The Petty Demon

by Sologub, Fyodor

  Peredonov still didn’t want to name the wedding day. Once more he was demanding that he begiven the inspector’s position first. Remembering how many potential brides he had, he threatened Varvara more than once as he had done so during the past winter:

  “I’m going to get married right this minute. I’ll return in the morning with a wife and out you go. This is the last time you’re spending the night here.” And with these words he would leave—to play billiards. Sometimes he returned from there by evening, but more frequently he would go carousing in some squalid hangout with Rutilov and Volodin. On nights like that Varvara couldn’t fall asleep. For that reason she suffered from migraines. It was good at least if he returned at one or two o’clock in the morning, then she would breathe freely. But if he showed up only the next morning then Varvara would greet the day quite sick.

  Finally Grushina had prepared the letter and showed it to Varvara. They examined it for a long while, comparing it with the letter from the Princess the year before. Grushina assured her that it was so similar that the Princess herself would be enable to detect the forgery. Though in fact there was little similarity, nevertheless Varvara believed her. Moreover she understood that Peredonov wouldn’t be able to remember the vaguely familiar handwriting of the Princess accurately enough to detect the forgery.

  “Well, finally,” she said happily.” I’d been waiting for so long that I gave up waiting. But what about the envelope? If he asks, what am I to say?”

  “Well it’s impossible to forge the envelope. There are the postmarks,” Grushina said, chuckling and peering at Varvara with her sly and unmatched eyes: the right one was larger and the left one smaller.

  “What can I do?”

  “Varvara Dmitrievna, sweetheart, you just tell him that you threw the envelope in the stove. What use did you have for the envelope?”

  Varvara’s hopes were revived. She said to Grushina:

  “If only he’d marry me then I wouldn’t be running around for him. No, I’d just sit and make him do the running for me.”

  On Saturday after dinner Peredonov went to play billiards. His thoughts were oppressive and sad. He was thinking:

  “It’s vile to live in the midst of people who are hostile and envious. But what can I do, they can’t all be inspectors! It’s a struggle for survival!”

  At the intersection of two streets he met the staff police officer. An unpleasant meeting!

  Lieutenant-colonel Nikolai Vadimovich Rubovsky, a short solid man with thick eyebrows, cheerful gray eyes and a limping walk that made his spurs jingle loudly and unevenly, was extremely polite and therefore popular in society. He knew all the people in town, knew all their affairs and relations, loved to listen to gosip but was himself modest and as silent as the grave and never caused anyone any Unnecessary trouble.

  They stopped, exchanged greetings and chatted. Peredonov scowled, looked round to the sides and said cautiously:

  “I’ve heard that our Natasha is living with you, but don’t believe whatever she says about me, she’s lying.”

  “I don’t collect gossip from a maid,” Rubovsky said with dignity.

  “She’s vile herself,” Peredonov continued, paying no attention to Rubovsky’s objection. “She’s got a lower, a Pole. Perhaps she went to work for you on purpose in order to filch something secret.”

  “Please, don’t worry yourself over that,” the lieutenant-colonel objected. “I don’t keep the plans to the fortresses in my house.”

  The mention of fortresses perplexed Peredonov. It seemed to him that Rubovsky was alluding to the fact that he could imprison Peredonov in a fortress.

  “Well, hardly a fortress,” he murmured. “It’s a far cry from that, I just meant that in general people say all sorts of nonsense about me, but it’s mostly out of jealousy. Don’t you go believing anything of the sort. They’re denouncing me in order to deflect suspicion from themselves, but I myself can denounce them.”

  Rubovsky was puzzled.

  “I assure you,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and clinking his spurs, “No one has denounced you to me. Apparently someone has threatened you for the sake of a joke, indeed, there’s plenty that people will say at times.”

  Peredonov didn’t believe him. He thought that the police officer was being secretive, and he became terrified.

  Every time Peredonov passed Vershina’s garden, Vershina stopped him and lured him into her garden with her spell-binding movements and words.

