The Little Demon

by Fyodor Sologub

  The thought of leaving the flat without paying made Peredonov laugh with joy.

  ‘But she’s bound to ask for the money,’ said Vershina.

  ‘I don’t care what she does, she won’t get anything out of me,’ said Peredonov crossly. ‘Anyway, most of the time we were in St Petersburg, so the flat wasn’t occupied.’

  ‘But it was still in your name,’ said Vershina.

  ‘Much I care! She had to have the flat redecorated anyway. How can she charge us for the time we weren’t even there? But worst of all – she’s terribly impertinent.’

  ‘Well, you really can’t blame her when your … hm, cousin is so difficult,’ said Vershina, hesitating slightly at the word ‘cousin’.

  Peredonov frowned and peered vaguely in front of him with half-somnolent eyes. Vershina started to talk about something else. Peredonov took a caramel from his pocket and started chewing it. His eyes chanced to fall on Marta and he thought she looked jealous and would like one. Shall I give her one or not? he asked himself. She’s not really worth it. But if I don’t they might think I’m mean. And I’ve a whole pocketful of them. And he pulled out a handful of caramels. ‘Have one,’ he said, offering the sweets first to Vershina and then to Marta. ‘They’re very good bonbons, cost me a lot of money – thirty copecks a pound.’ They each took one and Peredonov said, ‘Have some more. I’ve plenty. And all of the best quality. You wouldn’t catch me buying rubbish.’

  ‘Thank you very much, but no more for me,’ Vershina said in her quick toneless voice.

  Marta said exactly the same, but with less assurance. Peredonov looked at Marta in disbelief and said, ‘What! You don’t want any more? Here, help yourself.’

  He took one for himself and put the rest in front of Marta. She smiled and leaned forward to take one, without saying a word. The ignorant slut, Peredonov thought. She’s never been taught how to say thank you.

  He didn’t know what to talk about with her. He was no more interested in her than in anybody else, except those with whom he’d had a long relationship, whether pleasant or not. The rest of the beer was poured into his glass. Vershina looked at Marta.

  ‘I’ll fetch some more,’ Marta said. She always guessed what Vershina wanted without having to be told.

  ‘Tell Vladya to get it, he’s only playing in the garden,’ Vershina said.

  ‘Vladislav!’ cried Marta.

  ‘Yes?’ replied the boy, from so close that he must have been hiding and listening to the conversation.

  ‘Bring two bottles of beer,’ said Marta. ‘They’re in the box in the hall.’

  Vladya soon brought the beer and handed it through the window of the summer-house to Marta, greeting Peredonov at the same time.

  ‘How are you, Vladya?’ said Peredonov. ‘And how many bottles have you swigged on the quiet today?’

  Vladya forced a smile and said, ‘I don’t like beer.’ He was about fourteen, freckled like his sister and with the same heavy, clumsy movements. He was wearing a coarse linen blouse.

  Marta whispered something to him and they both laughed. Peredonov eyed them with suspicion. As always, if people laughed in his presence and he didn’t get the joke, he concluded that they must be laughing at him. Vershina was worried and tried to attract Marta’s attention. But Peredonov himself suddenly exclaimed in a malevolent voice, ‘What’s funny?’

  Marta shuddered and turned towards him, not knowing what to say. Vladya just smiled at Peredonov and blushed slightly.

  ‘This is most impolite, in front of a guest!’ said Peredonov. ‘Is it me you find funny?’

  Marta blushed and Vladya trembled.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Marta. ‘We weren’t laughing at you at all. It’s a purely private joke.’

  ‘Aha! A secret, then!’ said Peredonov irately. ‘Don’t you know it’s impolite to discuss secrets in front of guests?’

  ‘It’s not exactly a … secret. We were laughing because Vladya isn’t wearing shoes or socks and he feels shy about coming in.’

  Peredonov was placated by this piece of information and started to think of some jokes he could play on Vladya. Then he offered him a caramel.

  ‘Marta, bring me my black shawl,’ Vershina said, ‘and while you’re about it have a look and see how the pie is getting on.’

  Marta obeyed, realizing that Vershina wanted to be alone with Peredonov. The lazy girl was glad that there was no hurry.

  ‘And you go and play in the garden, Vladya,’ said Vershina. ‘You don’t want to be here with us.’

