The Petty Demon (25 page)

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.

O
N
S
UNDAY 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.

“How can we guess what your news is,” she said and was silent for a while. “Let me divine it for you from the cards. Marta,
bring the cards from the room.”

Marta stood up, but Peredonov stopped her angrily:

“Sit, don’t bother, I don’t want them.
You guess yourselves, but leave me alone. You’re not going to stump me with your fortune-telling. Here I’m going to show you
something that will make you gape.”

Peredonov smartly pulled his wallet out of his pocket, fetched the letter out with its
envelope and showed it to Vershina without letting go of it.

“You see,” he said, “an envelope. And here’s the letter.”

He pulled out the letter and read it slowly, with a dull expression of satisfied malice in his eyes. Vershina was taken aback.
Up until the final moment she had never believed in the Princess, but now she understood that the business with Marta was
totally lost. She grinned with an annoyed, crooked expression and said:

“Well, really, congratulations.”

Marta was sitting
there with a surprised and frightened look on her face and smiling distractedly.

“What do you think of that?” Peredonov said
maliciously. “You took me for a fool, but I’ve turned out to be smarter than you. You were talking about the envelope, well
there’s your envelope. This business of mine is certain now.”

He banged his fist on the table, not hard and not loudly, and
this motion and the sound of his words remained somehow indifferent, as though he were alien to and far removed from his affairs.

Vershina and Marta exchanged looks that were distastefully perplexed.

“What are you exchanging looks for!” Peredonov said
rudely. “There’s nothing to exchange looks for: now everything is settled, I’m marrying Varvara. There were a lot of young
ladies here who were trying to catch me.”

Vershina sent Marta off for cigarettes and Marta ran joyfully out of the summer
house. Out on the sandy paths, which were brilliantly colored with faded leaves, she felt free and easy. She met the barefooted
Vladya near the house and she felt even more cheerful and joyful.

“He’s marrying Varvara, it’s decided,” she said animatedly,
lowering her voice and drawing her brother into the house.

Meanwhile, Peredonov suddenly started to say goodbye without waiting
for Marta.

“I don’t have any time,” he said. “Getting married is no sewing bee.”

Vershina didn’t try to detain him and parted
coldly with him.
¹³
She was terribly annoyed: up until this time she had still had a feeble hope of fixing Marta up with Peredonov, while she
herself would take Murin. But now the final hope had faded.

And Marta would be in for it that day! She would have to shed
some tears.

Peredonov left Vershina’s and had an urge to smoke. He suddenly
caught sight of a policeman—he was standing by himself on a corner and cracking sunflower seeds. Peredonov had a melancholy
feeling.

“Another spy,” he thought. “They keep looking to find fault with something.”

He didn’t dare light up the cigarette he had pulled out. He went up to the policeman and asked timidly:

“Mister policeman, is it allowed to smoke here?”

The policeman made a salute and inquired respectfully:

“Excuse me, sir, what do you mean?”

“A cigarette,” Peredonov explained, “Am I allowed to smoke just this one cigarette?”

“An order hasn’t been issued on this matter,” the policeman replied evasively.

“There hasn’t?” Peredonov asked again with melancholy in his voice.

“None whatsoever. So, no order has been received to stop gentlemen from smoking, but I cannot say whether specific information
has been issued on the matter.”

“If there wasn’t anything, then’, I won’t do it,” Peredonov said submissively. “I am a loyal person. I’ll even throw the cigarette
away. I’m a State Councillor you know.”

Peredonov crushed the cigarette, threw it on the ground, and already fearing that he might have said something superfluous,
hastily went home. The policeman watched him go in perplexity, and finally decided that the gentelman had had a few “for the
road”, and satisfied by that, he started once more to peacefully crack his sunflower seeds.(a)

“The street is getting its back up,” Peredonov muttered.

The street rose to a low hill and then descended on the other side, and the bend in the street between two hovels was etched
against a sky that was blue, mournful and turning to evening. This quiet district of miserable life was shut up in itself
and deep in sorrow and languor. The trees spread their branches over the fence and scrutinized and prevented people from passing.
Their whisperings were scornful and threatening. A sheep stood at the crossroads and gazed dully at Peredonov.

Suddenly a bleating laughter game from around the corner—Volodin emerged into sight and came up to say hello. Peredonov looked
at him gloomily and thought about the sheep that had just been standing there and suddenly had disappeared.

“That means of course,” he thought, “that Volodin has turned into a sheep. It isn’t by chance that he resembles a Sheep so
much and it’s impossible to distinguish whether he’s laughing or bleating.”

He was so preoccupied by these thoughts that he didn’t hear in the least what Volodin said by way of greeting.

“What are you kicking about, Pavlyushka!” he said with melancholy. Volodin bared his teeth, bleated and protested:

“I’m not kicking, Ardalyon Borisych, but greeting you with a handshake. Perhaps where you come from people kick with their
hands, but
where I come from people kick with their feet, and it’s not people that do it, if I may say so, but horses.”

“I expect you’ll be butting next,” Peredonov said with a grumble. Volodin was offended and in a reverberating voice said:

“Ardalyon Borisych, as of yet I haven’t grown any horns, but perhaps you might grow horns before I do.”

“You have a long tongue,
it’s always babbling something it shouldn’t,” Peredonov said angrily.

“If that’s what you think, Ardalyon Borisych,” Volodin
immediately objected, “then I might as well be silent.”

And his face assumed an utterly sorrowful expression, while his lips
were all puffed out. However, he walked on alongside Peredonov—he still hadn’t eaten dinner and was counting on dining at
Peredonov’s that day. He had been invited that morning to his joy at morning mass.

An important piece of news was awaiting
Peredonov at home. While still in the entry way it was possible to guess that something extraordinary had happened—a commotion
and frightened exclamations could be heard from the other rooms. Peredonov thought that things weren’t ready for dinner yet,
but they had seen him coming, had become frightened and were hurrying. He felt good—about the way they were afraid of him!
But it turned out that something else had happened. Varvara ran out into the front hall and cried: