The Petty Demon

by Sologub, Fyodor

  Lately while playing cards it had always seemed to him that the cards were smirking like Varvara. Even the six of spades displayed an insolent appearance and wobbled about obscenely.

  Peredonov gathered up all the cards there were and with the sharp ends of the scissors pricked through the eyes of the face cards so they couldn’t spy. At first he did it with the used cards, but then he unsealed new decks as well. He did all of this while looking over his shoulder, as though fearing that someone would catch him. To his good luck Varvara was busy in the kitchen and didn’t peek into the other rooms—besides, how could she leave unguarded such an abundance of food supplies—Klavdiya had come in handy at that particular moment. When she needed something in the other rooms, she would send Klavdiya there. Every time Klavdiya entered, Peredonov would shudder, hide the scissors in his pocket and pretend that he was laying out the cards for solitaire.

  While Peredonov was thus depriving the kings and queens of any possibility of annoying him with their spying, trouble was approaching him from a different direction. The hat, which Peredonov had thrown on top of the stove in the other apartment so that it wouldn’t come so easily to hand, was discovered by Ershova.

  She reckoned that the hat had not been left behind accidentally. Her archenemies—the tenants who had moved out—very likely, thought Ershova, had cast a spell in the hat out of spite so that no one would rent the apartment afterwards. In fear and annoyance she took the hat to a wise woman. The latter examined the hat, sternly and mysteriously made whispering sounds over it, spat in all four directions and said to Ershova:

  “They tried to play a dirty trick on you, but you can turn the trick against them. A powerful wizard has cast a spell, but I am more cunning: I will cast a counter-spell against him so that he himself will be crushed.”

  And for a long while she worked a spell over the hat, and after receiving generous gifts from Ershova, she ordered her to give the hat to a red-haired fellow so that he would take the hat back to Peredonov, give it to the first person he met there and then run away without looking back.

  It transpired that the first red-headed fellow that Ershova met was one of the locksmith’s sons who were furious with Peredonov for revealing their nocturnal prank. He agreed with pleasure to fulfill the commission for five kopecks and on the way kept spitting into the hat on his own behalf. At Peredonov’s apartment, he ran smack into Varvara in the dark entry way, slipped her the hat and ran away so nimbly that Varvara didn’t manage to make out who it was.

  And thus, Peredonov had barely had time to blind the final jack when Varvara, amazed and even frightened, entered the room and said in a voice trembling with agitation:

  “Ardalyon Borisych, have a look at this.”

  Peredonov looked and almost fainted from terror. That very same hat that he had tried to get rid of was now in Varvara’s hands, crumpled, covered in dust and barely preserving the traces of its former magnificence. He asked, choking with terror:

  “Where, where did it come from?”

  Varvara told him in a frightened voice how she had gotten the hat from a spritely boy who almost seemed to have risen up out of the ground before her eyes, only then seemingly to be swallowed up by the ground again. She said:

  “It couldn’t be anyone but that old hag Ershova. She’s the one who put a spell in the hat, that’s for certain.”

  Peredonov muttered something indistinct and his teeth were chattering with fear. Gloomy fears and apprehensions were tormenting him. He walked around frowning, while the gray nedotykomka ran about under the chairs and giggled.

  The guests came early. They brought a lot of pies, apples and pears to the housewarming. Varvara accepted it all joyfully, and kept repeating for the sake of decorum:

  “Goodness, why did you bother? You needn’t have bothered yourself for nothing.”

  But if it seemed to her that people brought something cheap or bad, then she became angry. Nor did she like it if two guests brought the same thing.

  Losing no time they sat down to play cards. They played cards at two tables.

  “Ah, goodness gracious!” Grushina exclaimed. “What’s this, my king is blind!”

  “My queen hasn’t any eyes either,” Prepolovenskaya said, examining her cards. “And the jack as well.”

  Laughing, the guests started to examine the cards.

