moved to Bozhen’s house. ɷɸɷ Bozhen was on his third marriage, the wedding was held after Christmas, a feast worthy of a voyevoda, the town leader. Bozhen was a godly man, probably only Kolpakov prayed more zealously; he observed fasts strictly, and he was very careful with money; he would never trust another’s eye, only his own. He took a wife for the housekeeping: to keep the house in cleanliness and so that everything would be on time and no one stole anything. Stepanida is related to Savva. After her father died, she was left with her mother as the eldest sister over sisters and brothers, a large family. And if they managed to get something and make life work and there was still hope, it was Stepanida who always took care of everything. People adored Stepanida and everyone wanted to please her. This is the truth: a person comes into the world to bring peace and happiness. Bozhen didn’t have a sparrow nose or a stupid lip, he knew whom to choose. What did he care whether Stepanida was sixteen or Savva Grudtsyn

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twenty, it wasn’t about age, you wouldn’t find another Stepanida on the Oka, or the Kama, or even if you sailed the entire Volga. A lively parable, “About an Old Husband and Young Maiden,” was composed then, not a book story but from life. The literate wrote it down and read it, not whispering but saying out loud: “Good!” The illiterate listened and laughed: “Right!” And just as the parable told it, that’s how it happened. Stepanida’s mother sighed: it was clear weather in the house, the sun shone brightly: her old son-in-law was not cheap, he paid well for Stepanida. At the Easter service, when it was time to kiss, her mother all in tears with happiness—she had lived to see such a joyous Easter!— came up to her gold-encased daughter. No, there was no one on earth but her Stepanida, from the meadows, as beautiful as spring herself. With radiant faith her mother declared Christ is risen and kissed her. And then, in an ingratiating way, “Donya, my little daughter, how are you living?” Stepanida looked at her mother, such a flash of love in that brown, bottomless gaze! Her throat filled hotly, like a murmuring dove! And with a sigh the words escaped: “I want freedom!” Her mother understood, she did not say as it had been said forever: “Fear God, you’ve been married in church!” Her mother understood with her simple heart that love is not strong and unbreakable from the church but that love makes the world strong and blesses the earth. In farewell, she repeated her all-forgiving mother’s love, “Donya, my little daughter!” And then Bozhen himself brought Savva into the house, so it was fate.

3 Like a meeting of separated lovers, love exploded at first glance: he was drawn to her and a touch pierced him, and she accepted the love. The first night in Bozhen’s house, Savva could not sleep, “I can’t get used to a new place,” was the explanation, he thought of her; and Stepanida did not sleep the whole night, “the votive light is bothering me,” all her thoughts were of him. From the start Bozhen loved Savva. Bozhen felt the weight of years falling from his chest, it was Foma and not Savva under his roof, and a new youth was beckoning. And Bozhen felt how good and full it was in his house and that his young wife was even more beautiful, as if he were noticing her for the first time. Savva had brought happiness to their house! At night, while Bozhen slept: satisfaction brought him peaceful sleep, and Stepanida pretended to be asleep: love is sleepless, and no matter how chilly it was in the quiet, tense hour, she rose easily and went into Savva’s room. Savva was at the window—spring at night. What did he have to think about but her, repeating her words, not intended but pronounced for him, and her voice. And there she was. How greedily she kissed him deep with her whole mouth. And in that kiss all the words were said. 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

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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. ɷɸɷ 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.

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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. ɷɸɷ 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. ɷɸɷ 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.”

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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. Savva Grudtsyn

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“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.” ɷɸɷ 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?

1. September 1, commemorating Semyon, is the official first day of the church calendar year; from the mid-fourteenth century until 1700, it was the secular New Year’s Day.

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 welldressed 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. Savva Grudtsyn

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“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 Grudtsyn

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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 in 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.

ɷɸɷ 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. “Your countryman came by three times,” Kolpakov said, “he’ll drop in later.”

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2 Savva waited all day. Waiting is enticing, but hard: impatience can exhaust the most stubborn “wait.” Savva was impatient, waiting: he wanted to tell Viktor about his meeting with Bozhen: everything was just as he had predicted last night: “Savva, come back to us!” Savva should have dealt with his affairs in his free time—why hide it? His father’s business had long been abandoned, he had forgotten whom he owed and who owed him, and there were no notes in his trading book. A third letter from his mother came on New Year’s: his mother begged Savva to return to Ustyug; she didn’t know anything about his father, news did not travel fast from Persia, and she was alone. Savva did not plan to respond and there was no way he would go home: Persia was beyond the sea, but Ustyug, it was called Gleden for a reason, was on the edge of the world. His mother’s letters seemed as though they came from the other world. Late at night, not having seen Viktor, Savva went outside. He looked at the square: empty—a holiday. He went out of the town to the field. It was fresh and clear. The autumn promised a starry night, and at dawn it would cover the field with cold stardust. It grew hotter with every step, like noon on St. Ilya’s Day. Or fire—his soul was on fire!—warmed him up, urging on his legs. The stars came out. And Savva heard a familiar voice: it was Viktor. It was hard to recognize, there was nothing of the merchant’s son or the horse trader of the square: a silver star brighter than the ones

in the sky melted on his pointy cap. He took Savva’s arm and they went into the night. Their path in the dark field was lit by stars, not the high falling ones, but the migratory stars. “I know how you waited for me. Love is judged by expectation. You love me. I want to respond with my love. Love is also judged by frankness. I will reveal my secret to you. Listen: I’ve never been in Ustyug and I am no relation to the Grudtsyns, I am the son of a great tsar, I am a tsarevich. Come, I will show you the power and the glory of my father.” “Then he’s a real tsarevich and not a pretender!” thought Savva. They were down into the ravine, walked along the bottom, then up a hill. “Behold,” said Viktor, “do you see?” And Savva saw—and what he saw amazed him: it would have been comprehensible in a dream, but on a starry night with his own eyes . . . Deep down, as if looking into an abyss, versts wide and endlessly to the edge was such an expanse and in the middle a city—glittering with gold and the poppy color of midsummer fire were walls, towers, bridges and aerial ladders and platforms. “Here’s the capital city of my father, a creation of his art. Let’s go, I will bring you to his hand.” Savva followed Viktor, his head spinning. It did not occur to him to ask himself: how could this be possible, the entire land belonged to the Moscow sovereign and where could this city come from—the capital of a powerful tsar? When they reached the city gates, they were met by silver and crimson belts, these were the young guards, with moonlike faces. They gave Viktor royal salutes and bowed to Savva. Savva Grudtsyn

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There was another honor guard in the courtyard, not silver but gold with red belts, and their faces were like a rosy moon. When they entered the royal apartments, the gold beading and braiding of the walls blinded him. “Savva,” Viktor said, “wait here, I’ll report. When the tsar calls you, give him your manuscript. My father is a great lover of fancy handwriting, yours will please him and you will be given great honor. You, ‘Willless’ (Savva) will feel such will in yourself that even the devil can’t be more.” And with that same arrogant laughter that Savva remembered, Viktor took the manuscript signed in blood out of his pocket and shoved it into Savva’s hand. The light from the glowing faces blinded his eyes. Once in childhood Savva dived too deep when he was swimming and he couldn’t swim up. It was the same here. When Viktor returned and took him by the hand, Savva felt that he was not walking but swimming after him underwater and now—now he would surface before the face of the powerful tsar—the Prince of Darkness. He sat on an emerald throne, in brilliant royal garb, the king of kings. Off to the side on smaller thrones resembling his were twohorned viziers. And around him a motley winged entourage: blue, scarlet, purple, copper green, and pitch black (“Many tongues serve my father,” Viktor later explained, “Persians, Indians, Chinese, Ethiopians”). Everything was bright and exaggeratedly enormous: the tsar’s face, as if from a monument, could not be measured by human measure, and even at a distance would be visible to all. Savva kneeled and bowed low to the ground. He heard a voice, sounding above him like a many-trumpeted four-hooved brass cry: that was the two-horned viziers repeating the tsar’s words after him: “Where did you come from and what do you want?”

Here the underground little devils, faces like bats and feet like stable flies, crawled out and surrounded Savva, tickling under his arms and scratching, blowing in his ears. Savva rose quickly and put his bloody handwriting into the tsar’s hand, extended like a snake. “I, Savva Grudtsyn of Veliky Ustyug,” Savva hears his voice and does not recognize it, “an empty man from far away, I have come to serve you, your slave to death and after death.” The tsar brought Savva’s page close to his eyes and examined it attentively. The two-horned viziers stretched to see it: what an extraordinary curlicued line in a single sentence: “Savva Grudtsyn by his hand.” “I will take this youth,” the tsar said to the viziers, “he’s very clever, but will he be strong for me?” “Give him time,” Viktor insisted, “he’ll show himself. It wouldn’t hurt to strengthen him.” And the little devils of the air, with faces like floats and feet like dragonflies, clapping their mossy paws, circled around Savva. Savva dove and swam. “Where are we going?” “The tsar commanded you be given food and drink,” Viktor said. “Don’t be shy!” ɷɸɷ Savva was thrown to the surface and he was in a dining room. There were no underground or aerial devils with him. It was the tsar’s dining room and at the same time the tsar’s kitchen. They were cutting, chopping, gutting, and flaying. Blood Savva Grudtsyn

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flowed and feathers flew. The noise was unimaginable and the crowding impossible. Everything was mixed together: people, animals, birds, and devils. Black tail-less monkeys with roses pinned to their backs hopped and leaped on the cut, chopped, and quartered. Chefs and cooks worked at a flaming stove, whistling, whispering, and clanging, wearing red caps and white robes turned red from the fire. And like everyone, like the tail-less monkeys, there was a rose pinned on the back of their red garments, not red roses but yellow. Savva’s eyes, opening wide, saw blood. “Crayfish soup!” Viktor announced like a maître d’hôtel, “Grudtsyn, enjoy!” Savva, feeling as hungry as a wolf, started in on the bowl: in the yellow liquid floated red crayfish heads-and-chests, stuffed with the thick white meat of the larvae of dung beetles. Viktor kept refilling the bowl with even hotter soup. The bowl and Savva were steaming. The main course was a large mutton hind leg with rice and they piled the plate with fried potatoes. Savva ate three legs, the rice, and all the potatoes. He could have eaten more and more; he just couldn’t feel sated. He drank ceaselessly and indiscriminately, mixing white and red, unable to quench his thirst with kvass, or braga, or mead. Frenzy and greed fell upon him. “My father has many wines, but I’ve never drunk any like this, and everything is so light and delicious!” “You might say supernatural!” Viktor laughed. Savva reached for the pomegranate. It was a pomegranate of untold size, like a man’s head. He poked it with a knife to remove the

peel and a burst of raspberry red juice acidly hit his eyes. A drilling squeal stuck in his ears—he heard the whisper “Fool!” He saw green circles before his eyes, dizzying him. Savva shut his eyes tight. “If I could just drop!” And he did. And he sees the empty field around him. ɷɸɷ They walk through the field. Stars are above them, and in front, the impenetrable night. “Now you know everything,” Viktor says, “but call me brother, as before. I’m a tsarevich but I will be your younger brother: whatever you may want, I will do for you. Just be obedient to me in everything.” “I promise!” Savva said with a light heart, recalling last night and the predicted meeting with Stepanida. When they came into town, his younger brother the tsarevich vanished from Savva’s eyes. Savva called—no one answered. “And he never did give me his cross!” Savva put his hand in his pocket and pulled it out with a jerk. “What a sharp knife!” He was afraid of something, and in his eyes there was a burning mist, and he was merry. ɷɸɷ Savva confidently entered their bedroom. The hot votive light. Spellbinding silence. Bozhen slept. Was Stepanida asleep? She reacted and sat up at his steps. She looked at her sleeping husband in horror. Savva took out the knife and raised his arm: “Take that!” Savva Grudtsyn

