As he entered the churchyard he met a cute young male gymnasium student with a rosy and naive face and guileless pale blue eyes. Peredonov said:
“Ah, Mashenka, greetings, you sissy.”
Misha Kudryavtsev blushed painfully. Peredonov had already teased him on several occasions by calling him Mashenka. Kudryavtsev couldn’t understand why and couldn’t bring himself to make a complaint. Several of his friends, silly young boys, immediately got together and began to laugh at Peredonov’s words. It made them happy as well to tease Misha.
The Church of the Prophet Ilya, an old church built back during the reign of Tsar Mikhail,* stood on a square opposite the gymnasium. Consequently, on holidays the gymnasium students were obliged to gather here for mass and vespers and stand in rows on the left side by the chapel of St. Ekaterina the Martyr, while one of the school prefects was stationed behind them to supervise. Immediately alongside, closer to the center of the church, stood the teachers from the gymnasium together with the inspector and headmaster and with their families. As a rule, almost all the orthodox students were gathered there, with the exception of a few who received permission to visit their own parish churches together with their parents.
A choir of gymnasium students sang well and for that reason the church was attended by the front-rank merchantry, officials and families of the landed gentry. There weren’t many of the simple folk for the additional reason that, in accord with the wishes of the headmaster, mass was celebrated here at a later hour than in other churches.
Peredonov stood in his usual spot. From here he could see all the singers. Screwing up his eyes, he looked at them and thought that they were standing in a disorderly fashion and that he would have straightened them out if he had been the inspector at the gymnasium. There was the swarthy Kramarenko, small, slender and fidgety, he kept turning around first one way then the other, whispering something, smiling—and no one stopped him. Just as though no one were concerned.
“A disgrace,” Peredonov thought. “These singers are always good-for-nothings. That swarthy lad has a clear and pure soprano, so he thinks that he can go ahead and whisper and smile in church.”
And Peredonov frowned. Alongside him stood Sergei Potapovich Bogdanov, the inspector of public schools who had arrived a little later. He was an old man with a brown stupid face which constantly bore the expression of a man who seemingly wanted to explain to someone something that he himself could not comprehend. No one could be as easily amazed or frightened as Bogdanov. No sooner would he hear something new or unsettling then some inner painful effort would bring a frown to his forehead, and confused, perturbed exclamations would fly from his mouth.
Peredonov leaned over to him and said in a whisper:
“One of your lady teachers goes around wearing a red blouse.”
Bogdanov took fright. The white goatee on his chin started to shake.
“What, what’s that you say?” he whispered hoarsely. “Which one, which one is that?”
“That loud-mouthed one, the fatso, I don’t know what her name is,” Peredonov whispered.
“The loud-mouthed one, the loud-mouthed one,” Bogdanov was distractedly trying to recall. “Yes, that’s Skobochkina.”
“That’s her,” Peredonov confirmed.
“But how can it be, how can it be!” Bogdanov exclaimed in a whisper. “Skobochkina in a red blouse, goodness! And did you see her yourself?”
“I did and people say that she’s always showing off in school. Or even worse things happen: she puts on a sarafan, and walks around like some ordinary peasant girl.”
“You don’t say! We really must find out, we really must. That’s not allowed, not allowed. She could be dismissed for that, yes, dismissed,” Bogdanov babbled. “She was always like that.”
Mass ended. They walked out of the church. Peredonov said to Kramarenko:
“Hey, you, you little blackamoor, why were you smiling in church? Just you wait, I’ll tell your father.”
Peredonov always addressed the students who weren’t from the gentry in the familiar fashion; but he used the formal manner of address with the members of the gentry. He always found out, at the school office who was from which class and his memory latched firmly onto these differences.
Kramarenko looked at Peredonov in amazement and silently ran past. He belonged to that number of students who found Peredonov to be vulgar, stupid and unfair, and who hated and despised him for that. The majority of students were like that. Peredonov thought that these were the ones whom the headmaster was inciting against him, if not personally, then through his sons.