  Prepolovensky said:

  “Well, well, there I was thinking what the matter was, the cards seem rough—and that’s why. I kept fingering them all the while, thinking what’s wrong, the back is kind of rough, but then it turns out that it’s because of these holes. Well-well, it’s the back of the card and it’s rough.”

  Everyone was laughing, only Peredonov alone was sullen. Varvara, smirking, said:

  “You know how eccentric my Ardalyon Borisych is always acting. He’s always coming up with fresh tricks.”

  “Why did you do it?” Rutilov asked with a loud burst of laughter.

  “What do they need eyes for?” Peredonov said sullenly. “They don’t have to look.”

  Everyone roared with laughter while Peredonov remained sullen and taciturn. It seemed to him that the blinded figures were making faces, smirking and winking at him with the gaping holes in their eyes.

  “Perhaps,” Peredonov thought, “they’ve contrived some way to look with their noses now.”

  As was almost always the case he was unlucky and he imagined an expression of ridicule and malice on the faces of the kings, queens and jacks. The queen of spades was even grinding her teeth, apparently furious at the fact that she had been blinded. Finally, after one enormous loss, Peredonov grabbed the pack of cards and furiously started to tear them to pieces. The guests roared with laughter. Smirking, Varvara said:

  “That’s the way my fellow is all the time—he has a drink and starts to act strange.”

  “When he’s drunk, you mean?” Prepolovenskaya said poisonously. “Ardalyon Borisych, do you hear what your cousin thinks about you?”

  Varvara blushed and said angrily:

  “What are you doing pouncing on my words?”

  Prepolovenskaya smiled and was silent.

  They took a fresh deck of cards in place of the torn one and continued the game.

  Suddenly a crash was heard—the glass window was smashed and a stone fell on the floor near the table where Peredonov was sitting. Under the window they could hear someone softly talking, laughter, then the sound of feet disappearing quickly into the distance. Everyone leapt up from their places in great commotion. The women, as usual, started to shriek. They picked up the stone, examined it fearfully, but no one could make up their mind to go to the window. First they sent Klavdiya out on the street and only after she had reported that it was deserted outside did they begin to examine the shattered window.

  Volodin concluded that students from the gymnasium had thrown the stone. The conjecture seemed likely and everyone gave Peredonov a significant look. Peredonov frowned and muttered something unintelligible. The guests started to talk about what brazen and illdisciplined boys there were.

  Of course it hadn’t been students from the gymnasium but the sons of the locksmith.

  “It’s the headmaster who put the students up to it,” Peredonov suddenly declared. “He keeps finding fault with me, he doesn’t know how to get at me and so he thought this up.”

  “Some trick he’s pulled!” Rutiltov cried with laughter.

  Everyone burst into laughter, only Grushina said:

  “And what do you think, he’s the kind of poisonous person that you might expect anything from. He didn’t do it himself, he’d keep to the side. He’d put them up to it through his sons.”

  “It doesn’t matter that they’re aristocrats,” Volodin bleated in an offended voice. “You can expect anything from aristocrats.”

  Many of the guests thought that it was likely true and they stopped laughing.

  “You don’t have any luck with glass, Ardalyon Borisych,” Rutilov said. “First they
broke your spectacles and then they smashed the window.”

  That provoked a fresh fit of laughter.

  “Broken glass means a long life,” Prepolovenskaya said with a restrained smile.

  When Peredonov and Varvara were getting ready to go to bed, it seemed to Peredonov that Varvara had something wicked on her mind. He took the knives and forks away from her and hid them under the bed. He was babbling with a sluggish tongue:

  “I know you. As soon as you marry me, then you’re going to denounce me so that you can get rid of me. You’ll get my pension while they’ll be grinding me to bits in the mill in Petropavlovsky Prison.”

