The Petty Demon

by Sologub, Fyodor

  People were dancing in the hall. Volodin, who had quickly become intoxicated, started to do Russian dances. The police stopped him. He said in a cheerfully obediant voice:

  “Well, if it’s not allowed, then I won’t do it.”

  But two landowners, who, following his example, had started to stamp out a trepak folk dance, didn’t want to comply.

  “What right have you got? We paid our fifty kopecks!” they exclaimed and were ushered out.

  Volodin accompanied them, pulling faces, grinning and dancing.

  The Rutilov girls hurried to search out Peredonov so that they could make fun of him. He was sitting alone, by a window, and looking at the crowd with aimless eyes. All people and objects appeared senseless to him, but hostile at the same time. Lyudmila, as the gypsy, went up to him and said in an altered husky voice:

  “My dear barin, let me tell your fortune.”

  “Go to hell!” Peredonov cried.

  The gypsy’s sudden appearance had frightened him.

  “My barin, so fine, so golden, o, barin mine, give me your hand. I see from your face that you will be rich, you will be a big official,” Lyudmila kept pestering him and took Peredonov’s hand anyway.

  “Well, just mind that you tell my fortune well,” Peredonov grumbled.

  “Ai, barin, my precious barin,” Lyudmila predicted his fortune, “you have many enemies, they will denounce you, you’ll weep and die under a fence.”

  “Ach, you bitch!” Peredonov cried and tore his hand away.

  Lyudmila darted nimbly into the crowd. Valeriya came to replace her, sat down beside Peredonov and softly whispered to him:

  I’m a girl who’s young and Spanish,

  Men like you I adore.

  Skinny wives like yours I’d banish,

  You can’t hope, dear sir, for more.

  “You’re lying, you fool!” Peredonov grumbled. Valeriya whispered:

  Sweeter than the night my kisses,

  Hotter than the day my embrace.

  Lay your eyes upon your missus

  Spit right in her stupid face.

  Your Varvara made you marry,

  You are handsome, Ardalyón.

  As a pair you look contrary,

  You are wise as Solomón.

  “You’re right in what you say,” Peredonov said. “Only how am I going to spit in her face? She’d complain to the Princess and I wouldn’t get the post.”

  “What do you need a post for? You’re nice even without a post,” Valeriya said.

  “Sure, but how am I supposed to live if I’m not given a post,” Peredonov said despondently.

  Darya slipped a letter sealed in a pink envelope into Volodin’s hand. Volodin unsealed it with a joyful bleating, read it through, became pensive—then suddenly grew proud. But then was seemingly dismayed. The note was brief and clear:

  “My dearest, come to a rendez-vous with me tomorrow at eleven o’clock in the evening at Soldier’s Bath. Your completely unknown Zh.”

  Volodin believed the letter. But this was the question: was it worthwhile going? And who was this “Zh.”? Some Zhenya or other? Or did the surname begin with the letter Zh.?

  Volodin showed the letter to Rutilov.

  “Go, by all means, go!” Rutilov incited him. “See what comes of it. Perhaps it’s a rich bride who’s fallen in love with you, but her parents are standing in the way, so she wants to declare herself to you like this.”

  But Volodin thought and thought, and then decided that it wasn’t worth going. He said gravely:

  “They’re all running after me, but I don’t want such depraved ones.”

  He was afraid that he would get beaten up there: Soldier’s Bath was situated in a desolate area on the outskirts of the town.

  By now a dense, raucous and exaggeratedly cheerful crowd was crammed into all the rooms of the club, while in the main hall, by the entrance, one could hear a din, laughter and exclamations of approval.

  Everyone pressed in that direction. It was passed on from one to another that a terribly original costume had arrived. It was a skinny, tall person in a patched, soiled robe, with a besom under his arm, a wash basin in his hand, and he was picking his way through the crowd. He was wearing a cardboard mask—a stupid face with a narrow little beard and side-whiskers—and a cap with a round civil cockade on it. He kept repeating in a surprised voice:

  “I was told there was a masquerade here, but no one’s washing themselves here.*

  And he waved his wash basin despondently. The crowd followed him, oohing and aahing, and naively ecstatic over his complicated improvisation.

