The Petty Demon

by Sologub, Fyodor

  But in the rooms of the upper floor that fronted on the street and where guests were received, everything was strained and severe. It was as though the mahogany furniture represented a version of toy furniture many times enlarged. It was uncomfortable for ordinary people to sit on it. One felt as though one had fallen on a rock when sitting down. It made no difference to the ponderous host. He would take a place, sit down and be comfortable. The archimandrite who would frequently visit the mayor from the monastery in the town’s vicinity called these upholstered chairs and sofas “soul-saving,” to which the mayor would respond:

  “I don’t like those fragile ladies’ things you find in other homes. You sit down on springs and you yourself bounce and the furniture bounces—what’s good about that? Incidentally, even doctors don’t approve of soft furniture.”

  The mayor, Yakov Anikievich Skuchaev, greeted Peredonov in the doorway to the living room. He was a fat, tall man with shortly cropped black hair. He bore himself with a dignity and a politeness that was not far removed from a certain disdain in his attitude to people who were not well-off.

  Sitting erect in a wide chair and replying to his host’s polite questions, Peredonov said:

  “I’ve come to you on business.”

  “My pleasure. How may I help you?” the host inquired politely.

  A disdainful light was ignited in the mayor’s cunning black eyes. He thought that Peredonov had come to ask to borrow money and he decided that he wouldn’t give him more than a hundred and fifty roubles. There were many officials in town who to a greater or lesser extent were in debt to Skuchaev. Skuchaev never reminded them about returning the loan, but on the other hand he wouldn’t extend any further credit to delinquent debtors. On the first occasion, however, he would give willingly, according to the cash he had on hand and the financial condition of the suppliant.

  “You, Yakov Anikievich, as the mayor, occupy the top position in the town,” Peredonov said. “This is why I have to talk with you.”

  Skuchaev assumed an important look and bowed slightly while sitting in his chair.

  “People are cooking up all sorts of nonsense about me in town,” Peredonov said sullenly. “They’re making up things that aren’t true.”

  “You can’t stop people from talking,” the host said. “And, any way, as you know, in our Palestines the scandal-mongers have nothing better to do than to wag their tongues.”

  “They say that I don’t attend church, but it isn’t true,” Peredonov continued. “I do attend. But if I wasn’t there on St. Ilya’s Day, it was because I had a stomach ache, otherwise I always attend.”

  “That’s true,” the host confirmed. “I can say that I have had occasion to see you there. Even though I don’t always attend your church. I go more frequently to the monastery. This is a long tradition in our family.”

  “They cook up all manner of nonsense,” Peredonov said. “They say that I supposedly tell the gymnasium students vile things. But that’s nonsense. Sometimes, of course, you tell something amusing in a lesson in order to liven things up. Your own son is a student at the gymnasium. He never told you anything of the sort about me, did he?”

  “That’s true,” Skuchaev agreed. “There was nothing of that sort. But then those lads are an exceedingly cunning lot: they won’t say what they’re not supposed to. My son, of course, is still young, he might have blabbed something out of stupidity. However, he’s never said anything of the sort.”

  “In the senior classes they already know everything,” Peredonov said. “But even there I don’t say any vulgar words.”

  “That’s the way things, are,” Skuchaev replied. “As everyone knows, the gymnasium isn’t a market square.”

  “And we have the kind of people,” Peredonov complained, “who’ll go about bleating things that aren’t true. That’s why I came to see you. You’re the mayor of the town.”

  Skuchaev was quite flattered by the fact that people came to see him. He didn’t quite understand what it was for or what the matter was here, but for the sake of politics, he didn’t show that he didn’t understand.

  “And there’s something else bad that people say about me,” Peredonov continued. “They say that I’m living with Varvara. They say that she isn’t my cousin, but my mistress. But swear to God, she is my cousin, only a distant cousin, a third cousin, and one can marry those. And I am going to get married to her.”