Once he was outside the churchyard Volodin approached Peredonov with a delighted giggle. He had on what could pass for a blissful birthday face. His derby was on the back of his head and he was shifting his walking stick from one hand to the other.
“Guess what I’m going to tell you, Ardalyon Borisych,” he whispered happily. “I’ve persuaded Cherepnin and in a few days he’s going to smear tar all over Marta’s gate.”
Peredonov was silent for a few moments, weighing something, and then suddenly he roared sullenly. Volodin stopped grinning just as quickly, assumed a modest appearance, straightened his derby, and looking up at the sky and waving his stick said:
“Nice weather, but it’s going to rain by evening. Well, what’s a little rain, the future inspector and I will sit at home for a while.”
“I won’t have much time to sit around at home,” Peredonov said. “I have things to do today; I have to go into town.”
Volodin assumed an understanding face although, of course, he didn’t know what things Peredonov had suddenly found to do. Peredonov was thinking that he absolutely had to pay a few visits. Yesterday’s chance meeting with the police officer had led him to a thought which seemed entirely sensible: to make the rounds of all the important people in town and assure them of his reliability. If he succeeded in doing that, then, whatever happened, Peredonov would have defenders in the town who could attest to the correct nature of his thoughts.
“Where are you going, Ardalyon Borisych?’ Volodin asked, seeing that Peredonov was veering from the path that he always returned by. “Aren’t you going home?”
“Yes, I’m going home,” Peredonov replied. “Only today I’m afraid to walk along the street,”
“Why?”
“A great deal of durman grows there and the fragrance is strong. It has a powerful effect on me, it makes me feel drugged. My nerves are weak today. All kinds of troubles”
Volodin once more assumed an understanding and sympathetic look on his face.
Along the way Peredonov tore off several heads from some thistles and stuck them in his pocket.
“What are you gathering that for?” Volodin asked grinning.
“For the cat,” Peredonov replied with a frown.
“To stick them in its fur?” Volodin inquired in a serious tone.
“Yes.”
Volodin started to giggle.
“Don’t you start without me,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”
Peredonov invited him to come in right then, but Volodin said that he had some business. He suddenly felt that it was somehow indecent never to have any business to do. Peredonov’s words about his own affairs had stirred him and he was thinking that it would be a good idea now to drop in on his own to see the young Adamenko lady and to say to her that he had some new and very exquisite drawings to be framed and wouldn’t she like to take a look at them. Moreover, Volodin was thinking, Nadezhda Vasilyevna would treat him to coffee.
And Volodin did so. On top of it he came up with a very devious trick. He suggested to Nadezhda Vasilyevna that he give her brother instruction in manual work. Nadezhda Vasilyevna thought that Volodin needed to earn some money and immediately gave her consent. The agreement was for Volodin to give instruction three times a week, two hours each time, and for thirty roubles a month. Volodin was ecstatic. He had both the money and the opportunity of frequent meetings with Nadezhda Vasily
evna.
As always, Peredonov was gloomy when he returned home. Varvara, pale from her sleepless night, started to grumble:
“You might have told me yesterday that you weren’t coming home.”
Teasing her, Peredonov related how he had made the trip to Marta’s. Varvara was silent. She had the Princess’s letter in her hands. Even though it was forged, nevertheless …
Over lunch she said with a smirk:
“While you were passing the time with Marfushka, I received a reply here from the Princess without you.
“Did you really write her?” Peredonov asked.
His face grew animated with the gleam of dreary anticipation.
“Look at him, indulging in his tomfoolery,” Varvara replied with a laugh. “You yourself told me to write.”
“Well, what does she write?” Peredonov asked anxiously.
“Here’s the letter, read it yourself.”
Varvara rummaged around in her pockets as though she were looking for the letter that she had stuffed somewhere and then she pulled it out and handed it to Peredonov. He abandoned his food and pounced hungrily on the letter. He read it and rejoiced. Here, finally, was a clear and positive promise. No doubts arose in him. He quickly finished his breakfast and went to show the letter to his friends and acquaintances.
