They got into a drozhky and went to the people where Klavdiya was living in order to make inquiries about her. There was mud almost everywhere in the streets even though the rain had ended by the evening before. At rare intervals the drozhky would reverberate along the stone pavement only to sink in the sticky mud once more in the unpaved streets.
On the other hand, Varvara’s voice reverberated incessantly, frequently accompanied by the sympathetic chatter of Grushina.
“My goose was at Marfushka’s again,” Varvara said.
Grushina replied with sympathetic spitefulness:
“They’re trying to catch him. And I should think so. A first-rate husband, particularly for that one, Marfushka. She never dreamed of one like that.”
“Truly, I don’t know what to do,” Varvara complained. “He’s become so prickly, it’s really frightening. Believe me, my head is just spinning. If he marries someone else then I’m out on the street.”
“Come now, my dear Varvara Dmitrievna,” Grushina tried to console her. “None of those thoughts. He would never marry anyone but you. He’s used to you.”
“Sometimes he’d go off late at night and I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” Varvara said. “Who knows, maybe he’s off betting married somewhere. Sometimes I toss and turn the whole night. They all have their eyes on him, those three Rutilov mares—they latch on to everyone. And that fat-faced Zhenka as well.”
Varvara complained for a long while and from the entire conversation Grushina saw that she had something else in mind, some kind of request, and she began to anticipate with delight the money she would earn.
Klavdiya was to their liking. The wife of the excise duty official praised her. She was hired and ordered to come that same evening because the official was leaving that very day.
Finally, they arrived at Grushina’s. Grushina lived in her own little house in a rather slovenly fashion with her three little children, who were shabby, dirty, stupid and mean as scalded whelps. Only now did the conversation begin in earnest.
“My sweet fool, Ardalyon,” Varvara began, “is demanding that I write the Princess once more. But why should I write her for nothing! She wouldn’t answer or she would answer the wrong thing. We’re not all that marvelously close to each other.”
Princess Volchanskaya, in whose house Varvara had lived at one time as a domestic seamstress for ordinary chores, might have been able to offer some patronage to Peredonov: her daughter was married to the privy councillor Shchepkin, an important person in the Ministry of Education. In response to Varvara’s request, the Princess had already written the previous year that she wasn’t about to intercede on behalf of a fiancé of Varvara’s, but if it were Varvara’s husband that would be a different matter and it would be possible to intercede when the opportunity arose. Peredonov had not been satisfied by that letter: only a vague hope was being offered and it was not directly stated that the Princess would without fail help to secure an inspector’s post for Varvara’s husband. In order to resolve the confusion, they had recently made a trip to St. Petersburg. Varvara went to see the Princess and then brought Peredonov to visit her, but she deliberately procrastinated over this visit so that they would miss the Princess at home. Varvara understood that at the very best the Princess would confine herself to the advice of getting married as soon as possible and to several vague promises to intercede when the opportunity offered—promises which would have been completely insufficient for Peredonov. So Varvara decided not to show the Princess to Peredonov.
“I’m relying on your rock-solid support,” Varvara said. “Help me, Marya Osipovna, honey.”
“But how can I help you, Varvara Dmitrievna, sweetheart?” Grushina asked. “You know full well that I’m ready to do anything I can for you. Do you want me to tell your fortune?”
“I know all about your fortune telling,” Varvara said with a laugh. “No, you have to help me in a different way.”
“How?” Grushina asked in anxious, happy anticipation.
“Very simple,” Varvara said smirkingly. “You are going to write a letter as though it came from the Princess, in her handwriting, and I’ll show it to Ardalyon Borisych.”
“Ai, sweetheart, come now, how can I!” Grushina began, pretending to be frightened. “As soon as people find out about this business, what’ll happen to me then?”
Varvara was not in the least dismayed by her answer and she pulled a crumpled letter out of her pocket and said:
“Here I’ve brought a letter from the Princess for you to use as a model.”
Grushina demurred for a long while. Varvara clearly saw that Grushina would agree, but that she wanted to get more for doing it. On the other hand, Varvara wanted to give her less. She carefully increased her promises, pledged various minor gifts, an old silk dress, and finally Grushina saw that Varvara would give absolutely no more. Varvara fairly gushed with words of entreaty. Grushina pretended that she was agreeing merely out of pity and she took the letter.2
IV3
IT WAS DENSE with tobacco smoke in the billiard room. Peredonov, Rutilov, Falastov, Volodin and Murin (a landowner of enormous size, stupid in appearance, the owner of a small estate, a man who was resourceful and had money)—all five of them were preparing to leave after finishing the game.
Evening was coming on. On the filthy planked table there was a forest of drained beer bottles. The players, who had drunk a great deal while playing, were flushed in the face and were raising a drunken clamor. Only Rutilov preserved his customary consumptive pallor. He had drunk less than the others, but even after a real drinking bout he would only have turned more pallid.
Vulgar words hung in the air. No one was offended: they were friends.
Peredonov had lost, as was almost always the case. He was a poor billiard player. But he maintained an imperturbable sullenness on his face and paid out the money reluctantly. Murin shouted loudly:
“Fire!”