  Vladya ran off, the sand crunching under his feet. Vershina gave Peredonov a cautious sidelong glance, peering through the perpetual haze of cigarette smoke. Peredonov said nothing, looked straight ahead with a torpid expression and chewed his caramel. He was glad that Marta and Vladya had gone – he was frightened they might laugh again. Although he was sure that they weren’t laughing at him the annoyance still rankled in him, like the pain left by a stinging-nettle, which remains for a long time and grows worse, even though the cause is no longer there.

  ‘Why don’t you get married?’ Vershina said suddenly. ‘What are you waiting for, Ardalyon Borisovich? If you don’t mind my saying so, Varvara isn’t good enough for you.’

  Peredonov ran his hand through his slightly ruffled chestnut-coloured hair and said with mournful solemnity, ‘No one in this town is good enough.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Vershina with a wry smile. ‘There are plenty much better than Varvara. And anyone would quite willingly marry you.’ She flicked the ash from her cigarette with a swift, decisive movement, as if to add an exclamation mark to what she had just said.

  ‘But I wouldn’t marry just anyone,’ answered Peredonov.

  ‘We aren’t talking about just anyone,’ said Vershina quickly. ‘I know a dowry doesn’t interest you if the girl is good enough. I mean to say, you have a good salary, thank God.’

  ‘No,’ replied Peredonov, ‘I couldn’t do better than marry Varvara. The princess promised to take me under her wing if I marry Varvara. And with her help I’ll get a very good job,’ Peredonov added in grave excitement.

  Vershina forced a weak smile. Her entire wrinkled face, so swarthy it might have been cured in tobacco smoke, showed a grudging disbelief. ‘The princess herself said that to you?’ she asked, emphasizing the ‘you’.

  ‘Not me personally. She told Varvara,’ admitted Peredonov. ‘But that makes no difference.’

  ‘If you ask me, you’re putting too much trust in your cousin. Isn’t she much older than you? Fifteen years older, would it be? Or perhaps more? I suppose she must still be under fifty?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Peredonov angrily. ‘She’s not even thirty.’

  Vershina burst out laughing. ‘Really!’ she said, not attempting to hide her derision. ‘She seems much older than you. Of course, it’s a great pity that such a fine, clever, good-looking young man shouldn’t find a wife worthy of him.’

  Peredonov was filled with self-satisfaction. However, no smile was visible on his highly coloured face and he seemed annoyed that Vershina was the only person who really appreciated him.

  Vershina went on, ‘Even without someone to use influence for you, you’ll go far. The school board must surely know what a good man they’ve got. Why hang on to Varvara? And as for those Rutilov girls! They’re not your type at all. Far too flighty, in my opinion. What you need is a nice steady wife. Have you ever considered Marta?’

  Peredonov glanced at his watch. ‘It’s time I was going,’ he said, getting up.

  Vershina was certain that Peredonov was only leaving because she had touched a tender spot and that it was only his inability to make up his mind that made him unwilling to discuss the matter there and then.

  TWO

  Varvara Dmitriyevna Maloshin, Peredonov’s mistress, was waiting for him at home. She was sloppily dressed, but had taken care to paint and powder her face.

  She was baking some jam tarts for lunch –
Peredonov loved them – and bustled about the kitchen on her high heels, hurrying to have them ready by the time he returned. Afraid that her fat pock-marked maid Natalya might steal some of them, she didn’t dare leave the kitchen. As usual, she was giving Natalya a good telling-off. Her face, though wrinkled, had preserved some of its former charms, but she looked perpetually spiteful and frustrated.*

  As he always did on coming home, Peredonov felt discontented and exceedingly bored. He made a loud noise as he entered the dining-room, threw his hat on the window-sill, sat at the table and bellowed, ‘Varya! Where’s my lunch?’

  Varvara hobbled out of the kitchen with the food, deftly manoeuvring in her smart shoes that were far too narrow for comfort, and waited on Peredonov herself. When the coffee came Peredonov bent down and sniffed the steam. This strange behaviour worried Varvara and she asked him in a trembling voice, ‘What’s wrong, Ardalyon? Doesn’t it smell right?’

  Peredonov looked at her mournfully and crossly said, ‘I’m just trying to see if you’ve poisoned it or not.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind! God, where did you get that idea from?’