With sullen animation he quickly entered Vershina’s garden. As was practically always the case, Vershina was standing by the gate and smoking. She rejoiced: earlier she had had to lure him, now he had dropped in of his own accord. Vershina was thinking:
“That’s what it means to go for a ride with a young lady and to spend some time with her—lo, he’s come running! Perhaps he already wants to make a proposal?” she thought, anxiously and joyfully.
Peredonov disenchanted her almost immediately. He showed her the letter.
“There, you were all doubting,” he said “But look, the Princess herself has written. Here read it and see for yourself.”
Vershina looked mistrustfully at the letter, quickly puffed tobacco smoke several times in his direction, smiled crookedly and asked quietly and quickly:
“And where’s the envelope?”
Peredonov suddenly took fright. He thought that Varvara could have fooled him with the letter. She might have gone ahead and written it herself. He had to demand the envelope from her as quickly as possible.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I have to ask.”
He said a hasty goodbye to Vershina and quickly went back to his house. It was essential to ascertain as quickly as possible what the origin of the letter was. The sudden doubt was so agonizing.
Standing by the gate, Vershina watched him go, smiled crookedly and puffed rapidly on her cigarette as though she were hurrying to complete a school lesson that had been assigned for that day.5
Peredonov ran home with a frightened and desperate face, and while he was still in the front hall he shouted in a voice that was hoarse with alarm:
“Varvara, where’s the envelope?”
“What envelope?” Varvara asked in a trembling voice.
She gave Peredonov an insolent look and would have turned red in the face if she hadn’t been rouged.
“The envelope, from the Princess, that the letter came in today,” Peredonov explained, looking spitefully and fearfully at Varvara.
Varvara gave a tense laugh.
“I burned it, what did I need it for?” she said. “What do you expect me to do, collect envelopes or something, to make a collection out of them? They don’t pay money for envelopes. It’s only for bottles that they give you money in the taverns.”
Gloomy, Peredonov walked about the rooms and grumbled:
“There are all kinds of Princesses around. Don’t we know it. Perhaps this Princess even lives here.”
Varvara pretended that she had no idea what he was suspicious about, but she was terribly afraid.
When Peredonov was passing Vershina’s garden towards evening, Vershina stopped him.
“Did you find the envelope?” she asked.
“Varya says that she burned it,” Peredonov replied.
Vershina laughed and then white clouds of tobacco smoke undulated before him in the calm and mild air.
“Strange,” she said. “How could your cousin be so careless. A business letter and suddenly there’s no envelope! Still one might have been able to see from the postmark when and where the letter was dispatched.”
Peredonov was terribly annoyed. Vershina was unsuccessful in inviting him into the garden and was unsuccessful in promising to tell his fortune with cards. Peredonov left.
Nevertheless he showed the letter to his friends and boasted. And his friends believed him.
But Peredonov didn’t know whether to believe or not to believe. In any event he decided that beginning on Tuesday he would start out on his visits of self-vindication to the important people in the town. He couldn’t start on Monday—it was a painful day.
VIII
AS SOON AS Peredonov had left to play billiards, Varvara went to Grushina’s. They conferred for a long while and finally decided to correct matters with a second letter. Varvara knew that Grushina had acquaintances in Petersburg. By using them it shouldn’t be difficult to have the letter, which they were preparing here, sent there and then back again.
As was the case the first time, Grushina pretended to refuse for a long while.
“Oh, Varvara Dmitrievna, sweetheart,” she said, “I’m still all atremble and afraid over the one letter. No sooner do I see the policeman near my house than I go completely to pieces thinking that they’re coming for me and they want to put me in jail.”