  “Indeed, indeed, of course,” Skuchaev said “The altar, in any event, would put an end to the business.”

  “But it was impossible for me to do so earlier,” Peredonov said. “I had important reasons. It was just impossible. Otherwise I would have gotten married long ago. You can believe me.”

  Skuchaev assumed a dignified air, frowned and tapping on the dark table cloth with his white, puffy fingers, said:

  “I believe you. If it’s so, then it’s really a different matter. Now I believe you. Otherwise, it must be admitted, it was doubtful the way you, if I may be allowed to say, were living with your friend without being married. It’s doubtful, you know, because the lads are a sharp folk. They imitate anything that’s bad. It’s difficult to teach them something good, but the bad comes by itself. So, true, it was doubtful. Anyway, regardless of who is involved, that’s how I would judge it. But the fact that you have made a complaint, then I feel flattered because even though we’re only homespun folk and didn’t get beyond the country school, well, nevertheless I have gained the respect I hold through the trust of society. I’m in my third term of office as mayor, so my word is worth something among the townspeople.”

  Skuchaev was talking and getting more and more entangled in his thoughts and it seemed to him that the rambling speech issuing from his mouth would never come to an end. And he broke off his speech and thought with melancholy:

  “Anyway it’s like pouring water into a sieve. The trouble with these scholars,” he thought, “is that you can’t understand what he wants. Everything is clear to him in books, this learned fellow, but soon as you drag his nose away from the book he gets all tangled up and tangles others up.”

  With melancholy perplexity he Stared at Peredonov, his sharp eyes had become glazed, the plump body had sagged and he no longer seemed the same cheerful political figure of late, but simply a rather foolish old man.

  Peredonov was also silent for a while as though spellbound by his host’s words, and then he said, screwing up his eyes with a vaguely glum expression:

  “You are the town mayor, so you can say that all of this is nonsense.”

  “In what regard do you mean?” Skuchaev inquired cautiously.

  “I mean,” Peredonov explained, “that if people denounce me to the district officials, saying that I don’t attend church or tell them something else there, and then they come here to ask you.”

  “That we can do,” the mayor said. “In any event, of that you can be assured. In a case like that we will stand up for you. Why shouldn’t we put in a good word for a good person? We could even present you with a testimonial from the town council if required. We can do all of that. Or, for example, we could give you the designation of a respected citizen. Why not, if it’s required. Everything is possible.”

  “So then I can rely on you,” Peredonov said sullenly as though replying to something that wasn’t very pleasant for him. “Otherwise the headmaster will go on persecuting me.”

  “I say!” Skuchaev exclaimed and shook his head sympathetically. “One must suppose that he’s doing so only because of the slander. Nikolai Vlasyevich, it seems to me, is a solid gentleman and he wouldn’t offend someone for nothing. Indeed, I can see it from my son. A serious gentleman, strict, doesn’t spoil anyone and he doesn’t show favorites, in short, a solid gentleman. It could only be due to the slander. Why are you and he at odds?”

  “We don’t share the same views,” Peredonov explained. “And I have people who are jealous of me in the gymnasium. They all want to be inspectors. But Princess Volchanskaya promised to help
secure an inspector’s post for me. So now they’re angry out of jealousy.”

  “I see, I see,” Skuchaev said cautiously. “Anyway, why are we having such an official conversation? We ought to have a bite to eat and a drink.”

  Skuchaev pushed the button on the electric bell near the hanging lamp.

  “A handy thing,” he said to Peredonov. “Perhaps you ought to transfer into a different department. Dashenka,” he said to the comely girl of athletic build who had entered in response to the bell, “bring us something to eat and some hot coffee, understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dashenka replied, smiled and left, walking with amazing lightness, considering her build.

  “Go into another department,” Skuchaev turned to Peredonov. “Perhaps even the church, for example. If you took holy vows, then you would make a serious, reliable priest. I could lend my aid. I have some very good acquaintances who are bishops.”

