The Petty Demon

by Sologub, Fyodor

  Vershina smiled crookedly and objected:

  “Don’t say that! I feel terribly sorry for you, you’ve been deceived!”

  There was the sound of malice in her voice. Spiteful words spewed from her mouth. She said:

  “You were hoping for protection, only you acted too trustfully. You were deceived and you believed it so easily. It’s easy for anyone to write a letter. You ought to have known whom you were dealing with. Your spouse is an unscrupulous person.”

  Peredonov had difficulty understanding Vershina’s mumbling speech. For him there was hardly any discernible sense in her circumlocution. Vershina was afraid to speak loudly and clearly: if she spoke loudly, someone might overhear, it would be passed on to Varvara and troubles could ensue. Varvara wouldn’t be loathe to create a scandal. If she spoke clearly, then Peredonov himself might get angry. He might even strike her. She had to make hints so that he himself would guess. But Peredonov couldn’t guess. It had been the case even earlier that he had been told straight to his face that he was being deceived, but he was totally incapable of taking the hint that the letters had been forged and he kept thinking that it was the Princess herself who was deceiving him, leading him around by the nose.

  Finally, Vershina said straight out:

  “Do you believe that the Princess wrote those letters herself? By now the entire town knows that Grushina fabricated them on the request of your spouse. The Princess doesn’t know a thing. Ask whomever you wish, everyone knows. They let it out of the bag themselves. Then later Varvara Dmitrievna filched the letters from you and burned them so there wouldn’t be any trace.”

  Ponderous, dark thoughts were churning about in Peredonov’s brain. He understood one thing: he had been deceived. But the fact that the Princess supposedly didn’t know—no, she certainly knew. It wasn’t by chance that she had gotten out of the fire alive.

  “You’re lying about the Princess,” he said. “I burnt the Princess, but I didn’t finish the job and she thumbed her nose at me.”

  Suddenly Peredonov was seized with an insane frenzy. They had deceived him! He struck the table ferociously with his fist, tore away from the spot and without taking leave of Vershina quickly went home. Vershina joyfully watched him go and the black clouds of smoke flew quickly out of her dark mouth and were borne away and shredded on the wind.

  Peredonov was being consumed with frenzy. But when he caught sight of Varvara, a tormenting fear took hold of him and wouldn’t let him say a word.

  First thing in the morning the following day Peredonov got a knife ready, a small one in a leather sheath, and he carried it around cautiously in his pocket. He sat through the entire morning, right up until his lunchtime, at Volodin’s. Gazing at his work, he made ridiculous remarks. Volodin was happy as before that Peredonov was spending time with him and his stupidities seemed amusing to Volodin.

  The whole day long the nedotykomka bustled around Peredonov. It wouldn’t let him fall asleep after lunch. It completely exhausted him. By the time it was getting on to evening, he was on the verge of falling asleep when some crazy wench from God knows where woke him up. She was stub-nosed and ugly, and she came up to his bed and mumbled:

  “The kvass needs pressing, the pies filling and the roast roasting.”

  She had dark cheeks, whereas her teeth glistened.

  “Go to hell!” Peredonov cried.

  The snub-nosed wench disappeared just as though she had never existed.

  Evening set in. A mournful wind wailed in the chimney. A placid rain pattered softly and insistently at the windows. It was quite dark on the other side of the windows. Volodin was at the Peredonovs’. Earlier in the morning Peredonov had invited him for tea.

  “Don’t let anyone in. Do you hear, Klavdyushka?” Peredonov cried.

  Varvara smirked. Peredonov muttered:

  “There are some kind of wenches hanging around here. Have to keep an eye out. One of them forced her way into my bedroom, looking for work as a cook. What do I need a snub-nosed cook for?”

  Volodin laughed just as though he were bleating and said:

  “Idaresay that wenches go walking along the street, but they don’t have any business to do with us and we won’t let them sit at our table.”

  The three of them sat down at the table. They started to drink vodka and eat small meat-pies. They drank more than they ate. Peredonov was gloomy. By now everything seemed like a delirium to him, senseless, disconnected and surprising. He had a torturous headache. One notion kept repeating itself with persistence—the one about Volodin as an enemy. It alternated with oppressive fits in which he was assailed by the insistent idea that he had to kill Pavlushka before it was too late. Then all the enemy’s ruses would be laid bare. Meanwhile, Volodin quickly got drunk and was babbling something incoherent to Varvara’s amusement.