  And he would go in, involuntarily submitting to her gentle sorcery. Perhaps she would succeed sooner than the Rutilovs in achieving her goal. After all, Peredonov was equally distant from all people and why shouldn’t he be joined in holy matrimony with Marta? But apparently it was a sticky bog that Peredonov had crept into and no spells would succeed in plopping him from one bog into another.

  Thus, even now, when Peredonov had parted with Rubovsky and was walking past, Vershina, dressed as always totally in black, lured him in.

  “Marta and Vladya are going home for the day,” she said, looking tenderly at Peredonov with her brown eyes through the smoke of her cigarette. “Perhaps you should go and visit with them in the country. A worker has come in the cart for them.”

  “Too cramped,” Peredonov said sullenly.

  “What do you mean, cramped,” Vershina objected. “You’ll be wonderfully comfortable. And it’s no misfortune if you’re a little cramped, it’s not far, only about six versts to go.”

  Meanwhile Marta had come running out of the house to ask Vershina something. The commotion before leaving had stirred her indolence somewhat and her face was more lively and cheerful than ordinarily. Once again, Peredonov was invited to the country, this time by the two of them.

  “There’s lots of room for you to be comfortable,” Vershina assured him. “You and Marta on the back seat, and Vladya and Ignaty on the front. Here, take a look, the cart is in the yard.”

  Peredonov followed Vershina and Marta into the yard where the cart stood while Vladya was busy around it packing away something. The cart was spacious. But examining it sullenly, Peredonov declared:

  “I won’t go. Too cramped. With the four of us and the things as well.”

  “If you think it’s going to be cramped,” said Vershina, “then Vladya can go on foot.”

  “Sure, I can,” said Vladya, giving a reserved and tender smile. “I can make it easily on foot in an hour and a half. If I start out right now, then I’ll be there before you.”

  Then Peredonov explained that it would be bumpy and he didn’t like bumpiness. They returned to the summer house. Everything had already been packed away, but the worker, Ignaty, was still eating in the kitchen, eating his fill solidly and without haste.

  “How is Vladya studying?” Marta asked.

  She couldn’t think up any other conversation with Peredonov and Vershina had already reproached her more than once for not knowing how to entertain Peredonov.

  “Badly,” Peredonov said. “He’s lazy and doesn’t listen.”

  Vershina liked to grumble. She started to lecture Vladya. Vladya blushed and smiled, shrugged his shoulders as though from cold and, as was his habit, raised one shoulder higher than the other.

  “Well, the year has only started,” he said, “I’ve still got time.”

  “You have to study right from the very start,” Marta said in the tone of an elder, but blushing slightly at the same time.

  “And he’s naughty,” Peredonov complained. “Yesterday he was romping about just like the street urchins. And rude, he was insolent to me on Thursday.”

  Vladya suddenly flushed crimson and spoke heatedly but without ceasing to smile:

  “There was nothing insolent, I just said the truth that in other school books you had missed on the average five mistakes each, but you had underlined every one in my book and had given me a two, yet mine was written better than those whom you gave a grade of three to.”

  “And furthermore you said something insolent
to me,” Peredonov insisted.

  “There was nothing insolent, I just said that I would tell the inspector,” Vladya said vehemently, “that you gave me a grade of two for nothing …”

  “Vladya, don’t forget yourself,” Vershina said angrily. “You ought to be asking forgiveness and here you are repeating yourself.”

  Vladya suddenly recalled that he mustn’t irritate Peredonov, that he might become Marta’s husband. He blushed deeply, tugged at the belt on his long shirt out of embarrassment and timidly said:

  “I’m sorry. I only wanted to ask you to remark it.”

  “Quiet, quiet now, please,” Vershina interrupted him, “I can’t bear arguments like this, I can’t bear them,” she repeated and her entire dry body gave an almost impenceptible shudder. “When people are making a remark to you, you keep quiet.”

  And Vershina heaped a fair amount of abuse on Vladya, smoking her cigarette and smiling crookedly the way she always smiled regardless of what the discussion.