  That night Peredonov was delirious. Indistinct, frightening figures were roaming about noiselessly—kings and jacks shaking their staffs. They were whispering and trying to hide from Peredonov, and stealthily crept up under his pillow. But soon they became bolder and started to walk, run and fuss about all around Peredonov, on the floor, the bed and the pillows. They whispered in hushed voices, teasing Peredonov, sticking their tongues out at him, making strange faces in front of him, distorting their mouths hideously. Peredonov saw that they were all small and mischievous, that they wouldn’t kill him, but were only mocking him, auguring ill. But he was frightened. First he muttered some incantations, scraps of spells that he had heard in his childhood. Then he started to scold them and chase them away, waving his arms and crying in a hoarse voice.

  Varvara woke up and asked angrily: “What are you yelling for, Ardalyon Borisych? You won’t let me sleep.” “The queen of spades keeps pestering me inside the mattress covering,” muttered Peredonov. Varvara got up, and grumbling and cursing, she administered some kind of drops to Peredonov. In the local provincial newspaper an article appeared on the subject of how supposedly in our town a certain Mrs. K. was whipping young gymnasium students, the sons of the best local gentry families, who were lodging in her apartment. The notary, Gudaevsky, swept through the entire town with this news and was indignant. Various other awkward rumors as well were circulating through the town about the local gymnasium. People were talking about the young girl who was dressed up as a boy student. Then the name of Pylnikov gradually came to be associated with Lyudmila’s. At first he hardly reacted to these jokes, but then he began to flare up at times and defend Lyudmila, insisting that nothing of the sort was true. For this reason he felt ashamed to go to Lyudmila’s, but he had an even stronger urge to do so. His ardent, confused feelings of shame and attraction were a source of agitation to him and his imagination was filled with vaguely passionate visions.

  XXI

  ON SUNDAY WHEN Peredonov and Varvara were having breakfast, someone entered the front hall. Varvara, as was her habit, crept stealthily up to the door and glanced through it. Just as softly she returned to the table and whispered:

  “It’s the postman. We ought to give him some vodka, he’s brought another letter.”

  Peredonov nodded his head in silence. What did it matter, he didn’t begrudge a glass of vodka. Varvara shouted out:

  “Postman, come in here!”

  The letter carrier entered the room. He rummaged around in his bag and pretended that he was searching for a letter. Varvara poured some vodka into a large glass and cut off a piece of pie. The letter carrier watched her activity lasciviously. Meanwhile, Peredonov kept thinking of whom the postman reminded him. Finally he remembered—it was that very same red-headed, pimply-faced knave who not long ago had tricked him into such an enormous loss.

  “He’s likely to pull another trick,” Peredonov thought with melancholoy and made a rude sign to the letter carrier from his pocket.

  The red-headed knave handed the letter over to Varvara.

  “For you, Madame,” he said respectfully, thanked her for the vodka, drank it down, grunted, grabbed the pie and left.

  Varvara turned the letter over and over in her hands and without unsealing it handed it to Peredonov.

  “Go on, read it. Looks like its from the Princess again,” she said, smirking. “She’s written plenty, but what’s the point. Rather than writing, she ought to give you a post.”

  Peredonov’s hands were trembling. He tore open the envelope and quickly read the letter. Then he leapt up from his place, waved the letter and started to whoop:

  “Hurray! There are three inspector’s posts, any one can be chosen. Hurray, Varvara, we’ve won!”

  He started to dance and whirled around the room. With his impassive red face and dull eyes he seemed like a strangely large doll that had been wound up to dance. Varvara was smirking and looking joyfully at him. He shouted:

  “Now it’s decided, Varvara. We’re getting married.” He grabbed Varvara by the shoulders and started to whirl her around the table stamping his feet.

  “A Russian dance, Varvara!” he cried.

  Varvara put her hands on her hips and glided out in a dance, while Peredonov crouched down to dance in front of her.

  Volodin came in and bleated joyfully:

  “The future inspector is stomping out a trepak!”

  “Dance, Pavlushka!” Peredonov cried.

  Klavdiya peered out from behind the door. Volodin shouted to her, laughing and clowning:

  “Dance, Klavdyushka, you too! Everyone together Let’s entertain the future inspector!”