Varvara went on trying to convince her for a good hour, pledging all manner of presents, giving her some money in advance. Finally Grushina agreed. They decided to do it in the following manner. First Varvara would say that she had written a reply to the Princess thanking her. Then, after a few days a letter would arrive, supposedly from the Princess. In this letter it would be written even more definitely that there were positions available and if she were to quickly get married, then it would be possible right then to help secure one for Peredonov. The letter would be written by Grushina here, like the first one. Then they would seal it, affix a seven-kopeck stamp, Grushina would put it inside another letter to her friend and the latter would drop it in the post box in St. Petersburg.
And thus Varvara and Grushina went to a shop at the far end of town and there they bought a packet of envelopes, narrow ones with a colored lining, and colored paper. For the envelopes and paper they selected the only remaining ones of that type in the shop—a precaution which Grushina thought of in order to conceal the forgery. The narrow envelopes were chosen because then the forged letter could easily fit into another envelope.
On returning to Grushina’s, they composed a letter from the Princess. Two days later when the letter was ready it was perfumed with cypress. They burned the rest of the envelopes and paper so that no evidence would be left.
Grushina wrote to her friend to tell her on precisely which day to post the letter. They calculated so that the letter would arrive on a Sunday, then the postman would deliver it while Peredonov was at home and that would be extra proof that the letter was not forged.
On Tuesday Peredonov tried to return home earlier from the gymnasium. Chance came to his rescue. His final lesson was in a classroom whose door fronted on the corridor close to the spot where the clock hung and the watchman, a dashing non-commissioned reservist who kept vigil by ringing the bell at the appointed hours, was stationed.
Peredonov sent the watchman to the teachers’ room to fetch the class register while he himself set the clock a quarter-hour ahead. No one noticed.
At home Peredonov refused lunch and said that dinner should be made later—he had to go out on business.
“They keep trying to get me entangled but I’ll untangle it,” he said angrily, thinking about the intrigues his enemies were mounting against him.
He put on
a dress jacket he rarely used and which now felt tight and uncomfortable on him. With the years he had put on weight and the jacket had shrunk. He was annoyed that he had no medals. Others had them. Even Falastov from the town school had them, but he had none. It was all the doing of the headmaster. Not once had he wanted to recommend Peredonov for any. Promotion through the ranks* continued, the headmaster couldn’t stop that, but what did it matter if no one could actually see it. It was good that he would be able to wear epaulettes according to his rank and not according to the type of position he held. That would be important, having epaulettes like a general and one large star. Immediately everyone would see that it was a State Councillor walking down the street. “I better order a new uniform as quickly as possible,” Peredonov thought.
He went out into the street and only then did he begin to consider whom to start with.
It seemed that the most indispensable people in his situation were the district police chief and the procurator of the regional court. He ought to start with them. Or with the marshal of the nobility. But Peredonov felt frightened to begin with them. The marshal of the nobility, Veriga, was a general and had aspirations to a governorship. As for the district police chief and the procurator, they were the frightening representatives of the police and the courts.
“To begin with,” Peredonov thought, “I must choose the less imposing authorities to get my bearings there and have a sniff around. From them it should be apparent how they regard me and what they say about me.” Therefore, Peredonov decided that the smartest thing would be to start with the town mayor. Although the latter was a merchant and had only attended the regional school, nevertheless he had been everywhere. Everyone had been in his home and he enjoyed respect in the town. He had rather important acquaintances in other towns as well, even in the capital.
Peredonov made for the home of the mayor with determination.
The weather was bleak. Leaves were falling from the trees, resigned and tired. Peredonov was a little afraid.
In the mayor’s home it smelled of parquet flooring that had recently been polished and of something else barely discernible, something pleasantly savory. It was quiet and humdrum. The host’s children, a son from the gymnasium and a young girl in her teens (“she’s being tutored by a governess,” the father said), spent the tune being well-behaved in their rooms. There it was cozy, calm and cheerful, the windows looked out onto the garden, the furniture was comfortable, the games varied in the rooms and in the garden and the voices of children rang brightly.
The Petty Demon Page 12
