Tolstoi for the young: Select tales from Tolstoi

IV

That night, having freed himself of Simon the Warrior, the first little Devilkin set out to seek Ivan’s Devilkin, to help him plague the Fool as they had agreed. He came to the fields, looked all round for his mate, but he was nowhere to be seen; he only found a hole. “I see some misfortune has happened to my mate; I must take his place. The ploughing is all finished; I must upset the Fool at the mowing.”

And the Devilkin went to the meadow and flooded it and trampled the hay in the mud.

“You horrid little wretch! You here again!”

“You can make them do anything you like. Soldiers can do everything.”

“Whoever you are you shall share the same fate.”

“What good are they?”

“What can you do?”

“Very well; make some, then.”

“Very well,” Ivan said; “it’s time for bed, anyhow, and I must feed the mare.”

“Very well,” Ivan said. “You can live here.”

“Very well,” Ivan said, taking him off the prongs. “Go, in God’s name.”

“This won’t do,” he said; “I must go home and bring a whetstone and a hunk of bread. If it takes me a week I’ll not give up until I’ve mowed it every bit.”

“They can.”

“The Fool has a temper,” he said; “I can’t catch him this way; I must think of something else.”

“That was clever of you,” he said. “It will amuse Malania.”

“Not yet,” Ivan said. “I shall want to make the soldiers out of chaff so as not to waste the grain. Show me first how to turn the soldiers into a sheaf again, so that I can thrash it.”

“Let me go now,” the Devilkin begged.

“I’m not the same one,” the Devilkin pleaded. “The other was my brother. I belong to your brother Simon.”

“I can make soldiers out of anything you choose.”

“He has mutilated and exhausted me, the fool! I’ve never had such trouble on the battlefield even. The wretch doesn’t sleep and you can’t get ahead of him. I’ll creep into the stacks of sheaves and rot the grain.”

“Can they play songs?”

When Ivan reached home, his other brother, Taras, and his wife were sitting at table and having supper. Taras could not pay his debts; he fled from his creditors and came home to his father. As soon as he saw Ivan he said, “Until I can make some more money, will you keep me and my wife?”

The Devilkin crept into the swamp, thinking, “Even if I have to cut my hands I won’t let him mow that!”

Taras the Pot-bellied said, “You do not smell sweet, Ivan; go and eat in the passage.”

Ivan was about to dash it against the cart, when the Devilkin cried out, “Spare me! I’ll not worry you again, and I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

Ivan took the sheaf and banged it on the ground and repeated the Devilkin’s words. And the sheaf burst asunder and every straw turned into a soldier and at their head the drummer and bugler were playing. Ivan laughed aloud.

Ivan took off his coat and sat down to table.

Ivan returned, sharpened his scythe and began to mow. The Devilkin crept into the grass, caught hold of the scythe by the heel and pushed the point into the ground. It was hard for Ivan, but he mowed all the grass, except a little piece in the swamp.

Ivan repeated the Devilkin’s words, and the soldiers turned into a sheaf again.

Ivan harnessed the mare and set out with his sister to gather in the sheaves. He stopped by the stack and began to throw the sheaves into the cart. He had thrown up two sheaves and was going to take up a third, when the fork dug into the Devilkin’s back. He looked at the prongs and saw a live Devilkin with his tail clipped, wriggling and writhing and trying to get away.

Ivan came to the swamp. The grass was not thick, but the scythe could not cut through it. Ivan grew angry and began to mow with all his might. The Devilkin began to lose hold, seeing that he was in a bad plight, but he had no time to get away and took refuge in a bush. Ivan swung the scythe near the bush and cut off half the Devilkin’s tail. He finished mowing the grass, told the old maid to rake it up and went away to mow the rye.

Ivan awoke at daybreak, put his scythe in order and set out to the meadow to mow the hay. Ivan swung the scythe once, he swung it twice, but the scythe grew blunt and would not cut; he had to sharpen it. Ivan struggled and struggled and struggled.

In the morning the Devilkin hurried off to the field of oats, but the oats were all harvested. Ivan had reaped them overnight so that less of the grain should be wasted. The Devilkin lost his temper at that.

He came to the field with his sickle, but the Devilkin with the clipped tail was there before him. He had entangled the rye, so that the sickle could not take it. Ivan went back for his reaping-hook and reaped the whole field of rye. “Now,” he said, “I must tackle the oats.”

At these words the Devilkin with the clipped tail thought, “I did not trip him up with the rye, but I’ll do so with the oats. If only the morrow would come!”

At the mention of God the Devilkin plunged into the ground like a stone thrown into water, and there was nothing but the hole left.

And the Devilkin said, “Take a sheaf of rye and bump it upright on the ground, saying,—

My slave bids you be a sheaf no more.
Every straw contained in you,
Must turn into a soldier true.”

And the Devilkin said, “Repeat the words—

My slave bids every soldier be a straw
And turn into a sheaf once more.”

And the Devilkin grew pensive when he heard these words.

And the Devilkin crept into a stack of sheaves, and began to rot them. He heated them, grew warm himself and fell asleep.

And again the Devilkin pleaded, “Let me go.”

And Taras’ wife said, “I cannot sup with a fool; he smells of sweat.”

He took his coat and a piece of bread, and went out.