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It was either the harsh gleam of the knife or the flashing threat, but Bozhen without waking rolled over to face the wall. “The last time. I’ve come to say goodbye,” said Savva and without hiding the knife, embraced her. “Give me your pearl for the last time!” He kissed her. She did not resist. Her lips trembled. Proudly he said: “Love is measured: by how you wait and by frankness. I waited and I will tell you a secret: I am the son of a great tsar, I am a tsarevich. And I love you royally.” He looked at her and could not take his eyes off her, with longing. “How will you be without me?” he asked, but in a different way, as if blaming himself for something and repenting. “The first one is hard,” she said, “and then . . .” She did not finish; she would finish there. He hardened, only his heart wept, and he stabbed her in the stomach. The feeling of the blow was so overwhelming, it was as if he had stabbed himself, and felt turned inside out. He saw himself, stuffing the bloody knife into his pocket and missing. Without thinking, he stuck it in his leg. And left. He walks, not feeling the pain, with no curiosity about what it was. In the doorway he hunched down, knowing the celling was low. Down the hallway to the window. A starry night. But when he jumped through the window and was on the street, the stars vanished. He thought someone else had followed him and jumped down. A blizzard howled fiercely around his head.

“The blizzard,” he thought, “it’s the blizzard baptizing and whipping me!” He could not see the road, but he walked. Either he or someone else was walking across the field with a knife. “You stuck it in yourself, take it out!” he said. And he took it out. He stuck the knife in his pocket. “Her blood is mixed with mine!” He heard the familiar ghostly whisper. That wasn’t a blizzard, she was racing before him: her hot body pressed against his and she was kissing him with her entire mouth, burning him. Savva awoke to his name. “Why aren’t you paying any attention, like a wild horse. I’m calling, and he’s not interested. You’re covered with blood.” Savva suddenly felt a sharp pain in his leg. “Don’t worry, it’ll pass!” Viktor bent down. His hot touch sent warmth through him, and no pain. “There’s an alarm in town,” said Viktor. “You don’t know what happened at Bozhen’s: Stepanida was stabbed to death.” “Who did it?” “Robbers.” Savva merely stuck out his neck like a goose; he was clamped from behind by two fists and with such force, his spine would crack. “Why are we hanging out in this backwater?” Viktor asked insouciantly. “You can die of boredom here. Let’s go someplace else. We’ll travel, and if you want, we’ll return.” Savva was ready for anything. He sensed that everything had been removed from him and he was empty, stiff, without a will, and he didn’t want anything.

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“Wherever you want, I’m ready,” he said, “but what about money? Let’s go to the inn, I’ll get what I have left.” “Forget it,” Viktor interrupted. “You know the power of my father, his lands are everywhere, and wherever we may be, we will have money. Let’s go!” Viktor whistled. And he slapped Savva’s back hard, as if with a wing, so hard his heart skipped a beat. In an instant they were in Kozmodemyansk on the Volga, two thousand versts from Solikamsk Oryol.

III 1 Overfed, stuck in a daydream morning till night, the city couldn’t be called a bustling place—Kozmodemyansk was a Volga wharf and a flower of propriety and an example of Domostroi. And into this fish-loving goodness, suddenly two young men came out of nowhere, not resembling anyone else, neither in speech nor dress, looking like tsareviches, and so rich! That rocked the boat. Nothing of the kind had been seen before, not even in the Time of Troubles. Truly, “the evil one appears if he wants.” Savva and Viktor on a spree—carousing without end, no restraint whatsoever. Gold coins flashing, wine flowing, nonstop singing. What temptation they held for bottled up but vital human feelings! Wherever and whenever the friends showed up, Klim Tsarevich and Prov Tsarevich, as they were called, people were drawn to them

like flies to sugar paper, and the debauchery began. In the morning: some have crooked necks, some have black eyes, and others still can’t recognize their parents or have lost their tongue, mooing like a cow about to calve. The young men were an infectious example and were followed by the older ones, family men, who wanted to make up for lost years. And after the civilians came the clergy. Man can’t live by food and prayer alone; the simple truth is: “I want freedom!” The first to rebel were the monks, then the married priests: God’s churches were empty, no one showing up for services, old or young, they can’t be roused; the deacons croaked, and the choir bleated. Gubnoi was the elder: a day didn’t pass without complaints about mayhem and injuries. And the voyevoda threated Gubnoi: “When I get the miscreants, I’ll show them!” But threats don’t help: you can’t catch all the thieves and you can’t shut up a drunken mouth. Neither Viktor nor Savva could be accused of anything: nothing started without them, but they always came out of it clean: their hands weren’t sullied by brawling—they watched and laughed, Klim Tsarevich and Prov Tsarevich. The tavern was smoky and full of drunks. Viktor pitted two fools against each other—the fools went at it, while he stepped out, supposedly to see about a horse. One of the fools started bragging and showing off. Naturally, the other began arguing, words ensued, and then he punched him in the ear. Viktor came back, the fool was on the floor, maybe looking for something, seemingly having found it and calmed down, he made no sound, meaning he was a dead body. Everyone saw this and laughed: “Good job, Klim Tsarevich, royally done, one punch and he’s dead!” Savva Grudtsyn

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Viktor called Savva over for a few words “about a horse.” And they were out the door. “I’m tired of this,” Viktor said. “So am I.” No sooner had Savva uttered the words than he heard the familiar whistling. He shut his eyes: he was afraid. Viktor took Savva’s arm tightly and in an instant they were on the Oka River, far from Kozmodemyansk, on the Pavlov ferry landing. ɷɸɷ It was market day in the village. Hungover, sleepy people wandered from cart to cart, from sideshow to tavern. At the loudest one, where people were drinking away their earnings and the intoxication encouraged them to stay and be deceived, Savva suddenly saw a man at the door, barefoot, bare-headed, with a walking stick, but he didn’t look like a beggar, and he wasn’t old but Savva’s age, except that he had been washed in many waters, he was white, transparent, and weeping. These were not the tears of hunger and poverty, they were light blue, from the heavenly purity of his eyes. Savva was drawn to him and he came over to the wanderer to ask: why was he weeping so bitterly? Viktor was off in a crowd of gypsies, playing at horse trader. “Brother Savva,” Savva heard a voice, “I am weeping, my tears are for your soul. Savva, the one you call brother, do you think he is a man? He’s leading you into the abyss. There is blood on you.” “Who are you?”

“I am Semyon Farewell-to-Summer, do you remember? No, you don’t, you’ve forgotten everything. I am a holy fool in Christ and the Immaculate Virgin Mary.” He cuckooed, blue tears shining, and the cuckooing turned into a prayer for the dead: “Give rest to the soul of Thy departed servant, murdered Stepanida, in a place of brightness, a place of refreshment, a place of repose, where all the righteous lie in repose!” With the last dragged-out cuckooing word Savva sensed something happen in his empty heart, something suddenly opened and a clear spring welled up and drop by drop overflowed into a sob. Even though his soul was sold and his hands were bloodied, the painful sob illuminated and illustrated the ghostly emptiness of his heart, poisoned by love. Savva shuddered: through the heavenly blue something suddenly stabbed at him and the spring died down: Savva’s eyes met Viktor’s. Viktor was far away, but his eyes were burning and were right there in front of Savva—burning wrath burned in them. Savva quickly walked away. 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? Savva Grudtsyn

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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. ɷɸɷ 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: Savva Grudtsyn

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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?” ɷɸɷ 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. Savva Grudtsyn

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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.

ɷɸɷ 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. Savva Grudtsyn

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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. Savva Grudtsyn

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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. Savva Grudtsyn

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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! At Easter he did not go to church and did not take communion. The years of the troubles and confusion left their trace in the “black affliction.” Everyone remembered Pozharsky’s black death. So the Shilovs diagnosed the illness of their famous tenant with the popular phrase, “black affliction.”2 Savva did not complain of anything, but he could not get up anymore: he lay in bed all day. And at night—no sleep!—black sleepless depression. The centurion’s wife was worried: he might die without being shriven. But every time she tried to persuade Savva to call a priest, he would not have it: his black depression was no fatal disease! Viktor cheered him up, “People die of wounds,” he said. “But you’re not dead.” There was no talk of the soul. And whose soul? The devil’s soul is not like ours. Savva’s soul was sold and in good hands. Viktor had to know that the soul is not the only component of a living being, and that the upset of the soul, whether sold or free, opens up the path to what is above the soul, higher than the soul,

2. Black affliction was a term for extreme melancholia. Prince Dmitri Pozharsky, who led the troops that saved Moscow from the Polish-Lithuanian forces in 1611–1612, died in a state of profound depression in 1642.

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a person’s spirit. Viktor was worried, but never showed it, he was always feckless or joking or mocking: he could heal wounds, but he couldn’t heal souls. The centurion’s wife took care of Savva: if you didn’t feed him, he would never remember to eat. What is it about women?—this most secret of secrets—that they can drive a man to the noose but also show him the path to the kingdom of heaven. She persuaded Savva. Or would his spirit have heard it without her: isn’t it time to make an accounting? ɷɸɷ The Shilovs were parishioners at St. Nikola on Grachi on Sretenka, nearby. The centurion’s wife, not wasting time, ran to Grachi, found the Nikola priest Varnava. And this Varnava, to put it in book talk, was “an ecclesiastic of mature years, a skillful man, and mightily God-fearing.” She told the priest everything about her tenant without hiding anything, about how he is tormented day and night by his heart and suffers with his soul, and asks to be renewed.

2 Saturday, after the vigil service, Varnava packed the spare communion wine and bread and appeared at the house of the streltsy centurion Yakov Shilov. Savva lay in a daze. Or had the summer evening sharpened his thoughts and pondering with warmth and memory: everything in the past was clear, and what darkness it was!