  Skuchaev named seveal diocesan and suffragan bishops.

  “No, I don’t want to join the priesthood,” Peredonov replied. “I’m afraid of the incense. Incense turns my stomach and makes my head ache.”

  “In that case it might also be a good idea to join the police,” Skuchaev advised. “For example, join the district police force. What rank do you hold, if I may ask?”

  “I am a State Councillor,” Peredonov said pompously.

  “Indeed!” Skuchaev exclaimed, “I say, what important ranks you’ve been given! And is it for teaching children? I say, knowledge really is important! Anyway, even if in our day some gentleman attacks knowledge, nevertheless, you can’t manage without knowledge. Even though I myself only studied in a country school, I’m sending my son to university. As you know, you have to lead them by stick and carrot through the gymnasium, but once he gets there everything will be fine. You know, I never give him a whipping. Whenever he gets lazy or slips up, I take him by the shoulders, lead him to the window—we have birch trees standing there in the garden. I show him a birch tree. I say to him, do you see that? Yes, I do, papa, he says, I won’t do it any more. And really, it helps, the lad straighten out as though he had actually been whipped. Oh, children, children!” Skuchaev finished with a sigh.

  Peredonov sat at Skuchaev’s for two hours. After their business conversation came abundant zakuski.

  Skuchaev’s hospitality, like everything that he did, was carried out with gravity, as though he were engaged in some important matter. Moreover, he attempted to do so with some cunning twists. Mulled wine was served in large glasses, just like coffee, and the host called it coffee. The vodka glasses came with the bases broken off and rounded so that it was impossible to set them down on the table.

  “I call these glasses ‘pour more, drink more’,” the host explained.

  Another merchant, Tishkov, arrived. He was grayheaded, short, cheerful and sprightly, and wore a long frock coat and boots like barrels. He drank a lot of vodka, spoke all kinds of nonsense in rhymes, quickly and cheerfully, and apparently was quite pleased with himself.

  Peredonov finally concluded that it was time to go home and he started to say goodbye.

  “Don’t be in a rush,” the host said, “sit a while.”

  “Sit down, stay around,” Tishkov said.

  “No, I have to go,” Peredonov replied anxiously.

  “He’s not to be late, his cousin can’t wait,” Tishkov said and winked at Skuchaev.

  “I have things to do,” Peredonov said.

  “We’ll make much ado for people with things to do,” Tishkov retorted instantly.

  Skuchaev accompanied Peredonov to the front hall. They embraced and kissed when they parted. Peredonov was pleased with this visit.

  “The mayor is for me,” he thought confidently.

  Returning to Tishkov, Skuchaev said:

  “They’re gossiping about the fellow for nothing.”

  “If they gossip forsooth, they don’t know the truth,” Tishkov rejoined at once as he poured himself a glass of English bitters with a spritely movement.

  It was apparent that he didn’t think about what people said to him but only caught the words for the sake of rhyme.

  “He’s alright, a sincere fellow and a good drinker,” Skuchaev continued, pouring himself a drink and paying no attention to Tishkov’s rhymes.

  “If he’s a good drinker, he must be a real thinker,” Tishkov cried boisterously and tossed the glass off.

  “And if he is passing the time with a mam’selle, so what does it matter!” Skuchaev said.

  “Bugs in the covers with mam’selles as lovers,” Tishkov replied.

  “Whosever has not transgressed in the eyes of the Lord is not guilty in those of the Tsar!”

  “We always fall into transgression whenever we seek affection.”

  “But he wants to erase his sin before the altar.”

  “They who erase their sin before the altar are doomed to fight and falter.”

