The Petty Demon

by Sologub, Fyodor

  “You wicked boy, fighting!” she cried in a choking voice.

  Sasha was horribly dismayed, lowered his hands and peered guiltily at the whitish stripes, the traces of his fingers, imprinted on Lyudmila’s left cheek. Lyudmila took advantage of his distraction. She quickly pulled the undershirt from both shoulders down to his elbows. Sasha regained his senses, tore free from her, but it turned out for the worse. Lyudmila deftly yanked the sleeves off his arms—and the shirt fell down to his waist. Sasha felt the cold and a fresh attack of shame that was clear and merciless and that made his head spin. Now Sasha was bared down to the waist. Lyudmila took firm hold of his arm and with her trembling hand patted him on his bare back, peering into his dazed, strangely glowing eyes beneath the bluish-black eyelashes.

  And suddenly these eyelashes trembled, the face twisted into a pitiful, childish grimace—and he began to sob, suddenly and violently.

  “Wicked girl!” he cried in a sobbing voice. “Let me go!”

  “He’s whimpering! The little baby!” Lyudmila said with anger and dismay and pushed him away.

  Sasha turned away, wiping away the tears with his palms. He felt ashamed because he was crying. He tried to restrain himself. Lyudmila gazed hungrily at his naked back.

  “So much delight in the world!” she thought. “People hide so much beauty from themselves, but why?”

  Hunching his shoulders up in shame, Sasha was trying to put on his undershirt, but it only got balled up and strained under his trembling hands and there was no way he could get his arms into the sleeves. Sasha grabbed his blouse—let the undershirt stay as it was for the time being.

  “Ach, you’re afraid for your property. I won’t steal it!” Lyudmila said in a voice that was spiteful and ringing with tears.

  She tossed him his belt impetuously and turned away to the window. A lot she needed him, wrapped up in his gray blouse, a vile young boy, a revolting, affected creature.

  Sasha quickly put his blouse on, somehow or other straightened out the undershirt and looked at Lyudmila timidly, uncertainly and shamefully. He saw that she was wiping her cheeks with her hands, timidly went up to her and looked into her face—and the tears that were flowing down her cheeks suddenly poisoned him with a tender pity for her, and he was no longer ashamed or annoyed.

  “Why are you crying, dearest Lyudmilochka?” he asked softly.

  And suddenly he turned red—he had remembered his blow.

  “I struck you, forgive me. I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said timidly.

  “You think you’ll melt, silly boy, if you sit a while with bare shoulders?” Lyudmila said in a plaintive voice. “You’re afraid you’ll get sunburnt. Your beauty and innocence will get tarnished.”

  “But why are you doing it, Lyudmilochka?” Sasha asked with a shameful grimace.

  “Why?” Lyudmila said passionately. “I love beauty. I’m a pagan, a sinner. I ought to have been born in ancient Greece. I love flowers, perfume, brilliant clothes, the naked body. They say there’s a soul. I don’t know, I’ve never seen it. And what do I need it for? Let me die completely, like a rusalka, I’ll melt like a cloud beneath the sun. I love the body, strong, dexterous, naked, which is able to take its own pleasure.”

  “And which is able to suffer,” Sasha said softly.

  “And suffer, that’s good too,” Lyudmila whispered passionately. “It’s sweet even when it’s painful—as long as one can feel the body, as long as one can see the body’s nakedness and beauty.”

  “But isn’t it shameful without clothing?” Sasha said timidly.

  Lyudmila fell abruptly on her knees before him. Breathlessly she kissed his hands and whispered:

  “Dearest, my idol, my godlike youth, if only I could feast my eyes on your dear shoulders for a single moment.”

  Sasha sighed, lowered his eyes, blushed and awkwardly removed his blouse. Lyudmila seized him with burning hands and showered kisses over his shoulders that were convulsed with shame.

  “See how submissive I am!” Sasha said, smiling with an effort so that he could banish his embarrassment with a jest.

  Lyudmila was hastily kissing Sasha’s arms from the shoulders to the fingers, and Sasha, plunged into a passionate and cruel reverie, did not attempt to remove them. Lyudmila’s kisses were infused with the warmth of adoration, and it was as though her burning lips were kissing not a boy, but a god-youth in some thrilling and mysterious ritual of the blossoming Flesh.