Varnava recited the prayers of repentance and ordered everyone to leave the rooms. When the centurion and his wife and everyone who happened to be at his house that evening had left, Varnava checked the door and, having made the initial prayers and obeisances, he started the confession. ɷɸɷ Savva sat up and wanted to make the sign of the cross, but his arm was heavy, his fingers wouldn’t bend, and his arm merely fumbled with the blanket. But the long-suffering and suddenly liberated voice sounded clearly—what cleansing sounds!—and it never betrayed itself, speaking over the increasing noise that turned into a threatening howl, a screeching and angry racket. “Bring rest, oh Lord, to the soul of thy servant, the murdered Stepanida, in a place of light, of coolness, of tranquility, where all the righteous rest.” . . . is it possible to forgive me to smooth out of eternal memory what my conscience cannot forgive we had a secret and the paths of that secret led us to our end and then the ends hid in water how many times in despair I told myself if only I could stop loving you you never said such words and could not you know that you are everything to me you are everything together I was ready more than once to die for you and here I killed you and if I was mistaken I am trusting and my suspiciousness is inculcated not innate and you are not the same and you did not say that and your words are simple without trickery or lies and your silence was not hushing up a crime my crime is deeper and my guilt is more irreparable and my repentance is hopeless if Savva Grudtsyn

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you knew if you understood in the depths of your heart and felt how much I loved you and love you and there is no law for such love no power can ban or allow it my love is a precious stone and I will not stop before anything and did not stop for the sake of love for you I sold my soul and killed you yet am I like that and can I be tested the way others are what passes for them unnoticed is a storm and there is nothing wasted in words if you only knew you gave me so much happiness and poisoned me with fierce bitterness without intention of course in your eyes I was like everyone but I am a tsarevich but you were happy you drank and for that peck I killed you and when I think about you so much happiness overwhelms me the way I love you no one will ever love you everyone sees but color and radiance of feeling is not the same thing I am fire and when I see you there are two dawns in my eyes morning and evening and you alone have the power to change my fate I dreamed of simplicity and not thinking and I could not chase away my thoughts the thoughts cut me up my love is mad eternity is in its every instant everything is passing but for me nothing will pass “I will never see you again” you said no I will give my soul for you and gave it away but I did not possess your soul and killed you farewell I told myself and that lid covered the light of acquiescence for me my heart is brimming for the sake of my love I will acquiesce to all but I am not confessing “sin” you have nothing to repent love is sinless the crown will sadden Stepanida but such a sin cannot bring joy when I awaken or think my first thought is of you how much I love you look alone I love to smell flowers and look when you come in a whole garden trees flowers grasses come with you you are always like that first time trees flowers grasses quietly cling and your “purposeful” thorns and prickly branches I love when you look me in the eyes your voice your hands light caressing

fingers your smile and your deep gaze your past poverty is there your absence of freedom your buried life and our life I am buried alive my skin is flayed I must acquiesce the way you acquiesced there is no way out for me from underground I want to roll up in my underground den and burn with pain “do not ask me and there will be no lies” it means there was a lie such black depression and in this dark clothing I will go on my final path without you I will turn into a black snake but I have no one to wait for fiery flames the longing of my love separation to die to drown my crooked soul I cannot bear it your tears have filled my thoughts and put out words take away my sin in my thoughts my dreams to the tune of songs about you all of you inside me is deceit and my love does not exist I deceived myself you do not believe me I am lost my heart is beating protecting my last day and night light blood “the first time is hard, and then” . . . Savva did not finish “and then.” “I’ll finish,” said someone, and sharp pain jabbed his eyes, “you are mistaken: she is not like that, not that and not so, she did not say that, she wanted to say . . . She asked: ‘which is higher, love or the soul?’ For the sake of the purity of the soul, for the sake of a quiet conscience—to live in lies, hiding, is unbearable! She sacrificed her love. And you sold your soul for the sake of love.” “You don’t sacrifice love,” Savva said, “love will cover the worst sin!” “Acquiesce!” and another painful prick in the eye, he curled up: it was as if he would be flattened now. Viktor was following a crowd of similar creatures—blue, crimson, purple, copper green, and pitch black—and the horde bustled in clouds of smoke, growling and howling. “You bastard!” Savva heard him and shuddered: Viktor’s eyes were drilling through him, dunking him in ice and searing him with Savva Grudtsyn

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fire. “You think you can get out of it with a confession, you people, God’s creatures. Why then you can remove all the ‘word of honors,’ justify any cheat, and deny everything. Tell me, please, about this feat of heroism, you unblessed bastards, you are given reason so that you can deceive. But there is something that you cannot erase with anything: blood! Look: your blood!” He raised high above their heads the page from Savva’s trade notebook. “You won’t get away with this, you oathbreaker!” Viktor walked through the smoking motley mass as though through a clearing and grabbed Savva by the neck, lifting him over the bed: “Tsarevich! You are a pretender, so take that!” And he struck Savva’s head against the wall. And the clawed creatures crawled out from all sides, digging into his eyes and compressing his throat. Having crushed him, they threw him toward the ceiling. A long howl covers everything like hard flooring. The sound rammed and trampled: it was either Savva in death pains or his torturers in a fury. The centurion and his wife came running at the screams. Varnava was gone, and Savva was on the floor. He was supine: his face dark, eyes swollen, his tongue bitten and engorged, foam in his mouth.

3 “He’s possessed, we have to take him to Simonov, Father Kasyan will know better,” Varnava said. It was a miracle he had escaped from the centurion’s!

“Everything was going well,” Varnava said, “but once Savva started talking, the whole place went up, enough to frighten the saints: benches and the table up to the ceiling, dishes, books flying, howling and whistling, they grabbed my hair, tugged at my cassock.” Having a “possessed” person in the home is no fun. Even worse if, God forbid, he dies. Would they be blamed? What would the tsar say when he learns? The Shilovs were lucky: they had a relative, a neighbor. And she had entrée to the tsar: her sister Akulina Ivanovna was the tsar’s best cook and the tsar held her in high esteem. The Shilov wife told her neighbor about Savva and Varnava, who the demons searched for in the priest’s head. Fedosya was kind, took pity on Savva, but did note about Varnava: “It is not proper for the priest to get involved with demons.” And it was true; if the worst happened, the Shilovs would be blamed, you couldn’t hide it: Grudtsyn wasn’t no one, a bast sword, people would talk. Never had the words “the tsar’s word and deed,” an arrest warrant, been shouted so arrogantly in Moscow as during the post-troubles time under Tsar Mikhail Fyodorovich: “word and deed” was just like the “black affliction,” but it was expressed not in gnawing depression but in an indescribable fear of being caught: if there are no feathers around your mouth, know the best thing to do is to blame your neighbor. Fedosya took along some dill—a treat never hurts, even for your own sister—and headed to the Kremlin. At the tsar’s stove she told her sister everything about Shilov and his wife and Varnava and the possessed Savva and told Akulya to bring this to the attention of the tsar’s synod and they to the tsar’s.

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“Grudtsyn isn’t a bast sword, and today they’ll arrest you even for a sword.” “Don’t forget the garlic next time,” Akulina Ivanovna told her sister in parting. “Lukyanovich prefers it to all other vegetables: he says it cleanses the heart and your spirit is cleansed, too.” Very few of the synod members did not spend some time in the tsar’s kitchen, allegedly to keep an eye on things and prevent conspiracy—it was easier than easy to sprinkle poison in the food!—but it was really because young and old, they enjoyed chatting with the cooks: Akulina Ivanovna seemed to have hired them to match, they all had curly hair, heart-shaped lips, and bubbly voices. The most frequent visitor would impress anyone: the tsar’s brotherin-law Boyar Semyon Lukyanovich Streshnev. That day everyone was talking about Grudtsyn, the hero of Smolensk, the possessed Savva, who was staying at the house of the streltsy centurion Yakov Shilov on Streshnya. The tsar took Grudtsyn’s plight to heart and commanded: as soon as there was a changing of the guards, send two sentinels to the house of the centurion. “He is sick with the black affliction, but he has to be watched so that he doesn’t throw himself into the fire or the water prompted by demons.” And the tsar commanded that food be sent daily to Savva and he receive reports about his health. From that day the streltsy sentinels were in charge; forget the demons, the centurion’s wife had other concerns. The demons, they didn’t care about the sentinels, they just wanted to torment him. Savva, tormented by demons, didn’t even poke a

fork in the tsar’s baked veal. And what health was there to report? He just wanted it to end soon! That’s what everyone was expecting: the end: Savva and the Shilovs and Fedosya the relative and the brave guards and the anger-darkened demons. They said that Viktor now did not show up in the daytime but in the evening, no longer hiding but in his full demonic image: if you want to shake his hand hello! he’ll shove his prickly tail into your hand, and then you’ll have to soak your hand in holy water from Epiphany. The streltsy guard Kharka Myshelov, mischievously scaring the womenfolk, told them at dinner that Kharka saw Viktor with his own eyes: “He sat down right on the sun, pulled up his heelless feet, dumped his astrakhan trunk on the table, so as to dry it, and flicked away flies with his paw and chuckled.” All right, Kharka’s tongue is not a pen or a brush, but a “selfwriter” that needs no dipping in ink. Viktor, who never left Savva’s room day or night, commanded his dark forces: their demonic work was to diligently toss Savva up in the air and then throw him on the floor and beat him with whatever they had. With every passing day the demons grew better at their torturing exercises and Savva was worse. ɷɸɷ Today is July 3, a holiday in Veliky Ustyug, the day of St. John the Holy Fool. This day will be memorable for Savva.

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After extraordinary suffering, Savva, finally weakened, fell into a deep sleep. Deathly silence reigned in the house. Fedosya ran to get Varnava: after all a priest can shake a dead man enough for a “Christian end of life.” The centurion and his wife and with them the streltsy guards came into Savva’s room. Savva was dead. They stood and looked: “God took him, may he rest in peace!” Suddenly his empty eyes held tears. Without waking, he sat up as if seeing something and said clearly: “I promise. I will do it. Have mercy!” It was so terrible to hear words from a dead man; the centurion and his wife fainted, and the guards shook Savva: they wanted to know with whom he was talking. But Savva’s eyes rolled up and he could say nothing . . . Varnava arrived with the Communion. “A fine dead man,” Varnava said, “he’s breathing like a healthy horse!” And he scolded the guards: “Those fists could send a live man to the next world, and you shouldn’t bother a corpse.” When Savva woke up, they all asked him what he had seen and why he wept. “I saw,” said Savva, and tears came to his damp eyes again, “what rich red garments she wears and she was glowing—it was her face, her eyes. ‘What is the matter, she asked, why are you so sad?’—‘You know why I am sad.’—She smiled and her smile lit her up and the warm light enveloped me. ‘You worry how to get your signature back.’—‘In my love for you.’—‘I will help you, promise me you will leave the world.’— ‘I promise, have mercy!’ And here the red burst into emerald and as it burned was forged into azure. And I heard a voice, I remember that

voice from my childhood, such concern and such tenderness: ‘Savva, on the feast day of the icon of Lady of Kazan you will come to my house on the square by Vetoshny Row. For your suffering love before all the people I will perform a miracle over you.’ ” Varnava spoke the initial obeisance prayers and began singing a prayer to the Lady of Kazan. The guards sang the dogma of the sixth verse along with him: Who would not love you Holy Virgin. Who would not praise Your Immaculate Birth!

