The Shoemaker And The Devil

Anton Chekhov

IT was Christmas Eve. Marya had long been snoring on the stove; all the paraffin in the

little lamp had burnt out, but Fyodor Nilov still sat at work. He would long ago have flung

aside his work and gone out into the street, but a customer from Kolokolny Lane, who had a

fortnight before ordered some boots, had been in the previous day, had abused him roundly,

and had ordered him to finish the boots at once before the morning service.

"It's a convict's life!" Fyodor grumbled as he worked. "Some people have been asleep long

ago, others are enjoying themselves, while you sit here like some Cain and sew for the devil

knows whom. . . ."

husky voice. He had a German name which one could not pronounce. It was impossible to

tell what was his calling and what he did. When, a fortnight before, Fyodor had gone to take

his measure, he, the customer, was sitting on the floor pounding something in a mortar.

Before Fyodor had time to say good-morning the contents of the mortar suddenly flared up

and burned with a bright red flame; there was a stink of sulphur and burnt feathers, and the

room was filled with a thick pink smoke, so that Fyodor sneezed five times; and as he

returned home afterwards, he thought: "Anyone who feared God would not have anything

to do with things like that."

When there was nothing left in the bottle Fyodor put the boots on the table and sank into

thought. He leaned his heavy head on his fist and began thinking of his poverty, of his hard

Dreaming like this, Fyodor suddenly thought of his work, and opened his eyes.

"Here's a go," he thought, looking at the boots. "The job has been finished ever so long ago,

and I go on sitting here. I must take the boots to the gentleman."

He wrapped up the work in a red handkerchief, put on his things, and went out into the

street. A fine hard snow was falling, pricking the face as though with needles. It was cold,

slippery, dark, the gas-lamps burned dimly, and for some reason there was a smell of

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paraffin in the street, so that Fyodor coughed and cleared his throat. Rich men were driving

to and fro on the road, and every rich man had a ham and a bottle of vodka in his hands.

Rich young ladies peeped at Fyodor out of the carriages and sledges, put out their tongues

and shouted, laughing:

"Beggar! Beggar!"

Students, officers, and merchants walked behind Fyodor, jeering at him and crying:

"Drunkard! Drunkard! Infidel cobbler! Soul of a boot-leg! Beggar!"

All this was insulting, but Fyodor held his tongue and only spat in disgust. But when

he was sitting on the floor pounding something in a mortar, just as he had been the fortnight

before.

"Your honor, I have brought your boots," said Fyodor sullenly.

The customer got up and began trying on the boots in silence. Desiring to help him, Fyodor

went down on one knee and pulled off his old, boot, but at once jumped up and staggered

towards the door in horror. The customer had not a foot, but a hoof like a horse's.

"Aha!" thought Fyodor; "here's a go!"

The first thing should have been to cross himself, then to leave everything and run

downstairs; but he immediately reflected that he was meeting a devil for the first and

probably the last time, and not to take advantage of his services would be foolish. He

want?"

And without loss of time the shoemaker began complaining of his lot. He began by saying

that from his childhood up he had envied the rich. He had always resented it that all people

did not live alike in big houses and drive with good horses. Why, he asked, was he poor?

How was he worse than Kuzma Lebyodkin from Warsaw, who had his own house, and

whose wife wore a hat? He had the same sort of nose, the same hands, feet, head, and back,

as the rich, and so why was he forced to work when others were enjoying themselves? Why

was he married to Marya and not to a lady smelling of scent? He had often seen beautiful

young ladies in the houses of rich customers, but they either took no notice of him

whatever, or else sometimes laughed and whispered to each other: "What a red nose that

shoemaker has!" It was true that Marya was a good, kind, hard-working woman, but she

was not educated; her hand was heavy and hit hard, and if one had occasion to speak of

politics or anything intellectual before her, she would put her spoke in and talk the most

awful nonsense.

"What do you want, then?" his customer interrupted him.

"I beg you, your honor Satan Ivanitch, to be graciously pleased to make me a rich man."

"Certainly. Only for that you must give me up your soul! Before the cocks crow, go and

"Oh, very well!" the customer assented.