  “Your father ought to be told so that he can punish you,” she concluded.

  “He ought to be whipped,” Peredonov decided and looked angrily at Vladya who had offended him.

  “Of course,” Vershina confirmed. “He ought to be whipped.”

  “He ought to be whipped,” Marta said as well and then blushed.

  “When I go to your father’s today,” Peredonov said, “I’ll tell him to whip you, and properly, while I’m there.”

  Vladya was silent, looked at his tormentors, his shoulders hunched up, and smiled through his tears. His father was a stern man. Vladya tried to console himself by thinking that these were merely threats. Did they really want to spoil his holiday? After all, a holiday is a special day, a noteworthy and happy one, and everything about a holiday was incommensurate with everything connected to school and a weekday.

  But Peredonov liked it when boys cried, particularly if he had caused them to cry and then confess. Vladya’s embarrassment and the restrained tears in his eyes, and his timid, guilty smile—all that delighted Peredonov. He decided to go with Marta and Vladya.

  “Well, fine, I’ll go with you,” he said to Marta.

  Marta was overjoyed, but somehow frightened. Of course she wanted Peredonov to go with them, or, to be more exact, Vershina wanted it for her and had conjured up the realization of this wish for Marta with her quick sorcery. But now, when Peredonov said that he was going, Marta began to feel awkward because of Vladya. She felt sorry for him.

  Vladya had an eerie feeling as well. Was Peredonov really going because of him? He felt like trying to gain favor with Peredonov. He said:

  “Ardalyon Borisych, if you think that it will be cramped, I can go on foot.”

  Peredonov glanced at him suspiciously and said:

  “Sure, if we let you go alone, you’ll run off somewhere. No sir, we better take you to your father, let him give it to you.”

  Vladya blushed and sighed. He felt so awkward and melancholy and annoyed over this sullen and tormenting person. Nevertheless, in order to soften up Peredonov, he decided to arrange his seat more comfortably.

  “I’ll fix it up,” he showed him, “so that you’ll have an excellent seat.”

  And he hastily made off for the cart. Vershina watched him go, smiling crookedly and smoking, and she said quietly to Peredonov:

  “They’re all afraid of their father. He’s a very stern person.”

  Marta blushed.

  Vladya had wanted to take his new English fishing rod, which he had bought with his savings, to the country with him and he had wanted to take a few other things, but all of that would have, taken up a lot of space in the cart. So Vladya carried all his things back into the house.

  It wasn’t hot. The sun was setting. The road, which had been dampened by the morning rain, wasn’t dusty. The cart rolled smoothly along the fine gravel, carrying the four passengers out of the town. The gray, well-fed horse was trotting as though it took no notice of their weight, and the lazy, taciturn worker, Ignaty, controlled the horse’s speed by means of movements on the reins which were apparent only to a practiced eye.

  Peredonov was sitting beside Marta. They had cleared so much space for him that it was quite uncomfortable for Marta to sit. But he took no notice of that. And even if he had taken notice of it, he would have thought that that was the way it should have been. After all, he was the guest.

  Peredonov felt quite good. He decided to have a polite chat with Marta, to joke a bit and amuse her. This is how he began:

  “Well, now, are you going to start a revolt soon?”

  “Why a revolt?” Marta asked.

  “You Poles are always getting ready to revolt, but it won’t do you any good.”

  “I hadn’t even considered it,” Marta said. “None of us want to revolt.”

  “Sure, that’s just what you’re saying, but you hate the Russians.”

  “No, we aren’t considering it,” Vladya said, turning to Peredonov from the front seat where he was sitting beside Ignaty.

  “We know what you mean when you say you’re not considering it. Only we’re not going to give you your Poland back. We conquered you. We’ve done a lot of good deeds for you, and apparently, regardless of how you feed a wolf, it keeps looking at the forest.”

  Marta didn’t protest. Peredonov was silent for a while and then suddenly said:

  “The Poles are brainless.”

  Marta blushed.

  “There are all kinds of people like that, both Poles and Russians,” she said.