Fedosya ran out of the Shilov house as if it were on fire and rushed to the Kremlin. She fought her way through the gatekeepers, doormen, and chamber men like a clawing cat up the stairs to her sister Akulina’s kitchen. Without catching her breath, she repeated Savva’s vision word for word: “Come, she said, Savvushka, to my house on the square by Vetoshny Row on the Kazan feast day and I will perform a miracle over you.” “What about the garlic?” It was only then that Fedosya remembered she had left Streshnev’s garlic in the Shilov kitchen. “I’ll pick some. From the Rogozhsky garden.” But before she got to the garden, without garlic at lunch, all of the tsar’s closest synod members had heard from Akulina Ivanovna about Savva’s vision. And at dinner Semyon Lukyanovich told the tsar. Savva Grudtsyn

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“Look at that!” said the tsar. “Man is dark but God moves in mysterious ways.” All Moscow awaited the feast day of Our Lady of Kazan. ɷɸɷ On the feast day, July 8, the procession of the cross came to the Kazan Cathedral on the square by Vetoshny Row. In the procession with banners and icons came Tsar Mikhail Fyodorovich and the holy patriarch of all Russia, the tsar’s father Filaret Nikitich, and to the side, without a road like the tsar and patriarch, but with a clear path before him, came Semyon Letoprovodets, Farewell-to-Summer—Syoma the Holy Fool in Christ and the Blessed Virgin Mary. People looked at the tsar and the patriarch without making out their faces, as if at an icon, but who would dare look into Syoma’s eyes? A whirl of light circled over his head and that light attracted everything living and terrified the will. The weather had been heavy since morning. Dark storm clouds hesitated, but inexorably advanced from beyond the Vorobyov Hills. The heat was unbearable. But there were as many people as at Easter: every hour, every minute of man’s life is miraculous, but it’s not every day that miracles are performed to be seen. Before the procession the tsar sent streltsy to Sretenka to deliver Savva to the service at the Kazan Cathedral. But it was not easy to obey the tsar’s order: they took turns carrying Savva in a rug—he was unbelievably heavy! It would be different if it had been just Savva, but there were so many who climbed into the rug to have a final hour of tormenting their wretched victim before killing him.

ɷɸɷ They laid Savva on the rug on the side of the narthex. The liturgy began. The demons, not noticing but sensing one another, were bored, hiding in the corners in the circle of those accompanying him: such anguish, his eyes swimming, such piercing pain forced open his lips but furrowed and clenched his brow. Badgered Savva listened, hidden away. The Cathedral was packed, and everything was prayerfully calm, even the children did not cry out, and it was only during the sanctification of the gifts that it broke through and suddenly there was shuddering and it started. Warbling, quacking, dog howling, and cuckoo sighing—“will you understand—do you understand—remember?”—Savva was thrown up to the crystal chandelier and his head was slammed against the window—the shards rang in a high tone, helplessly, and as Savva fell back to the rug, he shouted as if his chest would burst: “Stepanida!” The voice was filled with blood—a bleeding hand with torn skin rising from his throat. And he lay, half-dead, flat on his back until the Cherubim prayer. There is something enchanting in the music of the Cherubim hymn. I see a dissolving castle and the door is wide open, look at the tempting meadow, the blue forget-me-nots, it will lead you away, pull you in—up to your waist, up to your throat, and leave only your eyes, look: how terrifying is this world of God, “we who mystically represent the Cherubim.” Savva Grudtsyn

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The noise came up again from the hidden corners of the heated, rampaging souls. And of all the whoops and cries, the clearest and creepiest were the toads hissing like snakes. Everything visible and invisible, everything vegetative, stone, and blood burbled through, above and below, up and down. And above all the voices, from afar but audible to everyone, yes, everyone heard it! Unfamiliar and imperious, not in ordinary speech but in a high church way: “Savvo! Savvo! Rise and come to my church!” And Savva, awakened by the inexorable call, easily rose from the rug and firmly stepped on the crackling juniper, and walked through the whole church. He stopped before the icon of the Mother of God whose radiant eyes shone with pity for the whole suffering world, for all of us, ailing in God’s world and not knowing for what or why, and he inhaled his soul, as if sucking it in along with the air. With the dry straw-like crack of the torn heavenly vault, a thousand-pealing cast-iron thunderclap exploded over Moscow. This was even louder than if all the bells from the Nikolsky and Varvarsky belfries and the Simov, Donsky, Novospassky, and Androniev monasteries encircling Moscow crashed to the ground ringing in vain. And from the top of the church’s ceiling, tumbling in the air, came a piece of paper—look!—and it fell at Savva’s feet. Savva bent down and picked it up; it was familiar! From his father’s trading book. Amazingly: there were no curlicues or swirls of a signature, it was erased, smoothed out—a clean sheet of paper. Here Savva was surrounded by the tsar’s synod, and Streshnev grabbed the piece of paper to show the tsar.

The tsar and the patriarch took Savva’s writing and turned it every which way, holding it up to the light and then bringing it close to their eyes. “The sheet is clean!” said the tsar. “Clean paper!” said the patriarch. And Savva heard the words familiar from childhood: Who would not praise you Holy Virgin . . .

“Brother Savva, do you remember me?” And took his hand quietly. Savva came to: eyes glowing with the light of blue flowers were looking right into his soul. “Semyon Letoprovodets!” exclaimed Savva, but it was as if they were in the next world. “And we will leave this world!” Tears sparkled in the glowing eyes. They walked through the entire church to the door, the holy fool and the possessed. The holy fool stopped in the door, turned toward the icons, and cuckooed. This farewell to the world imbued the angelic chorus of “holy-holy” in the clouds with such bitterness. The demonic forces rushed headlong from the church. Viktor was in front of them. He turned out to be so little: a child’s body, a milky mouth. Or was he presenting himself that way? Hopping on one foot, raking the air before his chest with his arm. The elbow is close, but you can’t bite it!

Savva Grudtsyn

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This degenerate of humankind with a quail-like clank of chains is an insurmountable wall. He is a demon of demons: he vanquished the fear and pain man cannot vanquish, and compared to him, what is some devil, even the very first one?

ABOUT PYOTR AND FEVRONIA OF MUROM

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REMIZOV RETELLS THE TALE OF SAINTS PYOTR AND FEVRONIA, WHO DIED IN 1228, IN THE CITY OF MUROM IN RUSSIA’S NORTH. THEY WERE CANONIZED IN 1547 AND ARE CONSIDERED THE PATRON SAINTS OF MARRIAGE. RIMSKY-KORSAKOV ’S OPERA THE INVISIBLE CITY OF KITEZH AND THE MAIDEN FEVRONIYA IS BASED ON THIS LEGEND. IN 2008, THE RUSSIAN GOVERNMENT DECLARED THEIR SAINTS DAY A HOLIDAY OF FAMILY LOVE TO COUNTER THE GROWING POPULARITY OF THE WESTERN CELEBRATION OF ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.

ɷɸɷ Murom is a city in the Russian land, on the Oka. The high left bank. As you sail from Bolgar from the Volga, in the distance you see churches—white strawberry flowers in the blueness of the forests. The stone white Cathedral of the Birth of the Mother of God stands on Voyevoda Mountain; outside the city is the Exaltation of the Cross Convent. The city was ruled by Prince Pavel of Murom. A fiery flying Serpent came to his wife, Olga.

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I How this happened, Olga could not understand. She remembered that she fell asleep, shining light cut through her cloudy dream, she awoke and could see it weaving passionately, circling, a wing reaching for her—it embraced her hotly, and she saw the white wings and that the face was Pavel’s. For all her insensibility she sensed and told herself: “It’s not Pavel,” but she was not afraid. And this was not in her sleep and not a daydream: his mark was on her and her lips were moist. When he left her, she did not tidy herself—but fell asleep, almost unconscious. Day was the expectation of night. But whence such longing? Or were love and pain inseparable? Or was the curse to dare at all? And now in the middle of the day: she recognized him by the rustle of his wings and how overjoyed she was. And he tormented her all day. And since then he had been with her every day. Did anyone else see him the way she saw him or was he different for others—Pavel? She noticed that when he was with her, the servants lowered their gaze and moved away or looked without seeing: a husband can do anything he wants, but when people are there, it’s like French kissing in the metro. Before everyone’s eyes, she melts away with every day. The chamberlain reports to the prince: “The princess is not well: melting like snow day after day . . .” Pavel replied: “Feed her all she wants.” Pavel is a huntsman: he prefers the field to the house. Simple people live in cramped quarters, but princes—you can’t even find the

doors from one room to the next: the husband lives in his rooms, the wife in her half, the husband comes into the wife’s rooms whenever he wants, the wife can’t go a step outside hers. As the birds flew off, he thought of his full-throated wife and unexpected, appeared in Olga’s room. Horror struck her at the sight of her husband. She confessed everything, as if in church. Her words burned, crackling: the branches of love and the bitter branch of unfaithfulness. Pavel was confused: the fiery Serpent, he knew, came to widows, but it was unheard of for it to come to a married woman. “When did it happen?” “On Krasnaya Gorka, the first Sunday after Easter.” He thought back: the last time he was with her was on Easter week, so it happened after. “And what do you do?” She looked up—pure! And guiltily lowered her eyes. “But that is a great sin.”

And at the word sin she shuddered from the rattle of the word she spoke in response—and her voice vanished. “Measures must be taken,” he said, his voice not his own, quiet and menacing even without words, such that his hand went up, but did not strike. Upset, he left. It was not animals and birds that raced and fluttered in his hunting thoughts but the ringed fiery Serpent rustling its white wings. “But why?” and he was saddened: it would end badly. Animals can’t avoid the sling, and there are snares for birds, but how do you About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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catch the Serpent? He sees her with the Serpent, and everything in him howls like an animal: how could you allow it near you?—but he does not blame himself for anything: he is a huntsman, he can take down a bear. ɷɸɷ There was a homeless child in Murom; they called him Laska-Alexei. Nesterov would picture the Radonezh youth in a birch forest beneath a fresh branch, hands tightly folded, azure in his eyes, ready to rise from the earth and fly away. Laska looks through azure from his soul as if he had eyes even deeper that, say, an adult couldn’t have—that’s what grows in the forests in the Russian land. You can’t go past him without calling: Laska! What tales he told and where did he get such words! About animals and birds, the forest hidden from our eyes, and about miracles and signs and stars. Summers in the forest; winters the nuns at the Exaltation of the Cross sheltered him. He had been in the kremlin at the prince’s court: Olga liked to hear him talk and she learned about the Serpent, fiery and flying, from him. The Serpent, paper wings—a marvelous tale! Pavel met Laska in the forest. “He is a man of God,” thought Pavel, “I will ask about my wife.” “She needs her freedom,” Laska said. “You keep her in a dungeon. Take her with you.” “It’s not done,” Pavel said. “And she has nothing to complain about at home: she has a garden and pond, beavers and swans.” “She has no freedom.” “What do you know about the fiery Serpent?”