  ‘I think it’s hemlock!’ Peredonov growled.

  ‘And why should I want to poison you, just tell me!’ said Varvara. ‘Don’t be such a fool!’

  Peredonov sniffed away. Then, satisfied that it hadn’t been poisoned, said, ‘You can always tell from the strong smell. But you have to put your nose right into the steam.’ He said nothing for a while and then exclaimed in a spiteful, sarcastic voice, ‘The princess!’

  Varvara looked worried. ‘What about her? What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Write and tell her that I want the job first. Then I’ll think about getting married.’

  ‘But you know very well,’ implored Varvara, ‘she made this promise on condition we get married. And it’s not right for me to ask her about the job.’

  ‘Write and tell her that we’re already married,’ said Peredonov, congratulating himself on this sudden burst of inspiration.

  Varvara was dumbfounded for a moment but, recovering herself, said, ‘How can you lie like that? Besides, she might find out. Anyway, you’d better think of a wedding date and I must start making a dress.’

  ‘What dress?’ said Peredonov.

  ‘You don’t really suppose I could get married in this, do you? Please give me some money for the material, Ardalyon.’

  ‘Is it a shroud you have in mind?’ Peredonov asked viciously.

  ‘You beast!’

  Peredonov suddenly felt the urge to tease Varvara and asked, ‘Varvara, do you know where I’ve just been?’

  ‘Where?’ she anxiously asked.

  ‘At Vershina’s,’ he replied and burst out laughing.

  ‘That must have been very pleasant for you, I don’t think!’ Varvara exclaimed.

  ‘I saw Marta,’ Peredonov continued.

  ‘She’s covered with freckles,’ said Varvara, getting angrier and angrier. ‘And her mouth stretches from one ear to the other – you could pin it on a frog.’

  ‘But she’s still much more to look at than you. I think my mind’s made up.’

  ‘Just you dare and I’ll burn her eyes out with acid!’ Varvara shouted, flushed and trembling with anger.

  ‘I feel like spitting in your face,’ Peredonov calmly said.

  ‘Go ahead!’ Varvara cried. ‘I bet you can’t reach me from where you are!’

  ‘Oh yes I can!’ Peredonov replied. He stood up and with an expression of complete indifference spat right in her face.

  ‘You pig!’ Varvara said quietly, but apparently refreshed by the spray. And she started wiping it off with a napkin. Peredonov said nothing. Lately he had been rougher with her than usual. And even before that he’d been treating her badly enough. Encouraged by his silence she said in a louder voice, ‘Yes, you’re a pig. It was a direct hit.’

  Suddenly a loud bleating came from the hall.

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Peredonov, ‘we’ve a visitor.’

  ‘It sounds like Pavlusha,’ Varvara sniggered.

  In came Pavel Vasilyevich Volodin, cheerfully laughing. He was a young man who resembled a sheep in every respect. He had dull protruding eyes and curly hair – everything about him suggested a playful young sheep. A stupid young man, he was a joiner, had trained at technical college and was now teaching carpentry at the town school.

  ‘How are you, my dear Ardalyon!’ he said in a gay voice. ‘I seem to be in time for coffee!’

  ‘Natasha, bring another spoon!’ said Varvara.

  Natalya could be heard rattling the only remaining teaspoon in the kitchen; all the others were hidden away.

  ‘Help yourself, Pavlusha,’ said Peredonov, playing the cordial host. ‘Did you know that I’m going to be made an inspector soon? The princess promised Varvara.’

  Volodin was delighted and burst out laughing. ‘And our new inspector is drinking coffee!’ he cried, giving Peredonov a hard slap on the shoulder.

  ‘Do you think it’s easy to get a position like that? One false step and you’re out.’

  ‘And what could they report you for?’ Varvara asked, grinning.

  ‘Lots of things. They could say I’ve been reading Pisarev* – that would be curtains!’

  ‘Well, Ardalyon, you’d better put your Pisarev on the back shelf,’ advised Volodin, tittering.

  Peredonov glanced warily at him and said, ‘Perhaps I never even had a copy. Fancy a drink, Pavlusha?’

  Volodin stuck out his lower lip and assumed an expression of self-importance, nodding like a sheep. ‘If it’s to be sociable, then all right. But never on my own!’

  Peredonov was also always ready for a drop and they both had some vodka and then started on the jam tarts.