A bright flame suddenly flared up in the mortar, a pink thick smoke came puffing out, and

there was a smell of burnt feathers and sulphur. When the smoke had subsided, Fyodor

different man, wearing a waistcoat and a watch-chain, in a new pair of trousers, and that he

was sitting in an armchair at a big table. Two foot men were handing him dishes, bowing

low and saying:

"Kindly eat, your honor, and may it do you good!"

What wealth! The footmen handed him a big piece of roast mutton and a dish of

cucumbers, and then brought in a frying-pan a roast goose, and a little afterwards boiled

pork with horse-radish cream. And how dignified, how genteel it all was! Fyodor ate, and

spectacles and asked with a low bow:

"Are you satisfied with your dinner, Fyodor Pantelyeitch?"

But Fyodor could not answer one word, he was so stuffed after his dinner. The feeling of

repletion was unpleasant, oppressive, and to distract his thoughts he looked at the boot on

his left foot.

"For a boot like that I used not to take less than seven and a half roubles. What shoemaker

made it?" he asked.

"Kuzma Lebyodkin," answered the footman.

"Send for him, the fool!"

attitude at the door and asked:

"What are your orders, your honor?"

"Hold your tongue!" cried Fyodor, and stamped his foot. "Don't dare to argue; remember

But he at once recalled what a life the customers used to lead him, too, and he felt heavy at

heart, and to distract his attention he took a fat pocketbook out of his pocket and began

counting his money. There was a great deal of money, but Fyodor wanted more still. The

more; and the more he counted it, the more discontented he became.

In the evening the evil one brought him a full-bosomed lady in a red dress, and said that this

night he went to bed on a soft, downy feather-bed, turned from side to side, and could not

"We have a great deal of money," he said to his wife; "we must look out or thieves will be

breaking in. You had better go and look with a candle."

sorts of thoughts in his head about his box of money, about thieves, about his bartered,

ruined soul.

He came out of church in a bad temper. To drive away his unpleasant thoughts as he had

often done before, he struck up a song at the top of his voice. But as soon as he began a

policeman ran up and said, with his fingers to the peak of his cap:

"Your honor, gentlefolk must not sing in the street! You are not a shoemaker!"

Fyodor leaned his back against a fence and fell to thinking: what could he do to amuse

himself?

"Your honor," a porter shouted to him, "don't lean against the fence, you will spoil your fur

coat!"

street playing it. Everybody pointed at him and laughed.

"And a gentleman, too," the cabmen jeered at him; "like some cobbler. . . ."

"Is it the proper thing for gentlefolk to be disorderly in the street?" a policeman said to him.

wouldn't let him pass.

And at home his new wife, the lady, was waiting for him, dressed in a green blouse and a

red skirt. He meant to be attentive to her, and had just lifted his arm to give her a good clout

"Peasant! Ignorant lout! You don't know how to behave with ladies! If you love me you will

kiss my hand; I don't allow you to beat me."

"This is a blasted existence!" thought Fyodor. "People do lead a life! You mustn't sing, you

He had no sooner sat down to tea with the lady when the evil spirit in the blue spectacles

appeared and said:

There was a fearful smell of paraffin in hell, enough to suffocate one. And suddenly it all

vanished. Fyodor opened his eyes and saw his table, the boots, and the tin lamp. The lamp-

glass was black, and from the faint light on the wick came clouds of stinking smoke as from

a chimney. Near the table stood the customer in the blue spectacles, shouting angrily:

"Fool! Blockhead! Ass! I'll give you a lesson, you scoundrel! You took the order a fortnight

ago and the boots aren't ready yet! Do you suppose I want to come trapesing round here half

a dozen times a day for my boots? You wretch! you brute!"

Fyodor shook his head and set to work on the boots. The customer went on swearing and

threatening him for a long time. At last when he subsided, Fyodor asked sullenly:

"And what is your occupation, sir?"

They began ringing for matins. Fyodor gave the customer the boots, took the money for

them, and went to church.

Carriages and sledges with bearskin rugs were dashing to and fro in the street; merchants,

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