  Peredonov was alarmed. He muttered:

  “Someone’s coming. Don’t let anyone in. Tell them that I’ve gone off to pray at the Cockroach Monastery.”

  He was afraid that any guests would interfere. Volodin and Varvara found it funny—they thought that he was just drunk. They kept exchanging winks, going off one at a time, knocking at the door and speaking in different voices:

  “Is General Peredonov at home?”

  “I have a diamond-studded star for General Peredonov.”

  But Peredonov wasn’t tempted by the diamond-studded star that day. He cried:

  “Don’t let them in! Throw them out by the collar. Let them bring it in the morning. This isn’t the time now.

  “No,” he thought, “today I have to be firm.” Today everything would be revealed, but meanwhile his enemies were still prepared to assail him with all sorts of things so as to ruin him more assuredly.

  “Well, we chased them off, they’ll bring it tomorrow morning,” Volodin said, sitting down once more at the table.

  Peredonov fixed his murky eyes on him and asked:

  “Are you my friend or an enemy?”

  “A friend, a friend, Ardasha!” Volodin replied.

  “A friend from the heart is like a cockroach at the hearth,” Varvara said.

  “Not a cockroach, but a sheep,” Peredonov corrected her. “Well, you and I are going to drink, Pavlushka, just the two of us. And Varvara, you drink—the two of us will drink all together.”

  Volodin, giggling, said:

  “If Varvara Dmitrievna drinks with us, then there won’t be two of us drinking, but three.”

  “The two of us,” Peredonov repeated sullenly.

  “A man and his woman are like a single demon,” Varvara said and roared with laughter.

  Up until the very last moment Volodin did not suspect that Peredonov wanted to slit his throat. He bleated, played the fool, uttered stupidities, amused Varvara. But Peredonov spent the whole evening thinking about his knife. When Volodin or Varvara approached from the side where the knife was hidden, Peredonov would cry fiercely for them to go away. Sometimes he would point to his pocket and say:

  “Right here, brother, I have a little something that’ll make you croak, Pavlushka.”

  Varvara and Volodin laughed.

  “Croak, Ardasha, I can always, do that,” Volodin said. “Cro-o-ak, cro-o-ak. It’s even quite simple.”

  Red-faced, and dazed from the vodka, Volodin kept croaking and puffing out his lips. He grew even more insolent with Peredonov.

  “You were made a fool of, Ardasha,” he said with disdainful sympathy.

  “I’ll make a fool of you!” Peredonov snarled ferociously.

  Volodin seemed frightening and threatening to him. He had to defend himself. Peredonov quickly pulled the knife out, flung himself on Volodin and slit his throat. The blood spurted out in a stream.

  Peredonov took fright. The knife dropped out of his hand. Volodin kept bleating and trying to clutch at his throat with his hands. It was obvious that he was mortally frightened, growing weaker and unable to lift his hands to his throat. Suddenly he stiffened and tumbled over on Peredon
ov. He emitted a gasping whine—just as though he had choked—and then fell silent. Peredonov was screeching in terror as well, and Varvara followed suit.

  Peredonov shoved Volodin away. Volodin slumped heavily onto the floor. He wheezed, moved his legs and soon died. His opened eyes turned glassy and stared straight upwards. The cat came out of the neighboring room, smelled the blood and miaowed wickedly. Varvara stood there as though frozen. Klavdiya came running in response to the noise.

  “Dear father, they’ve slit his throat!” she wailed.

  Varvara came to her senses and with a screech ran out of the dining room together with Klavdiya.

  The news of the occurrence spread rapidly. Neighbors gathered in the street and in the yard. Some of the more courageous entered the house. They couldn’t bring themselves to enter the dining room for a long while. They kept peeking in and exchanging whispers. Peredonov gazed with insane eyes at the corpse and listened to the whisperings on the other side of the door … A dull melancholy oppressed him. He had no thoughts.