  “He’ll get the prize, I expect,” Volodin said enviously.

  He was envious, like many of the people, even though he himself wasn’t even in costume. So what did he have to be envious of? And here was Machigin. He was extraordinarily ecstatic. The cockade had particularly delighted him. He laughed happily, clapped his hands and said to acquaintances and strangers alike:

  “A fine bit of criticism! Those quill-pushers act pompous a lot, they love to wear their cockades and uniforms. They’ve got their criticism now—and very cleverly done.”

  When it became hot, the official in the robe started to wave his besom all around, exclaiming:

  “Now it’s a real bathhouse!”

  Those surrounding him roared with laughter. Tickets fell in a shower into his wash basin.

  Peredonov gazed at the besom wavering about in the crowd. It seemed to him that it was the nedotykomka.

  “The rascal has turned green,” he thought in horror.(n)

  XXX

  AT LAST THE COUNT began of the tickets received for the costumes. The club elders made up the committee. A tensely expectant crowd gathered by the doors into the judges’ room. For a short while it grew quiet and monotonous in the club. No music was being played. The guests had fallen silent. Peredonov felt eerie. But within a short while conversation, impatient grumbling and then a clamor rose in the crowd. Someone was trying to convince people that both prizes had been won by actors.

  “You just see,” someone’s irritated and hissing voice was heard.

  Many people believed it. The crowd grew restless. Those who had received only a few tickets were already angered by the fact. Those who had received a large number were upset in anticipation of a possible injustice.

  Suddenly a bell gave a delicate and nervous tinkle. The judges had emerged: Veriga, Avinovitsky, Kirillov and the other elders. A wave of commotion ran through the room and suddenly everyone fell silent. Avinovitsky’s stentorian voice rang out over the entire hall:

  “The prize, an album, for the best male costume has been awarded, on the basis of the majority of tickets received, to the gentleman in the costume of the ancient German.”

  Avinovitsky raised the album up high and angrily looked at the thronging guests. The strapping German started to pick his way through the crowd. People were looking at him with hostility. They wouldn’t even let him pass.

  “Don’t push, please!” cried the despondent woman in a dark blue costume with glass star and paper moon on her forehead—”Night”—in a plaintive voice.

  “He won the prize so he’s already imagining that the ladies ought to stretch themselves out in front of him,” a spitefully hissing voice was heard from the crowd.

  “If you’re not willing to let me pass yourselves,” the German replied with restrained annoyance.

  Finally he somehow reached the judges and took the album from Veriga’s hands. The music played a fanfare. But the sounds of the music were drowned in a scandalous racket. Curses flew. People surrounded the German, jostled him and shouted:

  “Take off the mask!”

  The German was silent. It wouldn’t have been difficult for him to beat his way through the crowd, but obviously he was loathe to exercise his strength. Gudaevsky made a grab for the album and at the same time someone quickly tore the mask off the German. People in the crowd started to yell:

  “It is a
n actor!”

  Their suppositions had been proven correct: it was the actor Bengalsky. He cried angrily:

  “So I’m an actor, what of it! After all, you yourselves gave me the tickets!”

  Spiteful cries echoed in response:

  “You could have slipped a few in yourself.”

  “You probably printed the tickets yourself.”

  “There were more tickets distributed than there were people in the audience.”

  “He brought fifty tickets in his pocket.”

  Bengalsky turned crimson and cried:

  “It’s vile to talk like that. Check it whoever wants, it can be checked against the number of guests.”

  Meanwhile, Veriga said to the people closest to him:

  “Gentlemen, calm down, there hasn’t been any deception, I can vouch for that. The number of tickets has been checked against the number of people present.”