“The fiery Serpent flies toward longing. White wings, the Dragon has green ones and is as green as the leaves; Yegory the Brave on icons struck him in the belly with his lance.” “What about the fiery one—where is his death?” “How do I know! Let him tell you himself.” Straight from the hunt, without stopping in his rooms, Pavel slipped unnoticed into Olga’s room. She sat with her legs spread and smiled, while her eyes filled with tears. Suddenly seeing Pavel, she stood, trembling. Pavel looked at her with disgust. “Stop it, listen to me. You have to put an end to this. People will hear of it: his wife is sleeping with the Serpent. A man told me the fiery Serpent is not a Dragon; you can’t jab him in the belly with a lance, but he will tell you where his death awaits him. Hear me. You will cuddle up to him and ask him: what will cause your death?” She listened, looking around: she was looking for the other Pavel, the one she did not fear. “It’s a grave sin. And I am responsible for you before God.” “I will ask,” she said indifferently, black rings rolling out of her eyes. ɷɸɷ The next day was the eve of the birth of the Mother of God, the Murom feast day. He did not tell her to come to the vigil, but went to the Cathedral alone. He thought of her with disgust and impatiently awaited the answer. He saw her cuddling and questioning—and he shut his eyes, took deep breaths, and then prayed dully, asking for About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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protection: he was not at fault. In the morning, having stood through the service, he couldn’t wait and rushed to Olga. After a fiery night— and on such a holiday!—she was sleeping soundly. He shoved her awake. She stared, her eyes rolling: she believed it—but which Pavel was this? “What did he say?” She understood and opening her mouth like bird, the words fluttered on her tongue, but would not form, tormenting her. “What did he say?” Pavel repeated. Biting her lips, she replied with her belly, a muted voice, not her own, a stranger’s, in rhyme: “My death will land when Agrik’s sword is in Pyotr’s hand.” Pavel was proud: he knew the secret of the death—but what did Agrik, Agrik’s sword mean? He did not know. The name Agrik dug its claws into his serpentine thought, dampening the ringed fire of the flying Serpent. ɷɸɷ The memory of Agrik lived on in Murom. The old-timers said, “We know, we remember, we heard from our fathers a hundred years back: Agrik and his brother Rurik came from Novgorod to Murom. As for the sword, which the dwarf Kotopa forged, they didn’t say anything precisely, trusting to Krapiva. But Krapiva remembers nothing.” Others recalled Ilya, their own, from Murom, and the bogatyrs’ outpost, they remembered that among the Russian bogatyrs there were two brothers, Agrikans, both cross-eyed: one looked this way, the other that way.

When all the bogatyrs were killed and only one Agrikan, he took the swords and hid them in a cave, and gave his own to Dobrynya. Other healers said, “Exactly, Agrik’s sword went to Dobrynya. He used that sword to kill Tugarin Zmeyevich. And he buried that sword: when a bogatyr appears again on Russian soil, the sword will reveal itself. No one knows where it’s buried.” And they put it on Krapiva, and Krapiva replied for the first time: The Agrik sword! For God’s sake, don’t know about it: they’ll exhaust you with demands. The Agrik sword exists, but where is the bogatyr who can wield it? ɷɸɷ Pavel had a brother, Pyotr. On the name day of Pyotr and Pavel he came at the last bird song, when the lullaby’s refrain is “oi lado,” at the end. Pyotr did not take after Pavel, you would not call him a huntsman, he didn’t have the spirit to scare a bird from a bush, he was timid and mild. The boyars had him in mind: when Pavel dies, it will be so easy under Pyotr—each man could be his own prince! Pyotr came to visit Pavel every day. They lived honoring the brothers Boris and Gleb, famed in the Russian land. After Pavel he went to see Olga. Pyotr’s modesty brought light to Olga’s eyes, like a meeting with Laska. Pyotr noticed the change, but did not dare ask. Olga and Pavel were hiding it from the brother. When Pavel learned the secret of the Serpent’s death: “Agrik’s sword in Pyotr’s hand” he was stunned to hear his brother’s name, and he opened up to Pyotr. About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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“I’ll kill him!” cried Pyotr—you would not recognize his voice, determination and bravery was not his way: he raised his hand in a vow and wrath sharpened it into a sword. But where would he find the sword? ɷɸɷ When the priest brought out the cross, Pyotr was at the icon in the Exaltation convent. Agrik’s sword kept appearing before his eyes as they raised the cross—the width and length of the cross. His will to protect his brother raised him high above the earth with the cross. The vigil service ended. The church was empty. Pyotr, fastened by the cross’s hoop, stood alone by the cross. “Agrik’s sword” his weakened lips whispered—“give me the sword! Send me the sword!” and his arm went up like a sword: “Agrik’s sword!” The candles were snuffed out and the last nuns crawled from the church like black snakes. Twilight deeper than night enveloped the church and the flowers by the cross breathed their fragrance more sharply and the air was thick with flowers. An explosion of light struck his eyes—Pyotr awoke: Laska stood at the pulpit holding a candle and beckoned to him. He went to the light. “I’ll show you Agrik’s sword,” said Laska, “follow me!” He led Pyotr into the altar. When they entered the altar, Laska raised the candle high above his head. “Look here,” he pointed to the wall, “see anything?” In the altar wall, between the bunches of branches brought as offerings, something made of metal was sticking out of a crack. Pyotr

reached out and the sword was in his hand; rust hung from the handle and stuck to his fingers—the curved self-swinging sword. And that was the Agrik sword. ɷɸɷ Not letting go of the sword, Pyotr spent the night by the convent walls: he was afraid to go home, he had to go through the fields, and it would be taken away. The autumn night lit the earth with the freshness of slivers of scattered shards, but he was hot: the Serpent burned him—how and where could he catch the Serpent? Finding no peace in freedom, he hid behind the towers, looking out from cover at the ringed night—not night but the Serpent. Only the blue dawn dispelled the vision and the bells called to him: time to come to us! ɷɸɷ He did not remember getting through matins, the hours, and liturgy. No singing—there was hissing in his ears—and the eyes— black nails, of course, everyone was surprised to see Prince Pyotr with a sword; he was looking for Laska, all black nails. He pressed his teeth to the cold gold cross and left burned. ɷɸɷ Pavel had just returned from the Cathedral when Pyotr came to his rooms with his find. “The Agrik,” Pyotr said, laying it down before his brother. About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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Pavel regarded the rusty weapon with doubt. Leaving the sword with his brother, he left to greet Olga as was customary. Not stopping to chat with others and without looking into the side room, Pyotr entered Olga’s chamber. He was amazed: Olga was not alone: Pavel was with her. Pyotr bowed to her, but she did not respond, there were tears in her eyes but she was not crying, she was smiling and tapping her heels: as if she were about to speak in singsong or twirl in a dance. Pyotr had never seen her like that. And how did Pavel come to be here, when he had just left him? Had Pavel passed him? Unobtrusively Pyotr left. One of Pavel’s servants came toward him. “Is my brother in his room?” “The prince has not gone out.” “Quiet!” Pyotr warned. “Don’t scare him off!” He got on tiptoe: suddenly he understood everything. Pavel was in his room examining the strange sword. “Have you been out?” “No!” Pavel replied his eyes still on the sword. “Then how can it be that I just saw you with Olga.” “You saw me?” “He is sitting with her. He knows his death”—Pyotr pointed at the sword. “He’s turned himself into you so I won’t touch him. Give me the sword, you stay here.” “Careful!” Pavel handed him the sword. “It might break.” With the naked sword Pyotr left Pavel. Creeping up—so as not to scare him off!—he came to Olga’s doors. Without warning, he crossed the threshold.

Before his eyes, Olga, and with her, Pavel. Holding his breath, he came closer. And looked closely. He wasn’t imagining it: it was Pavel! But strange: he could see through Pavel, he saw the window and in the window a golden birch. He understood: fire!—the fiery Serpent. They were sitting close together: his lips flinched, and she smiled. Pyotr came closer and his feet touched hers. With a cry she stood up—and following her Pavel got up. There was bright gold in Pyotr’s eyes and he rose in a golden whirlwind and struck the Serpent on the head with the sword. Fire sprayed blood—through the fiery haze he could see Pavel, shuddered and bending toward the ground, splattering Olga with blood, and Olga, like Pavel, hunched over and pecked the ground. Pyotr imagined that something ringed and bloody was crawling toward him, threatening to choke him, and he waved the sword until the sword fell to pieces and a piece of metal woke him. The Serpent had been dealt with—no need for the sword: the Agrik sword receded into bogatyr memory. ɷɸɷ The Murom chronicler wrote it, and now everyone knows: Prince Pavel’s wife Olga, who was visited by the fiery flying Serpent, drowned in the Serpent’s blood, and Prince Pyotr, the Serpent-slayer, blistered all over from the blood that sprayed him, as if from a burn. They said that the blisters covered his body from fear, and out of fear he struck Olga. Pavel thought so, too, but he didn’t say “Why did you do in the woman?” as the boyars said with a wink. Pavel was glad that she was in Pyotr’s way: a serpent woman was no wife for him! About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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Pyotr was called the Serpent-slayer. That was how he thought of himself, patiently bearing his physical woes—a mess: all scratched up, neck twisted and legs cramped, gritting his teeth, he lay in bed, a blistery cross on his chest, a burning belt cinching him, his eyes and mouth being corroded by a creeping rash, and his bones groaned and his joints creaked. The Murom healers, whomever they asked, could not help with whispers, spirit, salve, or herbs, but made it worse: his back and legs were covered in sores and the ache scraped away sleep. He was too weak to stand. They said that in the Ryazan lands there were wizards superior to the Murom ones: take him to Ryazan. Laska said this—who would know better? They decided to take Pyotr to Ryazan: why not try?—the Ryazan wizards, it’s scary to even look at them, they will find the right word beyond the clouds and beneath the ground—shamans!

II Pyotr could not sit on a horse; they carried him. The trip was not jolly: hard for the patient and a burden for his servants. Not far from Murom in Pereyaslavl they decided to stop and test their luck. Pyotr’s entourage spread around town, asking if there were wizards to treat the prince. Gridya, a young page in the service of the prince, did not linger in town but went out beyond the outpost and ended up in Laskovo outside the city. House to house. He saw the gate open, he came into the courtyard. No one hailed him. He opened the door and came into the entry. And he saw a young girl sitting at the table, weaving cloth, and

a hare hopping around her. He stared at the hare: it was a strange hare—twitching its whiskers, not afraid, hopping around. The girl stopped weaving and started flirting: what a silver man that had wandered into the house. “A fine thing,” she said sadly, “when the yard is without ears and the house without eyes.” Gridya stared stupidly at her and at the hare. “Anyone older here?” he asked meekly. “My father and mother went to weep borrowed tears,” she said, admiring the expensive garments of the guest who had wandered in, “and my brother went to look at the corpses through his legs.” “Corpses,” repeated Gridya in bewilderment, “you’re setting riddles.” “Why did you barge in without permission,” she said severely. “If we had a dog in the yard, he would hear your steps and bark, and if we had a servant in the house, he would see that someone has come in and warn me: that’s the answer about the ears and eyes of the house. Father and Mother went to the cemetery to weep over the dead, and those tears are borrowed: in their turn people will weep over them. My brother went into the woods, we are beekeepers, we climb trees: you climb up a tree for honey, watch your feet, if you fall, you won’t get up and you’ll join the corpses.” “The corpses,” Gridya repeated, “the dead.” And he thought: “She’s not simple!” And he asked, “What’s your name?” “Fevronia.” “And the name is fancy,” thought Gridya, “Fevronia!” “I’m from Murom, I serve the prince,” and he showed his grivna, a silver necklace. “I’ve come with the prince: the prince is sick, he is covered in a rash.” About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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“The one who slayed the serpent?” “Pyotr cut off the head of the fiery flying Serpent with the Agrik sword and broke out in sores from the serpent’s blood. Our Murom healers cannot help; they say you have great witches here. But we don’t know how to call them or find them.” “What if the one who demanded your prince to come could heal him?” “What do you mean: ‘the one who demanded my prince to come . . . ?’ The one who heals him will receive a great reward. Tell me the name of that sorcerer and where to find him.” “Bring your prince here. If he is meek and answers humbly, he will be healthy. Tell that to your prince.” When she spoke there was such meekness in her words, like Laska, and she smiled. Gridya felt happy: Prince Pyotr’s men loved him for his meekness. With breathless elation, like children, Gridya told Pyotr about Fevronia, how there was no equal to her among the boyar women, about the riddles and the hare—in farewell the hare pulled back its ears, as if doffing a hat—you’ll be well, Gridya said, repeating Fevronia’s words about meekness and humility. Pyotr ordered them to take him to Laskovo. In Laskovo, Pyotr sent Gridya and the other young men to Fevronia: have her tell them which sorcerer to approach—if he cures him, she will get a big reward. Fevronia said firmly: “I am that sorcerer, and I do not need a reward, not gold, not land. Here is my word: if I cure him, let him marry me.” Gridya did not understand the test of will hidden in those words; he did not hear anything unexpected in the words.