  “No, that’s not so, it’s true,” Peredonov insisted. “The Poles are stupid. They only know how to swagger about. Now the Jews, those are smart people.”

  “The Jews are cheats and not at all smart,” Vladya said.

  “No, the Jews are a very clever race. The Jew can always dupe a Russian, but a Russian can never dupe a Jew.”

  “People shouldn’t cheat,” Vladya said. “Is it really so smart to cheat and dupe people?”

  Peredonov glanced angrily at Vladya.

  “The smart thing is in studying,” he said. “And you aren’t studying.”

  Vladya sighed and again turned and began to watch the regular trot of the horse. Peredonov said:

  “The Jews are smart at everything, at learning too, and just everything. If they allowed Jews to be professors, then all professors would be Jews. But the Poles are all slovenly.”

  He glanced at Marta and noting with pleasure that she had blushed deeply, he said politely:

  “Don’t go thinking that I’m talking about you. I know that you’ll make a good housekeeper.”

  “All Polish women are good housekeepers,” Marta replied.

  “Sure,” Peredonov protested, “some housekeepers they are, clean on the outside but with dirty petticoats underneath. But then you did have Mickiewicz.* He’s better than our Pushkin. I have a picture of him on my wall. Pushkin used to hang there but I took him out to hang in the outhouse. He was a bedchamber lackey.”

  “But you’re Russian,” Vladya said, “What does our Mickiewicz mean to you? Pushkin is good and Mickiewicz is good too.”

  “Mickiewicz is better,” Peredonov repeated. “The Russians are fools. The only thing they invented was the samovar and nothing else.”

  Peredonov glanced at Marta, screwed up his eyes and said:

  “You have a lot of freckles. It’s not very pretty.”

  “What can I do,” Marta murmured, smiling.

  “I have freckles too,” Vladya said, turning around on his narrow seat and bumping against the taciturn Ignaty.

  “You’re a boy,” Peredonov said. “It doesn’t matter, a man doesn’t have to be good-looking, but for you,” he continued, turning to Marta, “it’s not nice. That’s why no one will want you for a wife. You have to wash your face with pickle brine.”

  Marta thanked him for the advice.

  Vladya was looking at Peredonov with a smile.

  “What are you smiling for?” Peredonov s
aid. “Just you wait, when we arrive then you’ll get a first-rate licking.”

  Turning around on his seat, Vladya was gazing attentively at Peredonov, trying to guess whether he was joking or telling the truth. But Peredonov couldn’t bear it when people stared at him.

  “What are you eyeing me for?” he asked rudely. “I haven’t stripes on me. Or do you want to give me the evil eye?”

  “Excuse me,” he said timidly. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Do you believe in the evil eye?” Marta asked.

  “There’s no such thing as the evil eye, it’s only superstition,” Peredonov answered angrily. “Only it’s terribly rude to stare and scrutinize.”

  An awkward silence ensued for, a few minutes.

  “You’re actually poor,” Peredonov suddenly said.

  “We’re not rich,” Marta replied. “Still we’re not that poor. Each of us has something put aside.”

  Peredonov looked at her mistrustfully and said:

  “Of course I know you’re poor. You go around barefoot at home everyday.”

  “We don’t do it because we’re poor,” Vladya said pertly.

  “And I suppose you do it because you’re rich or something?” Peredonov asked and abruptly roared.

  “It has nothing to do with being poor,” Vladya said, blushing. “It’s very good for your health. We build up our health and it’s nice to do in the summer.”

  “Well, you’re lying there,” Peredonov objected rudely. “Rich people don’t go around barefoot. Your father has a lot of children, but he only earns a pittance. Not enough money for so many boots.”4

  VII

  VARVARA KNEW NOTHING about where Peredonov had gone. She spent a horribly anxious night.

  But even when he returned to town in the morning, Peredonov didn’t go home. Rather he had himself taken to church. Mass was beginning at the time. It seemed dangerous to him now not to attend church regularly. To be sure, people could denounce him for that.