  Finally, the people gathered their courage and entered. Peredonov was sitting downcast and mumbling something incoherent and senseless.

  June 19, 1902

  TEXTUAL VARIANTS

  THE FIRST SET of textual variants which follow are numbered with Arabic numerals. These variants were first published after Sologub’s death when they were appended to the edition of The Petty Demon issued by “ACADEMIA” (Moscow-Leningrad) in 1933. These thirteen variants are reproduced in the Bradda Books edition of The Petty Demon (1966).

  A second set of textual variants, listed alphabetically, follows the first. This second set represents a more or less unified episode which has not been published, to our knowledge, since 1912 and has not appeared in any edition of Sologub’s novel either in the original or in translation. These latter fragments are preceded by a more detailed explanation which has been provided by Stanley Rabinowitz who very kindly brought them to the attention of the translator.

  —S.D.C.

  1. Natashka, in fact, did want to steal a sweet pastry and eat it in secret, but it was impossible. First of all, Varvara was hovering around her and she couldn’t get rid of her for anything. Secondly, even if she did leave and a pastry was removed from the pan, then she would count them up afterwards from the traces left on the pan—and there would be fewer pastries than required. So it was impossible to steal even one. Nata[shka] was angry. Meanwhile, Varvara, in her customary fashion, was cursing and pestering the servant for various acts of carelessness and for what she considered to be her lack of efficiency. On a wrinkled yellow face that preserved some traces of a former attractiveness lay a querulously voracious expression.

  “You lazy creature,” Varvara shouted, in her reverberating voice. “Have you lost your wits, or something, Natashka! You’ve barely started and already you hardly want to do anything. You vile sluggard!”

  “And who can live with you?” Natasha replied rudely.

  It was true. A servant never lasted long at Varvara’s: Varvara fed her servants poorly, cursed them ceaselessly, tried to delay paying them, and if she came across one that wasn’t very alert, then she would push her around, pinch her and slap her on the cheeks.

  “Shut up, you bitch!” Varvara cried.

  “Why should I shut up, everyone knows that nobody will live with you, Madame, you don’t think anyone’s good enough. Well, you’re not all that wonderful yourself. You’re a fine one to be finicky.”

  “How dare you, you beast!”

  “Well I’m saying it. And who could live with a harpy like you, who’d want to!”

  Varvara grew furious, started to scream and stamp her feet. Natashka didn’t give way. A furious shouting match ensued.

  “You hardly feed me and you demand work,” she cried.

  “There’s not enough trash in a rubbish dump to satisfy you,” Varvara replied.

  “You know who else is a rubbish dump. That’s where all the filth belongs …”

  “I may be filth, but I’m from the gentry, whereas you’re my servant. What a bitch! Here, I’ll give you a poke in the kisser,” Varvara cried.

  “I can deal it out myself!” Natashka replied rudely, looking scornfully down at little Varvara from the height of her size. “In your kisser! It’s that master of yours that goes around whacking you in the kisser. I’m not his mistress and no one’s going to yank me by the ears.”

  Meanwhile, a woman’s noisome and drunken voice was heard coming from the yard through the open window:

  “Hey, you, Madame! Hey, young lady, or something! What am I supposed to call you anyway? Where’s your beau?”

  “And what business is it of yours, you frenzy?” Varvara shouted, running to the window.

  Down below stood the owner of the house, Irinya Stepanovna, a cobbler’s wife, bare-headed, and in a filthy cotton dress. She and her husband lived in an annex in the yard and rented out the house. Lately Varvara had frequently been getting into arguing matches with her—the landlady kept appearing half-drunk and pestering Varvara because she had the idea that they wanted to move out.

  Now they launched into a fresh swearing match. The landlady was calmer whereas Varvara was beside herself. Finally the landlady turned her back to Varvara and raised her skirt. Varvara immediately responded in kind.

  These kinds of scenes and the eternal screaming matches caused Varvara to suffer from migraines afterwards, but she had already grown accustomed to a disorderly and vulgar life and couldn’t restrain herself from indecent escapades. She had long since ceased to have any respect for herself or for others.

  2. The following day, after dinner, while Peredonov was still asleep, Varvara went off to the Prepolovenskys. She had sent off an entire bundle of nettles earlier with her new servant, Klavdiya. It was frightening, but nevertheless Varvara went.