And he aimed at Peredonov with his billiard cue. Peredonov screamed in terror and cowered. The stupid thought flashed through his mind that Murin wanted to shoot him. Everyone roared. Peredonov muttered with annoyance:
“I can’t stand jokes like that.”
Murin was already repenting over the fact that he had frightened Peredonov: his son was studying at the gymnasium and for that reason he considered it his responsibility to oblige the gymnasium teachers in any way possible. Now he began to excuse himself to Peredonov and treated him to a wine and seltzer.
Peredonov said sullenly:
“My nerves are a little on edge. I’m not very happy with our headmaster.”
“The future inspector has lost,” Volodin shouted in his bleating voice. “He begrudges the money!”
“Unlucky at cards, lucky in love,” Rutilov said, chuckling and showing his rotten teeth.
It was enough that Peredonov was in a bad mood because of losing and the fright he had received, without the others starting to tease him about Varvara.
He shouted:
“I’ll get married and that will fix Varka!”
His friends roared and teased him:
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I will so dare. Tomorrow I’m going to propose.”
“A bet! Agreed?” Falastov proposed. “For ten roubles.”
But Peredonov begrudged the money. If he lost he would have to pay up. He turned away and fell into a sullen silence.
At the gate leading out of the gardens they said goodbye to one another and dispersed in different directions. Peredonov and Rutilov set out together. Rutilov now tried to persuade Peredonov to marry one of his sisters immediately.
“I’ve fixed everything up, don’t worry,” he insisted.
“There hasn’t been any announcement,” Peredonov pleaded.
“I’ve fixed everything up, I’m telling you,” Rutilov tried to convince him. “I’ve found the right kind of priest: he knows that you’re not related.”
“There aren’t any ushers,” Peredonov sa
id.
“It’s true there aren’t. We’ll get the ushers right now, I’ll send for them and they’ll come straight to the church. Or I’ll go and pick them up myself. It was impossible to do it beforehand, your cousin might have found out and interfered.”
Peredonov was silent and with a melancholy expression was gazing all around to where the scattered and silent houses grew dark behind sleepy gardens and rickety fences.
“You just stand by the gate,” Rutilov said convincingly, “I’ll bring out any one that you want. Now listen, and I’ll prove it to you. Two times two is four, isn’t that right?”
“It is,” Peredonov replied.
“Well then, just as two times two is four, it follows that you should marry my sister.”
Peredonov was stunned.
“But that’s true,” he thought. “Of course, two times two is four.” And he regarded the sober-minded Rutilov with respect, thinking: “I’ll have to get married! You won’t get out of anything with him.”
By this time the friends had arrived at Rutilov’s house and stopped by the gate.
“It can’t be done in a rush,” Peredonov said angrily.
“You strange fellow, you can’t keep people waiting,” Rutilov exclaimed.
“But maybe I don’t want to.”
“No, you don’t want to, you queer chap! What then, do you want to live forever as an old bachelor?” Rutilov protested confidently. “Or are you getting ready to go into a monastery? Or hasn’t Varya disgusted you enough yet? No, just imagine the kind of mug she’ll pull if you bring home a young wife.”
Peredonov produced a brief and fitful roar of laughter, but almost immediately frowned and said:
“But maybe they don’t want to.”
“What do you mean they don’t want to, you strange fellow!” Rutilov replied. “I’m giving you my word.”
“They’re arrogant,” Peredonov sought an excuse.
“What do you care! So much the better.”
“They make fun of people.”
“But not of you,” Rutilov tried to convince him.
“How am I to know that!”
“You just believe me, I won’t deceive you. They respect you. You’re not just any kind of Pavlushka that people can make fun of you.”
“Sure, I believe you,” Peredonov said mistrustfully. “No, I want to assure myself that they don’t make fun of me.”
“What a strange fellow,” Rutilov said in amazement. “How would they dare to make fun of you? But, nevertheless, how do you want to assure yourself?”
Peredonov thought for a while and then said:
“Have them come outside right now.”
“All right, that can be done,” Rutilov agreed.
“All three of them,” Peredonov continued.
“All right.”
“And have each one say how she would try and please me.”
“But whatever for?” Rutilov asked in amazement.
“Then I’ll see what they want, otherwise you might be leading me around by the nose,” Peredonov explained.
“No one is leading you around by the nose.”
“Maybe they want to make fun of me,” Peredonov reasoned. “But if you have them come out and they want to make fun of me, then I’ll be able to make fun of them.”
Rutilov thought for a moment, pushed his hat back on his head and then forward on his forehead and finally said:
“Well, wait here, I’ll go and tell them. What a strange chap! Only in the meantime you go into the yard, otherwise who knows who the devil might come along the street and see.”
“I don’t give a damn,” Peredonov said, but still he followed Rutilov in through the gate.
Rutilov headed for the house and his sisters while Peredonov remained waiting in the yard.