  Klavdiya gave a squeal and glided into dance, shaking her shoulders. Volodin twirled dashingly in front of her—he crouched down on his haunches, spun around, sprang up and down, clapped his hands. It made a particularly dashing impression when he raised his knee and clapped his hands under the knee. The floor vibrated beneath their heels. Klavdiya rejoiced at the fact that she had such an agile young fellow.

  They grew tired and sat down at the table while Klavdiya ran off to the kitchen with a cheerful laugh. They drank vodka, beer, broke bottles and glasses, shouted, roared with laughter, waved their arms about, embraced and kissed. Then Peredonov and Volodin ran off to the Summer Gardens—Peredonov was in a hurry to brag about his letter.

  They came upon the usual company in the billiard room. Peredonov showed his friends the letter. It created a big impression. Everyone looked it over trustingly. Rutilov grew pale, and mumbling something, sputtered.

  “The postman delivered it while I was at home!” Peredonov exclaimed. “I unsealed it myself. So that means there’s no deception here.”

  And his friends regarded him with respect. A letter from a Princess!

  From the Summer Gardens Peredonov hurried to Vershina’s.

  He walked with a quick and regular motion, waving his arms uniformly and muttering something. It seemed as though there were no expression on his face—it was impassive like the face of a doll that had been wound up. Only some hungry fire was reflected in the deathly glimmer of his eyes.

  It turned out to be a clear hot day. Marta was sitting in the summer house. She was knitting a stocking. Her thoughts were vague and devout. At first she was thinking about vices, then she directed her thoughts to something more pleasant and started to contemplate the virtues. Her thoughts were enshrouded in drowsiness and became graphic. The clarity of their dreamlike outlines increased in proportion to the progressive deterioration of their abstract verbal intelligibility. The virtues became represented before her as large beautiful dolls in white dresses, radiant and fragrant. They promised her rewards, keys were jingling in their hands and wedding veils fluttered on their heads.

  In their midst was one strange doll that was dissimilar. It promised nothing but gave reproachful looks and its lips were moving in soundless threat. It seemed that if she were to say anything, it would be terrible. Marta guessed that it represented conscience. She was all in black, this strange eerie visitor with her black eyes and black hair. And suddenly she started to talk about something, quickly, rapidly, clearly. She started to resemble Vershina completely. Marta roused herself, answered something to her question, answered almost unconsciously—and once again was overcome with drowsiness.

  Either it was her conscience or
it was Vershina sitting opposite her and saying something quickly and distinctly, but unintelligibly, and smoking something strange smelling. Decisive Vershina, quiet, demanding that everything be as she wished. Marta wanted to look directly into the eyes of this importunate visitor, but for some reason or other she couldn’t. And the visitor was smiling strangely, grumbling, and her eyes were wandering off somewhere and fastening on distant unfamiliar objects that were terrible for Marta to look at… .

  A loud conversation woke Marta up. Peredonov was standing in the summer house and speaking loudly, exchanging greetings with Vershina. Marta looked around in fright. Her heart was pounding while her eyes were still stuck together and her thoughts were still confused. Where was conscience? Or had it never existed? And shouldn’t it have been there?

  “You were deep in sleep here,” Peredonov said to her.” You were snoring your head off. She was lumbering.”

  Marta didn’t understand his pun, but she smiled, guessing from the smile on Vershina’s lips that something had been said that was supposed to be humorous.

  “You ought to be called Kitty,” Peredonov continued.

  “Why?” Marta asked.

  “Because you were having a catnap.”

  Peredonov sat down on the bench beside Marta and said:

  “I have news and very important it is.”

  “What news do you have, do share it with us,” Vershina said and Marta immediately felt envious of her because she was able to express the simple question of “What news?” with such a large quantity of words.

  “Guess,” Peredonov said in a sullenly solemn voice.

  “How can I guess what news you have,” Vershina replied. “You tell us and then we’ll know what your news is.”

  Peredonov didn’t like it that they didn’t want to guess what his news was. He fell silent and sat there, hunched over, dull and heavy and gazed impassively directly in front. Vershina was smoking and smiling crookedly, showing her dark yellow teeth.