  Suddenly Peredonov turned and spattered the wall with his coffee dregs. Volodin opened his sheeplike eyes wide in amazement. The wallpaper was already covered with stains, and torn as well.

  ‘That’s a fine way to treat wallpaper,’ Volodin said.

  Peredonov and Varvara burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s to spite the landlady,’ Varvara said. ‘We’re moving soon, so not a word to anyone.’

  ‘Splendid!’ exclaimed Volodin and broke into a loud joyous cackle.

  Peredonov went up to the wall and gave it a vigorous kick with his boot-soles. Volodin followed suit. Peredonov said, ‘We always do this to the wallpaper when we leave a flat, just so they’ll remember us!’

  ‘You’ve really landed some good ones there!’ Volodin rapturously exclaimed.

  ‘Irishka will go out of her mind,’ Varvara said with a dry, spiteful laugh. And all three of them spat on the wall, tore the paper and rubbed their shoes against it. Then, exhausted and contented, they turned away.

  Peredonov bent down and picked up the ugly white fat cat and began to pull its ears and tail and shake it by the neck. Volodin was highly amused and suggested more subtle torments. ‘Blow in its eyes, Ardalyon. Brush its fur the wrong way!’

  The unfortunate animal hissed and made a vain attempt to escape. It did not dare show its claws, fully aware of the cruel beating it would get for scratching. When at last Peredonov grew tired of this sport he threw the cat to one side.

  ‘Listen, Ardalyon, there’s something I’ve got to tell you,’ Volodin began. ‘All the way here I was wondering how not to forget – and I almost did!’

  ‘Well?’ Peredonov said morosely.

  ‘I know your liking for sweet things,’ Volodin said cheerfully. ‘Well, I’ve found a recipe that will make you lick your lips.’

  ‘You can’t tell me anything about recipes for sweets. I know them all.’

  Volodin was offended and said, ‘You might know everything that’s made in this place. But how can you know what’s made where I come from, if you’ve never even been there?’ Satisfied with his logic Volodin produced a sheeplike laugh.

  ‘In your part of the world they guzzle dead cats,’ said Peredonov irately.

&n
bsp; ‘Excuse me, Ardalyon,’ Volodin said in a shrill laughing voice, ‘it’s possible that they eat dead cats where you come from, but we won’t go into that now. So you’ve never had erli?’*

  ‘No, I can’t say I have,’ replied Peredonov.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Varvara.

  ‘I’ll tell you. Well, you know what kutya† is?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ Varvara replied, smirking.

  ‘Well, erli is ground kutya, only with sugar and almonds.’

  Volodin then described in great detail how erli was made where he came from. Peredonov listened restlessly and thought, they serve kutya after funerals. Does he want to kill me off?

  Volodin said, ‘If you want the real thing, give me the ingredients and I’ll make it for you.’

  ‘And that would suit you down to the ground, wouldn’t it?’ Peredonov gloomily remarked. He might poison it, he thought.

  Volodin took offence again. ‘If you think that all I want is to filch your sugar you’re mistaken. I don’t need any.’

  ‘Now stop this clowning!’ Varvara interrupted. ‘Surely you know how fussy he is. You’d better come here and make it.’

  ‘And you can eat it yourself,’ Peredonov said.

  ‘But why?’ asked Volodin, his voice trembling from the insult.

  ‘Because it’s horrible muck. Fit only for pigs like you.’

  ‘Please yourself, Ardalyon,’ Volodin said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I only wanted to please you. But if you don’t want any, then do as you like.’

  ‘I hear the general’s had his knife into you,’ said Peredonov.

  ‘What general?’ Volodin asked, going red in the face and indignantly sticking out his lower lip.

  ‘We know all about it,’ said Peredonov.

  Varvara grinned.

  ‘Well, Ardalyon, if you’ve heard about it you didn’t hear the whole story. I’ll tell you exactly what happened.’

  ‘Go on,’ Peredonov said.

  ‘It really happened like this. The day before yesterday I was taking my carpentry class in the back room of the school because of the repairs in the workshop. In came General Veriga with our inspector. We wondered what Veriga was doing in the school, but that’s not my affair. We went on working without taking any notice. But when they came over to talk to us I saw that Veriga hadn’t taken his hat off.’