  Meanwhile Darya and Valeriya were standing behind the door, pushing each other, and taking turns looking through the key-hole and almost fainting from passionate and searing excitement.

  “It’s time to get dressed,” Sasha said finally.

  Lyudmila sighed and with the same reverential expression in her eyes she put his undershirt and blouse on him, waiting on him carefully and respectfully.

  “So you’re a pagan?” Sasha asked in puzzlement.

  Lyudmila laughed cheerfully.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “What next!” Sasha replied confidently. “I know the entire catechism thoroughly.”

  Lyudmila laughed. Eyeing her, Sasha smiled and asked:

  “If you’re a pagan, then why do you go to church?”

  Lyudmila stopped laughing, grew pensive.

  “Well,” she said, “one has to pray. You have to pray, weep, light a candle, commemorate the dead. And I love all of it, the candles, the icon lamps, the incense, the vestments, the singing—if the singers are good—the icons, their mountings, the ribbons. Yes, it’s all so beautiful. And I also love … Him … you know … the One who was crucified …”

  Lyudmila uttered the last words quite softly, almost in a whisper, blushed like one who was guilty and lowered her eyes.

  “You know, sometimes I dream about Him—He’s on the cross and there are little drops of blood on his body.”

  From that time on, Lyudmila more than once would start to unbutton his jacket when she took him off to her room. At first he was embarrassed to tears, but he soon grew used to it. And then he would gaze clearly and calmly as Lyudmila pulled down his undershirt, bared his shoulders, fondled and patted his back. And finally, he himself started to undress himself.

  It was pleasant for Lyudmila to hold him half-naked on her knees, her arms around him and kissing him.

  Sasha was alone at home. He was reminiscing about Lyudmila and his naked shoulders under her burning eyes.

  “What does she want?” he was thinking. And suddenly he turned a deep crimson and his heart began to pound ever so painfully. He was seized with an impetuous cheerfulness. He turned several somersaults, collapsed on the floor, leapt up on the furniture—thousands of crazy movements threw him from one corner to the other, and his cheerful, clear laughter resounded through the house.

  Kokovkina had returned home at the time, heard the extraordinary noise and went into Sasha’s room. She stood on the threshold in perplexity and shook her head.

  “What are you doing acting like you’re raving mad, Sashenka!” she said. “At least act silly with your comrades, or else you’ll be raving by yourself. Dear father, shame on you, you’re not a little boy.”

  Sasha stood there and it was as though his arms, heavy and awkward, were frozen, whereas his entire body was still shaking with excitement.

  Once Kokovkina came home to find Lyudmila there—she was feeding sweets to Sasha.

  “You’re spoiling him,” Kokovkina said affectionately. “My boy loves to eat sweet things.”

  “Well, he calls me a wicked girl,” Lyudmila complained.

  “Ai, Sashenka, how could you!” Kokovkina said with affectionate reproach. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “Well, she pesters me,” Sasha said, stammering.

  He gave Lyudmila an angry look and turned crimson. Lyudmila burst into laughter.

  “Rumor-monger,” Sasha whispered to her.

  “How could you be insulting, Sashenka!” Kokovkina upbraided him. “You mustn’t
be insulting!”

  Sasha looked at Lyudmila with a grin and softly murmured:

  “I won’t do it any more.”

  Every time when Sasha came now, Lyudmila would lock herself in with him and start to take his clothes off and dress him up in different outfits. Their sweet shame was dressed up in laughter and jokes. Sometimes Lyudmila would truss Sasha up in a corset and put her dress on him. When he was wearing a low-necked dress, Sasha’s arms, full and delicately rounded, and his round shoulders seemed very beautiful. His skin was of a yellowish hue, and, as was rarely the case, it was of an even and delicate color. Lyudmila’s skirt, shoes and stockings all proved to be just right for Sasha and they all suited him. After he had put on a woman’s entire wardrobe, Sasha would sit there submissively and fan himself. When he was wearing this attire he actually did resemble a girl and tried to act like a girl. Only one thing was awkward: Sasha’s cropped hair. Lyudmila didn’t want to put a wig on him or tie a braid to Sasha’s head—that would be repulsive.