  Sitting in a circle around the oval coffee table in Prepolovenskys’ dining room were Varvara, the hostess and her cousin Zhenya, a tall, plump and redcheeked girl with indolent movements and deceptively innocent eyes.

  “Here, you see what a ruddy-faced fatty of ours she is,” said Sofiya. “It’s all because her mother used to whip her with nettles. And I whip her too.”

  Zhenya turned a deep crimson and laughed.

  “Yes,” she said in a lazy, low voice, “as soon as I start to get thin, I’m treated to a good stinging right away and I fill out once more.”

  “But isn’t it painful for you?” Varvara asked with cautious surprise.

  “So what if it hurts, it’s still healthy,” Zhenya replied. “We’ve gotten used to it. Even my younger sister was whipped when she was still a girl.”

  “But aren’t you afraid?” Varvara asked.

  “What can you do, no one asks me,” Zhenya replied clamly. “They just whip me and I don’t notice it for long. It’s not my idea.”

  Sofiya said quickly and persuasively:

  “What’s there to be afraid of, it’s not all that painful. I know from myself.”

  “And does it work well?” Varvara asked once more.

  “Really now,” Sofiya said with annoyance. “Can’t you see, you’ve got a living example right before your eyes. First you lose a bit of weight, but the very next day you start to put on weight.”

  Finally the assurances and persuasive efforts of the two cousins overcame Varvara’s final doubts.

  “Well, alright,” she said with a smirk. “Go ahead. Let’s see what happens. No one will see?”

  “There’s no one to see, all the servants have been sent off,” Sofiya said.

  They led Varvara to the bedroom. She was about to waver at the threshold, but Zhenya gave her a shove in—she was a strong girl—and locked the door.

  The curtains were lowered and it was semi-dark in the bedroom. Not a sound could be heard from there. On two chairs lay several bundles of nettles, the sterns wrapped up in handkerchiefs so that the person holding them wouldn’t get stung.

  Varvara took fright.


  “Perhaps not,” she began indecisively. “My head seems to be aching, better tomorrow …”

  But Sofiya raised her voice:

  “Come on, get undressed quickly, there’s nothing to be finicky about.”

  Varvara dallied and started to back towards the door. The cousins flung themselves on her and undressed her by force. She didn’t have time to regain her senses before she was lying in nothing more than her chemise on the bed. Zhenya grabbed both her hands in her one powerful hand and with the other she took the bundle of nettles from Sofiya and started to whip Varvara with them. Sofiya held Varvara’s feet firmly and kept repeating:

  “Stop squirming—what a squirmer you are!”

  Varvara couldn’t hold out for long—and she started to screech with pain. Zhenya gave her a long and powerful whipping, replacing the bundles several times. So that Varvara’s sceeching couldn’t be heard far away she pushed her head into the pillows with her elbow.

  Finally they let Varvara go. She stood up, sobbing with the pain. The cousins started to console her. Sofiya said:

  “Well, what are you bellowing about? It’s hardly anything to speak of. It’ll just smart a little and then stop. It’s hardly anything yet, it should be repeated in several days.”

  “Oi, sweetheart, are you serious!” Varvara exclaimed dolefully. “Being tortured once is enough.”

  “Come now, how were you being tortured,” Sofiya soothed her. “Of course, it ought to be repeated from time to time. Both of us were whipped from childhood, and more than once. Otherwise it wouldn’t do any good.”

  “Cream-puff nettles!” Zhenya said, chuckling.

  Having had a sleep after dinner, Peredonov set out for the Summer Gardens to play billiards in the restaurant. He met Prepolovenskaya on the street. After having walked Varvara home, she was going off to her friend, Vershina, to tell her secretly about the adventure. They were going in the same direction and they walked together. At the same time Peredonov invited her and her husband to play cards for low stakes in the evening.

  Sofiya brought the conversation around to why he wasn’t getting married. Peredonov was sullenly silent. Sofiya made allusions to her cousin—after all, Ardalyon Borisych liked those kind of amply endowed girls. It seemed to her that he agreed with her: he looked just as gloomy as usual and didn’t argue.