With the same elation he passed the words on to the prince. “How could a prince take the daughter of a beekeeper for a wife!” A contrary thought flashed, but he was so weak and suffering. “Go tell Fevronia that I agree to everything; have her tell me what to do.” When Gridya told Fevronia “the prince agrees to everything,” Fevronia ladled out from the kneading trough into a birch box of dried peaches and apricots and gave the box to Gridya. “Prepare a banya for the prince and have him smear his body where the scabs are, all over,” and then after a thought, “no, let him leave one sore without the salve.” Gridya didn’t even think to question why, he believed Fevronia implicitly, and the hare threatened him with an ear. “I won’t drop it, don’t worry,” said Gridya, holding the box in both hands and exiting carefully. While the banya was heated, all the young men and the servants gathered near the prince. They were all interested in Gridya’s story about Fevronia, her witchcraft, the hare, the birds—birds fluttered in Gridya’s imagination—and most of all, her riddles. Belief that the prince would get better made the biggest worriers smile and Pyotr himself cheered up. “Whatever we think up,” said Gridya, “she can do anything. Let’s test her.” “I have an idea,” said Pyotr and ordered him to bring some linen thread. He handed it to Gridya and said, “Take it to her and while I’m in the banya have her weave me a shirt, pants, and towel.” Fevronia was surprised to see Gridya. He was radiant: now we would see. Placing the linen thread on the table before her, he repeated the prince’s words. About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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“All right,” Fevronia said, “you go up on top of the stove, get a log from the pile, and bring it here.” Gridya took a log and put it on the bench. She looked and measured a piece. “Chop it off.” Gridya took the axe and chopped off the piece. “Take this piece,” Fevronia said, “and tell the prince: in the time it takes me to comb the linen, let him make me a loom so that I can weave him a shirt, pants, and towel. Gridya hopped out like a hare. They were waiting. He put the wood before Pyotr the way he had the linen before Fevronia: make a loom while she combs the linen. “What nonsense,” said Pyotr, turning over the piece of wood, “how can you make a loom in just an hour.” But who couldn’t see that Pyotr’s task was no less nonsensical: weave him a shirt, pants, and towel in the hour for the banya. Pyotr was not so much impressed by Fevronia’s wisdom as that he realized his own stupidity. Everything proceeded properly: Pyotr was washed and steamed and lifted to the high shelf and sprinkled with the banya brush of leaves, and then they put him in the antechamber and cooled him off with kvass and pickled apples, and smeared his body, face, and hands with the magic salve. But which scab should they leave without salve? They decided to pick one that would be unnoticed. And what is less noticeable than the rear. They should have asked Fevronia, but they hoped it was obvious and left the contagion on that place. Pyotr spent a quiet night—they gave him only drinks: thirst tormented him. That must have been the serpent’s flames going out. In

the morning he rose easily. His body did not itch, it had cleared up, and his face was clear and his hands were clear—unrecognizable. The evil was over. You would think he should obey Fevronia’s word. But as always happens when it comes time to pay, a person takes the easier way and gives you what he does not need or what was gotten without effort. Leaving Laskovo, Pyotr sent Fevronia a present of gratitude: gold and pearls. She did not accept. Silently she pushed the precious things aside and sadness lay on her lips: “Poor wretch!” Pyotr returned to Murom on horseback. People were amazed by Pyotr: maybe it was witchcraft: the man had been doomed and now you can’t find a spot. As clean as a dove’s feather. Fame spread in Russia: there are Kiev witches and Murom witches but the beekeeper Fevronia was the greatest. Fevronia’s name entered Murom with Pyotr and resounded like the name Laska; no wonder her village was called Laskovo, the gentle place. Pyotr was congratulated. A service was held in the Cathedral. In the Kremlin Pavel gave a feast in honor of his brother the Serpent-slayer. It began with a trifle: a sharp pain. He paid no attention. Then it itched, which was worse. In the morning he looked: from the unsalved scab the evil spread in a chain. They thought it was from the saddle. What saddle, a blister appeared on his face. It began all over again. Pyotr bore it for a week, spoke Fevronia’s name, apologized— but does repentance change anything?—“Sin, repent, and you’ll be saved!”—what scoundrel said that while lying to villains? Sins cannot be expiated. Only the will of the victim has power. About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

Pyotr was taken to Laskovo. Fevronia did not meet him very gently. Restraining her anger, she repeated her words. Pyotr swore. And they took him to the banya again and this time smeared all of him. In the morning he awoke cleansed. A Laskovo priest married Pyotr and Fevronia. And Pyotr returned to Murom a happy man. ɷɸɷ While Pavel was alive, everything went well, they let Pyotr’s marriage to a beekeeper go. But after Pavel’s death, when Pyotr became the prince of Murom, people started complaining: “He married a witch!” It struck everyone in the eye that Pyotr was called the prince of Murom, but a “witch” ruled Murom. If not for Fevronia, everything would be “our way.” They would have handled the Serpent-slayer easily: he was meant to tell stories with Laska, not to rule a city. Pyotr and Fevronia had to be separated, there was no other way. In the city Fevronia was a princess; at home she was mistress of the house. Things that are badly placed make their way into your hands—but in the prince’s house, everything was in its place, a barrier to pilferers: the beekeeper’s rules, not the prince’s wherever. Order can be disputed, but it is tight. The servants were turning. And to vent their souls, they began maligning Fevronia to Pyotr. The stolnichii, the senior servant, with servile regret denounced Fevronia: she didn’t know her place—she kept jumping up from the table, she ate bread without order, while the main dish cooled.

“And what is this habit: she forgets to bow after lunch and then gathers up all the crumbs from the tablecloth, and for what? As if there’s a lack or money is tight?” Suspicious curiosity follows such a report. They dined separately, in their own quarters. Pyotr ordered two settings and seated Fevronia with him. He watched. Nothing special, Laska still hasn’t learned, he uses his fingers instead of a fork, but Fevronia could have been eating at the prince’s table since childhood. But when all that was left was to cross herself, she rose and started gathering crumbs from the tablecloth. Pyotr rose and took her hand, opened her fingers. “Are we impoverished?” he said in reproach, took a look, and pulled away his hand: there were no crumbs in her palm but smoking incense. The dining room filled with fragrance as if a priest had used a censer. Or as if her smile blossomed with flowers and a perfume came from her eyes, so full and ripe. “No, our shame is we are too rich,” she said. Pyotr didn’t know where to look from shame: how could he have thought anything? And since then no matter what people told him about Fevronia, he did not worry: faith in a person quenches every suspicion easily and openly, even the most mysterious and incomprehensible. ɷɸɷ The boyars had their own thoughts—with every year Fevronia’s power extended to trifles, to the “bread crumbs” of the principality, there was no place to warm their hands, they weren’t people, they About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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were slaves. How to get rid of Fevronia? The wives were rebelling: the beekeeper was in first place and they, born here, had to bow and be subordinate—they didn’t want to. And they nagged their husbands: they stared at Fevronia and connived. The infuriated boyars burst into Pyotr’s Kremlin. “Listen, Pyotr! You are our Serpent-slayer! We are happy to serve you honestly. Get rid of the princess: we do not want Fevronia. And we won’t allow her to lord over our wives. Let her take whatever she wants, we won’t stint the treasury, and let her go where she wants: Murom is not for her.” Pyotr did not shout: “Get out!” He suddenly felt so insignificant before the force that attacked him and helpless and, more softly than usual, he replied: “I don’t know, ask her. And whatever she says.” The boyar’s fists unclenched: there you are, show your mind, a fine thing! They themselves had said: Pyotr is not his brother Pavel, you could weave ropes out of the Serpent-slayer, and yet they treated him like Pavel: decide. Had Pyotr been alone, it would have been different, but behind a wall like that, even a kremlin wouldn’t last. The boyars went off in shame. “Talk to her!” Just try, she’ll answer. A brain-twisting problem. The women whined—but this is harsher: a punch in the mouth— and they all sing the same tune: Fevronia. They don’t dare tell her to her face, they’re afraid, she’s a witch, but you’re supposed to do it for them—it drives you crazy. So the boyars decided to deal with it cleverly and at one swoop. ɷɸɷ

The City Izba is as spacious as the prince’s mansion, and the whole city gave a banquet. They invited Prince Pyotr and Fevronia—honoring them with the best seat at the main table. They ate and drank with dignity. But once the hops blossomed, meekness hid, voices grew strong, and they barked like hounds. Urged each other on. Circled. And it burst out: “In the name of the city of Murom,” the braggart came up to Fevronia and the rest got up and followed, like swine, “grant what we ask.” Fevronia stood up, too, she understood everything, but was calm. “I’m listening,” Fevronia replied, “I’m happy to grant you anything.” “We want Prince Pyotr,” the brave one demanded, emboldened by Fevronia’s agreement. “Pyotr vanquished the Serpent, let the Serpent-slayer rule us, but our wives don’t want you. They do not wish to be under your power. Take treasures and gold, as much as you want, and go where you want.” “All right, I will grant your wish and the wish of your wives, I will go away. But you must grant what I ask of you.” “We give our word without demur; we will grant you anything!” they all shouted. “I don’t want anything, none of your riches. I ask only one thing, give me Prince Pyotr.” They looked at one another. And in one gasp they said: “Take him.” Each one thought: “They’ll elect a new prince and I will be that prince.” Pyotr stood up. About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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“The law says: whoever leaves his wife, if she has not committed adultery, and takes another wife is an adulterer. I have no reason to be separated from Fevronia!” “We agree!” the boyars barked. “Go with her.” Fevronia moved away from the table, gathering crumbs from the table. Holding them in her fist she came to the center of the room. She threw them high over her head—and with a crack precious treasures fell like rain—gold, silver, stones, jewelry. “For your wives, let them show off. And you”—her eyes suddenly blazed, lit up and burned, you couldn’t look at them, even a lynx would squint, not sunny fire but hellfire—“be damned! You won’t hurt but you will be damned.” She took Pyotr by the hand. And they left the banquet. ɷɸɷ Loaded with Murom goods, the vessels sailed on the Oka—the path to the Volga and to the Bolgars. Pyotr and Fevronia had left Murom and were sailing to find new places. For a long time, seeing them off with white churches, their native town watched them leave. And then it was covered by the blue land of deep woods. In the cool sun rays the pusher toadstools stopped pushing. The sun set. Damp air came from the river. They decided to spend the night on shore. Pyotr began to think: had he done the right thing, leaving his home city? And for what? He looked at Fevronia reproachfully. “Don’t grumble,” Fevronia said, understanding without words, “we will live better than in the past, you’ll see.”