  Tishkov always talked like this if it didn’t concern his own personal business. He would have bored everyone to death, but they had already grown used to him and no longer took any note of the rhyming patter he uttered so boisterously. It would only affect a decent person at times. But it made no difference to Tishkov whether people listened to him or not. He couldn’t help seizing on other people’s words for the sake of rhyme and he operated with the steadiness of a cunningly devised mechanical bore. After staring for a long while at his abrupt and distinct movements, one might have thought that this was no living person, that he had already died or had never been alive, and could see nothing in the living world and could hear nothing other than the deadly ring of his own words.

  IX

  THE FOLLOWING DAY Peredonov went to the public prosecutor Avinovitsky. Once again the weather was overcast. The wind blew in gusts and swept up dusty whirlwinds along the streets. Evening was approaching and everything was illuminated with a mournful light filtering through the murky overcast and seemingly from a source other than the sun.

  A melancholy lull hung over the streets and it seemed that the pitiful buildings, hopelessly decrepit, timidly hinting at the impoverished and boring life lurking within their walls, had originated for nothing. People appeared from time to time and even they were walking slowly as though without motivation, as though they were barely succeeding in overcoming the somnolence that was inducing them to stillness. Only the children, those eternal, tireless vessels of God’s delight in the earth, were lively and ran and played. But sluggishness was even settling over them by now, and some faceless and invisible monster, nestling at their shoulder, peered from time to time with eyes full of menace into their faces which were suddenly growing listless.

  In the midst of this langour in the streets and in the houses, in the grip of this alienation from the sky, through this sullied and impotent earth strolled Peredonov, languishing from indistinct fears. And for him there was no solace in the heavenly and no joy in the earthly, because even now, as was always the case, he looked at the world through deathly eyes like some kind of demon who was languishing in gloomy solitude out of fear and melancholy.

  His sensibilities were dull and his consciousness was an apparatus for corruption and destruction. Everything that reached his consciousness was transformed into something vile and filthy. He was immediately taken with deformities in objects and he rejoiced over them. Whenever he passed an erect and pure column, he wanted to deform it or deface it. He laughed with joy when things were spoiled in his presence. He despised the cleanly washed students at the gymnasium and persecuted them. He called them “goody-goodies.” The slovenly ones were more comprehensible to him. He had no objects that he loved just as there were no people he loved. And for that reason nature could influence his sensibilities only in one direction—only to suppress them. It was the same in his encounters with people. Particularly with strangers and people he didn’t know and to whom he couldn’t utter any vulgarity. Being happy for him meant doing nothing and, after shutting himself off from th
e world, gratifying his belly.

  “And now,” he thought, “like it or not I have to go and explain myself. What a burden! What a bore!” And even if he might have been able to spoil things where he was going, not even that would have consoled him.

  The public prosecutor’s house strengthened and concentrated in Peredonov those oppressive sentiments into a feeling of melancholy fear. And it was precisely as though that house possessed an angry and spiteful appearance. The high roof hung frowningly over the windows and forced them down towards the ground. Both the wooden trim and the roof had been painted a bright and cheerful color at one time, but time and rain had rendered the paint gloomy and gray. The gates, enormous and heavy, higher than the house itself, seemed to be installed in order to repulse enemy attacks and were bolted at all times. A chain rattled behind the gates and a dog barked at every passerby in a deep bass.

  Barren lots and gardens stretched out in all directions around the house while a few hovels sat about lopsidedly. Opposite the public prosecutor’s house was a long six-sided square with a depression in the middle, completely unpaved and overgrown with grass. Right next to the house towered a lamp standard, the only one in the entire square.

  Slowly and reluctantly Peredonov mounted the four sloping steps onto the porch, which was covered with a two-sided planked roof, and took hold of the darkened bronze handle to the bell. The bell rang somewhere close by, with a piercing and prolonged jarring sound. In a short while he could hear stealthy footsteps. Someone had tiptoed up to the door and stood as quiet as quiet could be. They must have been peering through some invisible crack. Then the iron handle rattled, the door opened—and a dark-haired, sullen, pock-faced girl with suspicious eyes that took everything in was standing on the threshold.