  With the help of several reasonable guests, the elders somehow managed to calm the crowd down. Besides, everyone was now curious to see who would be given the fan. Veriga announced:

  “Gentlemen, the greatest number of tickets for the female costume has been received by the lady in the costume of the geisha to whom is awarded the prize of the fan. Geisha, come here please, the fan is yours. Gentlemen, I beg you most humbly, be good enough and let the geisha through.”

  The music played a fanfare for the second time. The frightened geisha would have been happy to run away. But she was urged on, a path was made for her and she was led forward. Veriga, with a polite smile, handed her the fan. Something colorful and smart-looking flashed before Sasha’s eyes which were clouded with fear and embarrassment. He had to express his thanks, he thought. The accustomed politeness of a well-bred boy came to the fore. The geisha curtsied, said something that was inaudible, giggled, raised her little fingers—and once more a furious din arose in the hall as jeering and curses were heard. Everyone strained towards the geisha. A fierce, bristling Wheat Sheaf was crying:

  “Curtsey, you vile creature! Curtsey!”

  The geisha made a dash for the doors, but they wouldn’t let her pass. Spiteful cries echoed through the crowd which had grown agitated around the geisha:

  “Make her take her mask off!”

  “Off with the mask!”

  “Grab her, hold her!”

  “Take the fan away!”

  The Wheat Sheaf cried:

  “You know who they gave the prize to? To the actress, Kashtanova. She took someone else’s husband away and they gave her the prize! They won’t give it to decent women, but they gave it to that vile creature!”

  And she rushed at the geisha, screaming shrilly and clenching her dry fists. Others followed her—mostly her gentlemen admirers. The geisha desperately fought her way free. A savage persecution began. They smashed the fan, tore it to pieces, threw it on the floor and stomped on it. The crowd, with the geisha in its midst, hurtled about the hall in a frenzy, knocking bystanders off their feet. Neither the Rutilov sisters, nor the elders could force their way through to the geisha. The geisha, spritely and strong, was screaming shrilly, scratching and biting. She firmly held on to her mask, first with her right hand, then with her left.

  “They all should be beaten!” some infuriated woman shrieked.

  A drunken Grushina, hiding behind the others, kept inciting Volodin on together with the rest of her acquaintances.

  “Pinch her, pinch the vile creature!” she cried.

  Machigin, holding himself by the nose, was dripping blood as he leapt out of the crowd and complained:

  “She gave it to me right in the nose with her fist.”

  Some fierce young man had fastened onto the geisha’s sleeve with his teeth and had torn it in half. The geisha screamed:

  “Help me!”

  Others started to tear at her costume as well. Her body was bared in a few spots. Darya and Lyudmila were pushing and shoving desperately, trying to squeeze through to the geisha, but to no avail. Volodin was tugging at the geisha, screeching and clowning around with such energy that he was even getting in the way of others who were less drunk and more furious than he. It was more out of cheerfulness than spite that he was expending such energy, imagining that a very entertaining amusement was being performed. He ripped the sleeve cleanly off the geisha’s dress and wrapped it around his head.

  “This is handy!” he cried shrilly, making faces and roaring with laughter.

  Making his way out of the crowd where it seemed too cramped for him, he fooled around in the open space and with a wild shriek danced over the remnants of the fan. There was no one around to remove him. Peredonov looked at him in terror and thought:

  “He’s dancing, he’s happy over something. That’s the way he’ll be dancing on my grave.”

  Finally the geisha tore free—the men surrounding her couldn’t withstand her nimble fists and sharp teeth.

  The geisha dashed out of the hall. In the corridor the Wheat Sheaf once again fell on the Japanese girl and grabbed her by the dress. The geisha was about to tear free, but once more she was surrounded. The persecution was renewed.

  “The ears, they’ve got her by the ears,” someone shouted.

  Some lady grabbed the geisha by the ear and tugged at it, emitting loud triumphant cries. The geisha started to howl and somehow broke free, striking the spiteful woman with her fist.