Pyotr had to believe—there was clarity in Fevronia’s voice. But a nagging regret remained: “If we could go back!” The kettle for dinner was hanging on forked branches stuck into the ground. “Look, these are dry branches,” Fevronia said, “in the morning, you’ll see, trees will grow from them and the leaves will be green!” Looking at the black branches smoking with steam, she whispered something and blew. Night came, without looking, dark as the forest, lulling them into a sleep without dreams. It sometimes happens when your soul is shaken up—all the doors will slam shut: no memory, just darkness. The morning woke them with hope and the first thing Pyotr noticed, and it was as if in a dream, was that the place where the forked branches had been set up and the kettle had hung was now filled with people pointing and nodding. Pyotr came closer. It was like a dream and everyone was dreaming it, so marvelous and unbelievable: overnight the dry branches came alive and were covered in leaves and were rising as green trees above the kettle. “Will it be like this for us?” thought Pyotr and looked at Fevronia. She responded with a smile, the kind you use with frightened children. And when they were coming aboard to sail on, they saw a boat appear on the river, white oars glistening in the sun, waving their arms—either they couldn’t stand up or they worried they would be too late. “Could they be from Murom?” And so they were: the boat landed, a boyar came out, took off his hat and bowed deeply.

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“I am from the city of Murom,” he said, catching his breath, turning to Pyotr, “and from all the boyars who are still standing and still have their heads. No sooner had you gone from view that a rebellion started: everyone called himself the prince of Murom and wants to hear no argument: so many stupid heads and as many wild men. They killed many people in their fights, and were killed themselves. In the city the stores are in pieces, the houses stand with doors torn from their hinges, there isn’t a single stone without blood in the Kremlin. They killed Laska, he never hurt a beast, but he ended up killed by a man. Come back to still the storm! We will serve you!” And turning to Fevronia, he bowed even lower—“Forgive us and our women, come back!” Here was the miracle, what a miraculous day—everything was mixed up in Pyotr and he had no words to reply. Fevronia ordered the boats to turn homeward—to Murom.

III The tale is finished. What is left is the riddle of life: inseparable love—Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Pyotr and Fevronia. Pyotr ruled Murom inseparably with Fevronia. I will record this as a happy year, the time of the Murom Principality, the eve of Batu, when Batu Khan and his Golden Horde invaded Russia in 1237. The end of life was approaching. Pyotr was tonsured as a monk, taking the name David, and finished his days in the city’s Epiphany Monastery. Fevronia spent hers under the name Efrosinia outside the city in the Exaltation of Cross Convent, where the Agrik sword was immured in the altar wall.

When they parted, Fevronia said: “Death will come for you and me at the same hour.” Pyotr did nothing in his cell, he could not, and his melancholy hastened his time. He thought that Olga looked into his window and beckoned him: he had freed her, now it was her turn. That is how he understood it and sent to Fevronia to say: “I feel the end, come to me and we will leave the earth together.” Fevronia was embroidering the air: trees, grasses, flowers, birds, and animals, her favorite Hare—they each took on her melancholy a single silk thread at a time. “Wait a little,” she replied, “let me finish.” But you can’t stop time, and the deadline does not change. Feeling cold—it was summer, but he was freezing!—he sent a second time. “The final minutes. I’m waiting for you.” But she still had a trifle—to embroider the hare’s whiskers. “Wait.” He sent a third time: “Can’t wait, there’s”— She stuck the needle in the air—let them finish it. “I’m coming.” Her soul, dressed in flowers and herbs, went out beyond the wall to meet the other inseparable soul that came out at the same time. June 14, 1228 in the Russian land.

In his lifetime he had a sarcophagus made, carved out of stone with a partition for two by the Nativity icon in the Cathedral: About Pyotr and Fevronia of Murom

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“Lay us both here,” he willed. The people decided it differently: it was not right for a prince to lie with a beekeeper, and a monk should not be with his wife. They left the sarcophagus in the Cathedral empty; they buried Pyotr in the Cathedral and Fevronia separately at the Exaltation of the Cross Convent. The night of the funeral a storm came over Murom. At midnight it thundered. The road from the city to the convent was churned up—restless, Fevronia broke through the coffin lid, went up with the storm and flew to the Cathedral, to Pyotr. Lightning flashes illuminated her path, white fire burst from her tightly shut eyes and her lip trembled with unspoken words of damnation. In the morning at the Cathedral they found Pyotr’s coffin empty, with its mangled lid, and Fevronia’s body was not at the Exaltation of the Cross Convent. Pyotr and Fevronia lay in the sarcophagus at the Cathedral next to each other without a partition. And every year in Moscow, on the day of death of Pyotr and Fevronia, during the solstice, the swan bell carried from the Kremlin throughout the Russian land the story about inseparable love, not sundered by human will.

GRIGORY AND KSENIA

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REMIZOV’S VERSION OF THE OLD RUSSIAN TEXT STRESSES THE ROLE OF FATE IN HUMAN LIFE. IN THE SLAVIC PRE-CHRISTIAN TRADITION, THE SUDICE, THE WISE WOMEN, DETERMINE DESTINY WITH THEIR SPELLS. A LOVE TRIANGLE—YAROSLAV, KSENIA, GRIGORY—CAUSES PAIN AND LOSS OF FRIENDSHIP. BUT SACRIFICE LEADS TO THE CREATION OF A HOLY PLACE, A MONASTERY.

ɷɸɷ There is another world in the world—not the primordial one, but the work of human hands—the will of a determined soul— enchanted places: for happiness, for death, for quiet. I see three candles—they illuminate the world. And I see flame: black flame; blinking, teasing lights; quiet, quiet flickering. There, where the breathing is easy; and where the treasure is hidden; and where death is inevitable. The glowing corners of the earth are not random. They will not reveal themselves without a sacrifice: a living creature must inevitably be crushed. The prefiguration is Golgotha.

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Malevolence is death; a golden treasure; quietude, to my eye, is a feeling. You can cast a spell for anything but the fate of the doomed: why and for what am I sentenced to die, or for someone to end up head down in a pit—a dead end? Or for someone to get rich—treasure? Or for someone to find peace “for an exhausted soul”? There is no deciding fate. “Fate” is the final determining word in life. Obedience to fate, submission, how to avoid asking Fate herself about your fate—such darkness and confusion. Fate’s will in the world is done by the messengers of Fate—the Sudice: the Sudice foretell a person’s lot—they join person to person with the gift of love—the betrothed bride and groom. They separate them, too. But is Fate powerful enough in separating the betrothed—to divide the power of love? Love is indivisible and its flower never fades. Just as a person’s soul flourishes and glows not from nothing, so does the earth—its gravelly rubble is softened by man’s labor. Pain beautifies the soul and the world is illuminated by pain. The paths will be lost with time, but the way of the cross will not be trampled forever. There is another world in the world. Its solidity is spectral, happiness will flare up and then go out. The godforsaken place of death will grow empty, and quiet will be reborn as execution. “For the creation of a holy place on earth three are destined: Grigory—Ksenia—Yaroslav. The Sudice messengers have distributed the lots, three gifts: For Yaroslav—power, love, crime; For Ksenia—wisdom, love, separation; For Grigory—love, separation, light.

I It came to pass in the reign of the great prince of Tver Yaroslav Yaroslavovich in Rus—in the lost Rus: the land was war torn, fractured, cities destroyed, the Russian land was a Tatar possession, the tsar was Khan Nevrui. Prince Yaroslav had a page, his favorite, Grigory, and Grigory loved Yaroslav and was faithful to him in everything. They were the same age—and they weren’t even twenty. And so dissimilar: Yaroslav and Grigory. The strength of the forest and the airiness of glades. On Yaroslav’s orders, Grigory came to collect the prince’s tribute in the village of Edemonovo on the Volga, forty versts from Tver. He stayed with Afanasy, the Solun sacristan. His house was near the church of the Great Martyr Dimitri of Solun—the show place of the village of Edemonovo. The sacristan was famed for his knowledge of the church and even more for his daughter, Ksenia. Some called Ksenia wise, others called her blessed, still others wild, stupid. For her reasoning, wise; for not being like others in eyes, voice, and movement, blessed; and for the strangeness and puzzling nature of her answers, unexpected and unusual, wild and “stupid.” From their first encounter Ksenia recognized Grigory and it showed in her meek gaze—and he, when he looked at her—his eyes inhaled all of her—to put it in the language of spells, all of her, “with meat, blood, liver, and overliver.” Her image filled his stunned soul. And her simple words were not a shell, they filled out for him like a ripe berry. He fastened his eyes on her, waiting—she’ll say something now—and he felt his heart flutter. Grigory and Ksenia

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Did she look at him that way? Day after day he recognized his trembling in the reflection of her eyes. Neither said a word, but each felt without words: I’m in love. Grigory opened up to her father about his decision to marry. Afanasy did not know what to say: a man close to the great prince and a sacristan’s daughter. “I will ask the prince, he will not refuse, he will give his permission, and I will live here with you.” The final word was Ksenia’s. When Afanasy told Ksenia about his conversation with Grigory and his decision to marry, Ksenia said, and her answer sounded prophetic—as only words spoken under the influence of a higher power can sound: “Do everything as he wishes, accept his will. God has willed it—it is fate. And it will be so.” Grigory did not reveal his secret to his comrades, and when he finished the prince’s assignment, he left the village of Edemonovo with the other collectors. Thus God planted heaven on the bank of the Volga River under the tsar Nevrui. When Grigory left, Ksenia said to her father and mother, “I love Grigory, it will be hard for me to be parted from him. But one cannot avoid fate. Fate will turn things its own way: he will not be my husband, but the one God indicates for me.”

II When Grigory told Yaroslav about meeting Ksenia and asked permission to marry her, Yaroslav was saddened.

“A sacristan’s daughter,” said the prince, “is not your equal. If you have decided to marry, take a wife from your circle. You will be mocked, and I will be criticized, and we will have to part.” Yaroslav’s words dismayed Grigory, but his will held: he could not even think of being parted form Ksenia, without Ksenia there was no life for him. “Ksenia loves me and I do not want another betrothed.” He repeated his request and it sounded like life or death. And Yaroslav agreed. Grigory interested Yaroslav with his stories of Ksenia, her extraordinariness: wise, blessed. Yaroslav did not try to talk him out of it, and he offered: he would help his favorite page to have an opulent wedding that would be remembered all his life. Grigory would travel down the Volga, while the wedding train, on horseback with music and singers, would follow along. That night happy Grigory went off to Edemonovo to get married, and Yaroslav ordered his falconers to prepare for a hunt in the morning. That night Yaroslav had a dream—he was hunting, and his favorite falcon chased away all the birds and placed a dove at his knees, as they sing in the wedding song—her face glowed with happiness but tears shone in her eyes. Yaroslav awoke with a hidden feeling, what did it mean: a dove? In the morning he went off with hawks and falcons in the direction that Grigory had gone the night before to have his wedding—and spent the day amusing himself with hunting. Grigory and his groomsmen had reached the village of Edemonovo. Without waiting for the prince’s train, he sent a message from the dock to tell Ksenia to prepare everything for the wedding.