  Lyudmila was teaching Sasha to perform curtseys. At first he would squat awkwardly and self-consciously. But he possessed a gracefulness even though it was mixed with a boyish angularity. Blushing and laughing, he studied diligently how to perform a curtsey and he flirted recklessly.

  Sometimes Lyudmila would take his arms, naked and shapely, and kiss them. Sasha didn’t resist and would look at Lyudmila with a chuckle. Sometimes he himself would put his arms to her lips and say:

  “Kiss them!”

  But best of all he liked the other clothing that Lyudmila sewed herself: a fisherman’s outfit with bare legs and the chiton of an Athenian barelegged boy.

  Lyudmila would dress him up and admire him. At the same time she would grow pale and melancholy.

  Sasha was sitting on Lyudmila’s bed, picking at the folds of the chiton and dangling his naked legs. Lyudmila stood in front of him and gazed at him with an expression of happiness and perplexity.

  “How silly you are!” Sasha said.

  “There’s so much happiness in my silliness!” a pale Lyudmila babbled, crying and kissing Sasha’s arms.

  “Why are you crying?” Sasha asked, smiling carefreely.

  “My heart has been smitten with joy. My breast has been pierced with the seven swords of happiness. How can I help but cry?”

  “You’re a fool, really a fool!” Sasha said with a chuckle.

  “And you’re smart!” Lyudmila replied with sudden annoyance, wiped the tears away and sighed. “Try to understand, silly,” she said in a soft persuasive voice. “Happiness and wisdom can only be found in madness.”

  “Really now!” Sasha said mistrustfully.

  “You have to forget, forget yourself, and then you’ll understand everything,” Lyudmila whispered. “In your opinion, then, do wise men think?”

  “What else?”

  “They just know. It’s bestowed upon them immediately: one look and all is revealed …”

  The autumn evening lingered softly on. From time to time a barely audible rustling sound carried from beyond the window when the wind in flight would make the branches of the trees shake. Sasha and Lyudmila were alone. Lyudmila had dressed him up as a bare-legged fisherman in a blue outfit out of fine linen. Then she laid him down on a low couch and sat down on the floor, barefooted and in just her chemise, beside his naked legs. And over his body and his clothing she sprinkled a perfume with a dense, herbaceous and brittle scent, like the motionless breath of a strangely flowering valley enclosed by mountains.

  Large, brilliant beads gleamed on Lyudmila’s neck; intricate golden bracelets tinkled on her wrists. Her body gave off the scent of iris—a cloying, sensual and irritating fragrance that induced drowsiness and languor and was sated with the miasma of turgid waters. She was languishing and sighing, gazing at his swarthy face, at his blue-tinged eyelashes and midnight eyes. She laid her head on his naked knees, and her light curls caressed his swarthy skin. She kissed Sasha’s body and her head began to spin from the fragrance, strange and potent, that intermingled with the smell of his youthful skin.

  Sasha was lying there and smiling a soft, uncertain smile. Vague desire was being born inside him and it tormented him sweetly. When Lyudmila was kissing his knees and feet, the tender kisses aroused languid, somnolent reveries. He had the urge to do something to her, something nice or painful, something thing tender or shameful—but what? Kiss her feet? Or beat her, hard and at length, with long, supple branches? So that she would laugh for joy or cry from pain? Perhaps she would desire both of those things, but it wouldn’t be enough. What did she need? There they were the two of them, half-naked, and both desire and prescriptive shame were attendant on their liberated flesh. Yet what did that mystery of the flesh consist of? How could he offer his blood and his body in sweetest sacrifice to her desires and his own shame?

  Meanwhile, Lyudmila fretted and languished alongside his legs, pale with impossible desires, first fiery, then turning cold. She whispered passionately:

  “Am I not beautiful! Aren’t my eyes burning! Don’t I have luxuriant hair! Caress me! Caress me! Tear my bracelets off, undo my necklace!”

  Sasha grew frightened and he was oppressed by impossible desires.

  XXVII

  PEREDONOV AWOKE TOWARDS morning. Someone was looking at him with enormous, turbid, rectangular eyes. Was it Pylnikov? Peredonov went up to the window and doused the ominous spectre.