All four sisters were sitting in the living room, the corner room that faced the gate. They were all the image of each other and resembled the brother. They were all attractive, rosy cheeked and gay: Larisa, married, calm, pleasant and plump; Darya, fidgety, quick, the tallest and most slender of the sisters; Lyudmila, easily amused; and Valeriya, small, delicate and fragile to look at. They were treating themselves to nuts and raisins and obviously were waiting in anticipation of something because they were more excited and laughing more than usual, recalling the latest town gossip and making fun of both people they knew as well as strangers.
As early as the morning they had been ready to head for the altar. All that remained was to put on a dress that was appropriate for getting married in and pin on a veil and flowers. The sisters did not bring up Varvara in their conversations, as though she didn’t even exist. But the very fact that they were usually so merciless in their; mockery and picked everyone to pieces, and nevertheless hadn’t so much as whispered a single word about Varvara all day, that alone proved that the awkward thought was haunting each of the sisters.
“I brought him!” Rutilov announced as he entered the living room. “He’s standing at the gate.”
The sisters stood up in excitement and started to laugh and talk all at once.
“Only there’s a hitch,” Rutilov said, chuckling.
“What do you mean?” Darya asked.
Valeriya knitted her beautiful dark brows in annoyance.
“I hardly know whether to tell you,” Rutilov said.
“Well, come, come!” Darya rushed him.
It was with some embarrassment that Rutilov explained what Peredonov wanted. The young ladies raised a cry and took turns in abusing Peredonov. But little by little their cries of displeasure were replaced with jokes and laughter. Darya put on a sullenly expectant face and said:
“This is the way he’s standing at the gate.”
It was an amusingly good imitation.
The young ladies started to peek out the window in the direction of the gate. Darya opened the window slightly and shouted:
“Ardalyon Borisych, may we talk through the window?”
A sullen voice was heard:
“You may not.”
Darya hastily banged the window shut. The sisters burst into peals of unrestrained laughter and ran out of the living room into the dining room so that Peredonov would not hear. In this happy family they were capable of switching from the most angry mood to laughter and jokes, and most frequently it was a happy word that settled the matter.
Peredonov stood and waited. He felt sad and frightened. He was thinking about running away but he couldn’t bring himself to decide to do even that. The sound of music was borne hither from somewhere far away: it must have been the daughter of the marshal of the nobility playing on the piano. The faint tender sounds wafted through the soft dark air of evening and induced sorrow and aroused sweet dreams.
At first Peredonov’s dreams took an erotic direction.
He imagined the young Rutilov ladies in the most seductive situations. But the longer the waiting went on the greater Peredonov’s irritation in wondering why they were keeping him waiting. And no sooner had the music affected his deathly vulgar emotions than it died away.
Meanwhile, night, soft, rustling with ominous whispering sounds and people approaching, descended all around. And it seemed all the more dark everywhere because Peredonov was standing in the space which was illuminated by the living room lamp whose light settled in two strips on the yard and widened as it reached out towards the neighboring fence behind which dark log walls were visible. The trees from the Rutilov garden were growing suspiciously dark and whispering about something in the depths of the yard. Someone’s slow deliberate steps could be heard for a long while on the boardwalk in the streets. Peredonov began to fear that while he was standing there someone would attack and rob him, or even kill him. He pressed right up against the wall, into the shadows, so that he could not be seen, and there he waited timidly.
But then long shadows flitted through the strips of light in the yard, doors started to bang and voices were heard behind the door to the porch. Peredonov perked up. “They’re
coming!” he thought joyfully and the pleasant dreams about the lovely sisters began to stir lazily once more in his head—the vile offspring of his pathetic imagination.
The sisters were standing in the entry way. Rutilov came out into the yard towards the gate and looked around to see whether anyone was on the street.
There was no one to be seen or heard.
“There’s no one,” he said in a loud whisper through his cupped hands to the sisters.
He stayed outside to keep watch on the street. Peredonov followed him out on to the street.
“Well, they’re going to tell you now,” Rutilov said.
Peredonov stood right by the gate and peered through the crack between the gate and the gate post. His face was sullen and almost frightened. All dreams and thoughts were extinguished in his head and were replaced by a vague, ponderous lust.
Darya was the first to come up to the partially open gate.
“Well, what would you like me to do to please you?” she asked.
Peredonov was sullenly silent. Darya said:
“I’ll bake you the tastiest bliny, hot ones, only don’t choke on them.”
From behind her shoulder Lyudmila shouted:
“And every morning I’ll go around the town and gather up all the gossip and then tell you. It’ll be very amusing.”
The capricious and slender face of little Valeriya appeared for an instant between the cheerful faces of the two sisters and her fragile voice said:
“And nothing will make me tell you how I’ll please you—guess for yourself!”
Dissolving into laughter, the sisters ran off. Their voices and laughter died away behind the doors. Peredonov turned away from the gate. He was not entirely satisfied. He thought that they had simply babbled something and then left. It would have been better if they had given him notes. But it was already getting late to be standing there and waiting.
“Well, did you see?” Rutilov asked. “Which one for you?”
The Petty Demon Page 8