  Finally, Bengalsky, who meanwhile had managed to change into his ordinary dress, forced his way through the crowd to the geisha. He took the trembling Japanese girl in his arms, and using his enormous body and his arms as much as possible to protect her, quickly carried her off, deftly scattering the crowd with his elbows and feet. People in the crowd were crying:

  “Scoundrel! Rogue!”

  They tugged and pounded at Bengalsky’s back. He cried:

  “I won’t let you tear the mask off the lady. Do as you will, but I won’t let you.”

  In this fashion he carried the geisha through the entire corridor. The corridor ended at a narrow door into the dining room. Here Veriga managed to restrain the crowd for a short while. With the determination of a military man, he stood before the door, blocking it off with his body, and said:

  “Gentlemen, you will not proceed any farther.”

  Gudaevskaya, rustling the remains of her bedraggled wheat sheaves, kept leaping at Veriga, showing him her fists and screamed shrilly:

  “Out of the way, let us through.”

  But the intimidatingly cold face of the general and his determined gray eyes restrained her from taking any action. In an impotent fury she started to shout at her husband:

  “You ought to have given her a slap in the face, what were you gaping over, you nitwit!”

  “It was awkward to get through,” the Indian tried to excuse himself, waving his arms senselessly about. “Pavlushka kept getting in the way.”

  “You should have given Pavlushka one in the teeth and her one in the ear, what were you mincing about for!”

  The crowd started to press in against Veriga. Foul language could be heard. Veriga stood calmly before the door and tried to convince those closest to him to stop their rowdiness. A kitchen boy opened the door slightly behind Veriga and whispered:

  “They’ve left, Your Excellency.”

  Veriga moved off. The crowd tore into the dining room then into the kitchen. They were looking for the geisha, but they couldn’t find her any longer. Bengalsky had carried the geisha at a run through the dining room into the kitchen. She lay calmly in his arms and was silent. It seemed to Bengalsky that he could hear the powerful pounding of the geisha’s heart. On her naked arms, tightly pressed together, he noticed several scratches and a bluish-yellow spot from a bruise near the elbow. Bengalsky said in an excited voice to the menials crowded together in the kitchen:

  “Quickly, a coat, a robe, a sheet, anything, we have to save the young lady.”

  Someone’s coat was thrown over Sasha’s shoulders. Somehow or other Bengalsky wrapped the Ja
panese girl up and carried her out into the courtyard by way of a narrow staircase that was illuminated with smoking kerosene lamps. And from there through a gate and into an alleyway.

  “Take off your mask, it’ll be harder for them to recognize you in the mask, anyway it’s dark now,” he said rather inconsistently. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  He was curious. He probably knew that it wasn’t Kashtanova, but who was it? The Japanese girl obeyed. Bengalsky caught sight of a swarthy, unfamiliar face on which fear had been replaced with an expression of joy at having escaped from the danger. The eyes, provocative and cheerful now, rested on the actor’s face.

  “How can I thank you!” the geisha said in a sonorous voice. “The things that would have happened to me if you hadn’t dragged me out of there!”

  “The girl’s no coward, an interesting little wench!” the actor thought. “But who is she? Obviously, she’s a newcomer.” Bengalsky knew the local ladies. He said softly to Sasha:

  “We have to get you home as quickly as possible. Tell me your address and I’ll get a cab.”

  The Japanese girl’s face clouded over once more with fear.

  “I mustn’t!” she babbled. “I’ll go by myself, just leave me.”

  “How are you going to get there in this kind of mire and in your wooden sandals, we need a cab,” the actor protested confidently.

  “No, I’ll run, for God’s sake, let me go,” the geisha implored him.

  “I swear on my honor that I won’t tell anyone,” Bengalsky tried to convince her. “I can’t let you go, you’ll catch cold. I’ve taken responsibility for you and I can’t let you do it. You’d better tell me quickly, they might give you a licking right here. You saw for yourself that these are utterly savage people. They’re capable of anything.”