Tolstoi for the young. Select tales from Tolstoi. Tolstoy Leo
three little roots, grown together.
“There,” he said; “if any one swallows a single one of these roots all pain will pass away from him.”
Ivan took the three roots, separated them and swallowed one. His stomach-ache instantly left him.
“Let me go now,” the Devilkin begged once more. “I will dive through the earth and never bother you again.”
“Very well,” Ivan said; “go, in God’s name.”
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. Ivan thrust the two remaining little roots into his cap and went on with his ploughing. He finished the strip, turned over his plough and set off home. He unharnessed and went into the house, and there was his brother, Simon the Warrior, sitting at table with his wife, having supper. His estate had been taken from him; he had escaped from prison and come back to live with his father.
As soon as Simon the Warrior saw Ivan, he said to him, “I have come with my wife to live with you; will you keep us both until I find another place?”
“Very well,” Ivan said, “you can live here.”
When Ivan sat down by the table, the smell of him was displeasing to the lady and she said to her husband, “I cannot sup together with a stinking peasant.”
And Simon the Warrior said, “My lady says you do not smell sweet; you had better eat in the passage.”
“Very well,” Ivan said. “It is time for bed anyway, and I must feed the mare.”
Ivan took some bread and his coat and went out for the night.
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.
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.
“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.”
And the Devilkin grew pensive when he heard these words.
“The Fool has a temper,” he said; “I can’t catch him this way; I must think of something else.”
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.
The Devilkin crept into the swamp, thinking, “Even if I have to cut my hands I won’t let him mow that!”
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.
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!”
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 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.”
And the Devilkin crept into a stack of sheaves, and began to rot them. He heated them, grew warm himself and fell asleep.
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.
“You horrid little wretch! You here again!”
“I’m not the same one,” the Devilkin pleaded. “The other was my brother. I belong to your brother Simon.”
“Whoever you are you shall share the same fate.”
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.”
“What can you do?”
“I can make soldiers out of anything you choose.”
“What good are they?”
“You can make them do anything you like. Soldiers can do everything.”
“Can they play songs?”
“They can.”
“Very well; make some, then.”
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.”
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.
“That was clever of you,” he said. “It will amuse Malania.”
“Let me go now,” the Devilkin begged.
“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.”
And the Devilkin said, “Repeat the words —
My slave bids every soldier be a straw
And turn into a sheaf once more.”
Ivan repeated the Devilkin’s words, and the soldiers turned into a sheaf again.
And again the Devilkin pleaded, “Let me go.”
“Very well,” Ivan said, taking him off the prongs. “Go, in God’s name.”
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.
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?”
“Very well,” Ivan said. “You can live here.”
Ivan took off his coat and sat down to table.
And Taras’ wife said, “I cannot sup with a fool; he smells of sweat.”
Taras the Pot-bellied said, “You do not smell sweet, Ivan; go and eat