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Ksenia replied that everything would be done and she would let him know because she had not heard that he was coming. At home she said, “The matchmaker has arrived, but the bridegroom is not here yet—he was delayed hunting, but he will be here.” The family was very confused, what bridegroom? But she said nothing and started preparing the honor gifts. Yaroslav spent the whole day hunting; that night in the field he had the same dream as the night before: his favorite falcon laid a dove on his lap. Her face glowed with happiness, but tears burned in her eyes. Yesterday’s hidden dream, filled with longing, aroused him, he felt elevated and light. Grigory waited all day and the night passed in expectation. There were no people from the prince. “What if the prince changed his mind and demands my return!” Without waiting for word from Ksenia, he and his groomsmen went to the village to Afanasy’s house. Everything was ready, but Ksenia asked them not to hurry: she was expecting a guest, and he would be the first and dearest of them all. Yaroslav ordered all his birds let loose—hawks and falcons circled over his head, that churning force energized him. Many swans were caught, a successful hunt. All the victorious birds flew back, but his favorite falcon flew off. Yaroslav chased after it. “Whose village is this?” he asked. “The village of Edemonovo,” they told him, “belongs to the great prince Yaroslav Yaroslavovich, the church of Dimitri of Solun.” Yaroslav saw his falcon. Sitting on the cupola near the cross, smoothing its feathers and preening. “The village of Edemonovo,” Yaroslav suddenly remembered, “Grigory’s wedding.” And he headed to the house of the sacristan Afanasy.

A crowd was gathered near the house to see the bride and groom head to the church. Grigory was sitting with Ksenia when Yaroslav appeared among the curious. Ksenia said, “Rise, go meet the great prince.” He was dressed, like his retinue, in hunting clothes. Everyone rose, apologizing for not meeting him. Yaroslav asked them to sit. Grigory and Ksenia are visible to all—the minute is approaching; they will be led to the church. Grigory was shining with happiness, his dream had come true and his beloved prince appeared unexpectedly for this happy hour. Ksenia, with a flash, said to Grigory, “Step away from me. Give your place to the great prince, my bridegroom, and you were my matchmaker.” Yaroslav looked at Ksenia: she was the dove from his dream!—his heart caught fire and his thoughts scrambled: “Go away from here,” he said harshly to Grigory, “go find yourself a bride.” And Grigory got up. What did he feel? His hands were in cuffs, his legs in shackles, and there was a block behind his back. He went. What a slow path, lost— from life. What a piercing sorrow accompanied him—Ksenia’s farewell look. There was a throng in the doorway—they crowded him. It was as if they raised him into the air, swung him back and forth, and smashed him against the wall. The wall broke. The block tore off and crushed him. He freed himself and went on, through—“Obedient to death!” He was attacked, and arms with rolled-up sleeves came from everywhere. They beat him wherever they could reach. Sparks scattered from his eyes. Apologizing, he stayed on his feet, not falling. Someone’s true hand struck him in the chest with a knife. Before his eyes, through a thick black veil—he sees his cut-out heart. A black flame flared into his face and flew off to the table. Grigory and Ksenia

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Yaroslav took Grigory’s place. With songs of celebration bride and groom were led to the church to be wed. Everyone looked at the great prince of Tver and no one noticed how the crushed Grigory left the house—into such a dark night, on the edge of the abyss. His hand did not lift to defend himself and his eyes did not look at the light. ɷɸɷ What is your promised word worth? On the melted music of the smoldering song I see distorted faces and hear and distinguish their voices. Fate’s messengers, The one who gave love, The one who condemned to suffering—separation, The one with the flaming candle, fanning the exhausted soul with the flame. “I lit his heart with love. I broke his heart with separation. I fanned his soul. Three lots are given to man. The first lot—for happiness—meeting Love. The second—unhappiness—separation. The third—the gift of light.” The flame of my candlelit heart will go below the dark earth. The storm of my heart—an inextinguishable flame, The light of my love penetrates the dawn.

III There had never been so many people at St. Dimitri of Solun—the great prince’s wedding would be remembered a long time. Before the icons the kiss of love, a wedding memory, strengthened the bond into a single body and mind. The newlyweds left the church, ornamenting the sunlit day with the radiance of love throughout the world before sky and sun. The falcon sat on the cupola by the cross, unresponsive to others, and came when Yaroslav called, settling on the prince’s right hand, regarding the couple with anxious eye. They feasted for a day and night in Edemonovo. The glorifying songs were heard without stop until dawn. In the morning Yaroslav remembered his favorite page and felt guilt. Irreversibly. He wanted to explain how it happened, tell him his fateful dream and persuade him: to forgive him if he could. So he ordered Grigory brought to him. They could not find him. Yaroslav thought, what if he killed himself? He ordered them to look along the shore and in the wells. They searched—he was nowhere to be found. They found Grigory’s clothes at a peasant’s house. The peasant confessed: the prince’s page traded his expensive garb for peasant rags and asked him to tell no one. “I’m going off to the desert,” he said, “I won’t need it there.” It was pitiful to see a man so despairing of life. Yaroslav ordered that the entire region be searched. Wherever they looked, they got into the deepest part of the woods, he was nowhere, the man had vanished. Grigory and Ksenia

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Yaroslav spent three days in Edemonovo. His “heavenly bliss” would have been complete if not for the thought of Grigory that saddened him; he kept thinking of his favorite page, blaming himself for his death. And he was also worried by the thought: how would they treat his choice in Tver—the great princess a sacristan’s daughter. He told Ksenia about his dream. She understood everything. “Everything was as it had to be,” she said and sorrow covered her words; either she remembered Grigory, her only love, or accepting contrary destiny is not easy. “Take me with you,” she said, “do not fear.”

IV He sent Ksenia on the boat to Tver with the wedding retinue that had accompanied Grigory, while he traveled along the shore with his hunters. Enjoying the hunt, he arrived in Tver before Ksenia and ordered the boyars to come out to welcome the great princess. Yaroslav’s choice was accepted unanimously, with no hostility, the whole city gathered at the Church of St. Michael the Archangel to meet the great princess, a sacristan’s daughter. They loved Ksenia and there was great rejoicing in the city for many days. Life flowed on under great prince Yaroslav Yaroslavovich and great princess Ksenia Afanasyevna.

V Grigory went down roads without a path after leaving Edemonovo.

Yaroslav—he could understand, after all he himself had fallen in love with Ksenia at first glance; but what prompted Ksenia, who loved him, to suddenly stop? And why such bitter sadness in her farewell look? When Grigory had decided to marry and told Ksenia and her father, the sacristan Afanasy, that he would live with them in the village of Edemonovo, it meant his departure from a life that promised him first place and respect among the great prince’s army. And now when he was chased away, in despair he decided to leave the life of people, where nothing was certain and the very vow of love meant nothing. Accepting your lot and submitting to it, living out the pain is hurtful and heavy to the heart. Grigory settled in the woods; he would not get along with people, and the animals did not touch him. His pain rose above the earth and expressed itself there—as prayer. “To whom and about what can a man pray who has been treated thus by fate: given everything to have it taken away roughly? “In the world there is only one haven for a man in misfortune—mother.” Grigory, cast out of life, crushed, prayed to the Mother of God, asking Her to set him on the path—for he was destitute in every way. And so he lived in loss.

VI He prayed for the secret of his cruel lot to be revealed. His prayer to the Mother of God was a persistent and inexorable howl. Grigory and Ksenia

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The ringing of the forest and the roar of the beasts repeated the words of his pierced heart. Once people wandered into the forest and saw a hut among the trees. A cross on the hut. Whose was that? They were curious. And they came upon Grigory: where was he from, how was he, and how did he settle on their land? Grigory only bowed, said nothing, and so they left him, learning nothing. Grigory was afraid, it was dangerous to stay there: now they would find him—curiosity draws people. So he abandoned his hut and went wherever the road would take him. And the road led him to the mouth of the Tvertsa River. Familiar places, Tver was not far. He went back. He did not remember how he reached his abandoned hut. He realized that there was no point in going far, but he could not remain here. He decided to move his hut to the depths of the pine forest. So he did. It was safe in the pine forest. That night in the new place he rested, confident, with his only prayer that the secret of his cruel lot be revealed to him, and fell asleep. A clear meadow in his eyes—not the forest, but a clear meadow— clear, pierced by light. And the light vacillated and had sound: Every creature feels joy for You, Pleased One, glory to You. Revelation came upon awakening: on this spot will be the house of the Holy Mother of God—the monastery of the Birth of the Mother of God. The next night he saw the Mother of God in his dream.

He saw her from afar on the edge, and she came closer. He recognized her: she was not the Vladimir or the Bogolubovo Mother of God; she was in Ksenia’s simple peasant dress, with a staff and a bundle in her hands—a pilgrim. She looked at him with sorrow. “Put a church and monastery here,” she said. The Birth of the Mother of God, he thought. “In honor of the Dormition,” she said. “Yaroslav will help you, turn to him.” At the mention of Yaroslav, Grigory shuddered and woke up; the forest was rustling and a golden ray of sunshine came through the trees.

VII Waking up was horrible. He wanted to hide in a more secret place— he could not go ask the great prince for help. But over the course of the day he changed his mind—running away would mean disobeying the Mother of God. That day servants of the great prince came into the forest on business. They recognized Grigory immediately and rejoiced: what news they would bring Yaroslav—three years without a word and suddenly found; Yaroslav would rejoice, all that time never forgetting his favorite page, he had blamed himself for his death. So they went straight to the court of the great prince. Yaroslav recognized Grigory and joy illuminated him. Grigory bowed: forgive me, I distressed you. He told of his sad life—three years. And the vision of the Mother of God and the words of the Mother of God. Grigory and Ksenia

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“Forgive me, I distressed you,” he repeated and bowed to the ground. “Our life was sorrowful,” Yaroslav said. “Three years. Now you have removed my sorrow.” He asked Grigory to return to the court, but Grigory refused. And when Yaroslav wanted to feed him, he did not touch the foods but asked for bread. Yaroslav promised to clear the place Grigory would indicate and build a church and monastery in the name of the Dormition. And he did it all. The brethren gathered, and among the monks was Grigory, with the name Gurii. The great prince of Tver and the great princess Ksenia were present at the consecration of the church.

VIII The monk Gurii did not live at the monastery for long: having fulfilled what he had been assigned to do, he left this life, to work off his earthly lot. Yaroslav has a son—they called him Mikhail—and among the Russian princes under the Tatar Yoke, Mikhail of Tver was a powerful name (with the proud dream of uniting the Russian land). Soon after his favorite page, Yaroslav died. Yaroslav died on the way back from the Horde, before his death he was tonsured as a monk with the name Afanasy. Until Mikhail grew up, Ksenia ruled the Tver principality: she instilled the proud dream in her son to unite the Russian land and

throw off the Tatar Yoke. In the last years of her life Ksenia went to a convent (Sofia) and became a nun, taking the name Maria. Until her death she took care of page Grigory’s monastery. She attended services often and decorated the first grave—of her only love. Even separated love does not die, I see—it will lead to a meeting by sorrowful paths—the chains of fate fall apart. Grigory will meet Ksenia and they will recognize each other. The shadow of damnation fell on Yaroslav’s family. The fate of their son Mikhail of Tver was a bitter lot: he was crushed by Moscow and finished off by the Tatars. At the Horde they tied him up, nailed him into a block, shackled him, threw him full force into a wall: the wall broke. They attacked him and struck him with whatever was at hand, beat his head against the ground, trampled him ruthlessly with their feet—and the killer Romanets grabbed a knife and stabbed him in the chest and cut out his heart.

Grigory and Ksenia

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