  Everything was spellbound and enchanted. The wild nedotykomka went on shrilling, both man and beast regarded Peredonov with spite and deceit. Everything was hostile towards him, he was alone against everyone.

  In his classes at the gymnasium Peredonov spread malignant gossip about his fellow teachers, the headmaster, parents and students. The students listened to him in perplexity. Some inherently uncouth students were to be found who sought favor with Peredonov and expressed their sympathy to him. Yet others were strictly silent or, when Peredonov made fun of their parents, defended them vehemently. Peredonov would give the latter a sullen look and move away from them, muttering something.

  In some classes Peredonov would entertain the students with his absurd interpretations.

  Once he read the following verses by Pushkin:

  With labor’s clamor held at bay

  As dawn arises out of morn,

  The wolf sets out upon his way

  With wolf-bitch hungry and forlorn.

  “Stop a moment,” Peredonov said. “One should understand this properly. The allegory is hidden here. Wolves go in pairs: a male wolf and a hungry wolf-bitch. The male wolf is full, whereas she is hungry. The wife is always supposed to eat after the husband. The wife is supposed to submit to her husband in everything.”

  Pylnikov was cheerful. He smiled and looked at Peredonov with his deceptively pure, black, unfathomable eyes. Sasha’s face tormented and tempted Peredonov. The accursed boy was casting a spell over him with his perfidious smile.

  And was he even a boy? Or perhaps there were two of them: a brother and sister. And it was impossible to figure out who was where. Or perhaps he even knew how to transform himself from a boy into a girl. It was hardly a coincidence that he was such a clean little thing—when he was transforming himself he must have rinsed himself in various magical solutions, otherwise it would have been impossible, one couldn’t become a changeling. And he always smelled so much of perfume.

  “What perfume did you put on, Pylnikov?” Peredonov asked. “Eau de skunk?”

  The boys broke into laughter. Sasha blushed from the insult and was silent.

  Peredonov could not comprehend the pure desire to be liked, not to be repulsive. He considered any manifestation of that sort, even on the part of the boy, as an attempt to trap him. If someone got dressed up, it meant that the person was plotting to flatter Peredonov. Otherwise why get dressed up? Smart dress and cleanliness were repulsive to Peredonov and perfume seemed foul-smelling. He preferred the smell of a manured field to any kind of perfume—in his opinion the form
er was beneficial to health. To get dressed up, to clean oneself, to wash—all of these things required time and labor. And the thought of labor induced a melancholy and frightening feeling in Peredonov. It would be nice to do nothing, just to eat, drink and sleep—and nothing more!

  His schoolmates teased Sasha because he perfumed himself with “eau de skunk” and because Lyudmilochka was in love with him. He would flare up and protest vehemently. Nothing of the sort, he would say, she wasn’t in love with him, all that was just the invention of Peredonov. He was the one who had proposed to Lyudmilochka, but Lyudmilochka had tweaked his nose and so he was angry at her and was spreading ugly rumors about her. His schoolmates believed him. It was Peredonov, as everyone knew, but still they didn’t stop teasing him. It was so pleasant to tease people.

  Peredonov persisted in telling everyone about Pylnikov’s depravity.

  “He’s mixed up with Lyudmilochka,” he said. “They kiss so zealously that she’s already given birth to one prep student and now she’s carrying another around.”

  The talk in the town about Lyudmila’s love for a student at the gymnasium was exaggerated and filled with stupid and unseemly details. But few people believed it—Peredonov had overdone it. However the dilettantes—of whom there were a great many in our town—asked Lyudmila teasingly:

  “What are you doing falling madly in love with a young boy? That’s insulting to the rest of the eligible young bachelors.”

  Lyudmila laughed and said:

  “Rubbish!”

  The townsfolk gave Sasha looks of vile curiosity. The widow of General Poluyanov, a rich woman from a merchant background, made inquiries about his age and discovered that he was still too young, but that in about two years she could invite him and concern herself with his development.

  By now Sasha had begun to reproach Lyudmila at times because people were teasing him over her. It even happened at times that he would beat her—in response to which Lyudmila would merely laugh.