The Little Demon

by Fyodor Sologub

  ‘So he showed no respect,’ Peredonov said glumly.

  ‘I should say not! I mean to say, there was an icon in the room and we’d all taken our hats off. Suddenly in he comes like some Mameluke. Up I went to him and said, as politely as I could, so he couldn’t take offence, “If you don’t mind, sir, would you kindly take your hat off? Out of respect for the icon, sir.” Do you think I was wrong to say this?’ asked Volodin, his eyes almost popping out of his head.

  ‘Of course you weren’t,’ said Peredonov, ‘you had every right to speak to him like that.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Varvara. ‘Someone had to say something. Well done, Pavel!’

  With the look of an innocent man unjustly insulted Volodin went on, ‘And then he had the nerve to say, “Every cobbler should stick to his last.” Then he turned his back on me and left. That’s the whole story.’

  Nevertheless, Volodin felt quite heroic and Peredonov gave him a caramel by way of consolation.

  Another guest arrived. This time it was Mrs Sofya Yefimovna Prepolovensky, a forester’s wife. She was a plump woman, with a good-natured but cunning face and smooth movements. Invited to eat, she sat down and slyly told Volodin, ‘You seem to come here a lot!’

  ‘But it’s Ardalyon I came to see, not Varvara,’ he meekly replied.

  ‘So you’re not in love with anyone at the moment?’ Mrs Prepolovensky laughed.

  Everyone knew that Volodin was after a wife with plenty of money, that he’d chased quite a few women but had always been turned down. He didn’t like the joke at all and in a plaintive voice that sounded just like a bleating sheep said, ‘If I fall in love, it’s a matter that concerns only me and the lady and it’s nothing at all to do with you.’

  Mrs Prepolovensky, determined to have her fun, said, ‘What would happen if you fell in love with Varvara? There’d be no one to make jam tarts for Ardalyon!’

  Volodin puffed out his lips, raised his eyebrows and was at a loss for an answer.

  ‘It’s no good being shy, Mr Volodin,’ Mrs Prepolovensky went on. ‘It’s high time you found yourself a wife. You’re young – and handsome.’

  ‘Supposing Varvara won’t have me?’ Volodin chuckled.

  ‘And why not? The trouble with you is that you’re much too modest.’

  ‘And what if I don’t want to marry her?’ asked Volodin, preening himself. ‘Perhaps I don’t want to marry other people’s cousins. Perhaps I’ve a nice young niece of my own back home.’

  By now he really believed that Varvara would be only too pleased to marry him. Varvara was furious – she thought Volodin a complete fool. Besides, he earned a quarter of Peredonov’s salary. But Mrs Prepolovensky wanted Peredonov to marry her own sister, a priest’s buxom daughter, and for this reason she was trying to cause a rift between Peredonov and Varvara.

  ‘Why are you always trying to marry me off?’ Varvara said, highly annoyed. ‘You’d do better to marry your stupid fat sister to Pavel Volodin.’

  ‘Why should I want to take him away from you?’ said Mrs Prepolovensky, revelling in the situation.

  And now Mrs Prepolovensky’s jokes set Peredonov’s sluggish brain working in a new direction; those erli had become firmly lodged in his mind. What was Volodin up to with his erli? Never inclined towards rational thought, Peredonov was exceedingly gullible. He really did believe that Volodin was in love with Varvara. Once Varvara and he were married, he would be poisoned with erli whilst travelling to take up his inspectorship. Volodin would take his place and he’d be buried under the name of Volodin, who would then become inspector. Very clever!

  Suddenly there was a noise in the hall which made Peredonov and Varvara start. Peredonov blinked at the door, while Varvara crept up to the parlour door, opened it and silently tiptoed back, balancing herself with her arms. She gave a perplexed smile and sat down again. From the hall came shrieks and shouts and it sounded as if a fight was going on. Varvara whispered, ‘It’s Irishka Yershova, dead drunk again. Natasha won’t let her in, but she’s still trying to get into the parlour.’

  Peredonov was terrified and muttered, ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘We’ll have to go into the parlour so she can’t sneak in here,’ Varvara decided.

  They went in and shut the doors tight behind them. Varvara rushed into the hall in the faint hope of stopping the landlady from coming any further, or making her sit down in the kitchen. But she was too late. That brazen woman was already at the door, hands on hips and cursing everyone indiscriminately. Peredonov and Varvara fussed around her, trying to make her sit down as far away from the dining-room as possible, and then brought her some vodka, beer and tarts from the kitchen on a tray. But the landlady wasn’t at all tempted and would have burst into the dining-room – had she been able to find the door. She was very red in the face, filthy and dishevelled, and one could smell the vodka a mile off.

  ‘I want to sit at your table!’ she shouted. ‘And I won’t eat off a tray. I want a tablecloth. I’m the landlady ’ere and expect to be treated like one! And stop gawking at me like that. What if I am drunk. At least I’m faithful to my husband!’

  Varvara sniggered half-heartedly and said, ‘You don’t have to tell us!’

  Yershova winked at Varvara, gave a hoarse laugh and then smartly snapped her fingers. She was becoming even more audacious. ‘Cousins!’ she shouted. ‘We know what kind of cousins you are! Why does the headmaster’s wife never come to see you, eh? Why?’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Varvara.

  But this only made the woman shout all the louder. ‘I won’t be ordered around by the likes of you! It’s my house and I can do what I like in it. If I wanted to I could make you clear out here and now, lock, stock and barrel, so even your smell wouldn’t be left behind! But seeing as I’ve a soft heart I’m letting you stay – if you don’t make no more trouble.’

  While she was ranting away Volodin and Mrs Prepolovensky sat by the window in humble silence. Mrs Prepolovensky smiled weakly and kept glancing out of the corner of her eye at that virago whilst pretending she was looking into the street. Volodin tried to look insulted.

  For a few moments Yershova calmed down somewhat and, with a cheerful drunken smile, she patted Varvara on the shoulder and told her in a friendly voice, ‘Now listen to me. I want to sit at your table and to be spoken to like a lady. And I fancy some of those nice cream gateaux that the master has. Please have a bit of respect for the lady of the house, dearie!’

  ‘Tarts is all you’ll get,’ said Varvara.

  ‘You can keep your tarts! I want some gateaux, nice creamy ones, the kind gentlefolk eat!’ screeched Yershova, waving her arms and blissfully smiling. ‘Ooh, they’re ever so tasty!’

  ‘I don’t have any for you,’ Varvara replied, growing bolder as the landlady was rather more cheerful now. ‘It’s tarts or nothing.’

  Suddenly Yershova made out the dining-room door and let out a wild shriek. ‘Out of my way, you viper!’

  She brushed Varvara to one side and rushed to the door, too fast for the rest. With head lowered, fists clenched, she crashed it open and charged into the dining-room. She stopped in the doorway and when she saw the wallpaper she gave a piercing scream. Then she put her hands on her hips, jauntily planted one foot on the floor and shouted, ‘It looks like you really are leaving!’

  Varvara trembled and said, ‘Whoever told you that, Mrs Yershova? We’ve no intention of leaving. Don’t be so silly.’

  ‘We’re not going anywhere,’ confirmed Peredonov. ‘We’re quite satisfied staying put.’

  The landlady turned a deaf ear, went over to the terror-stricken Varvara and shook her fists in her face. Peredonov sought refuge behind Varvara. He wanted to beat a hasty retreat but was curious to see the landlady and Varvara fight it out.

  ‘For two pins I’d tear you limb from limb!’ raved Yershova.

  ‘Why don’t you behave yourself?’ said Varvara. ‘You’re forgetting we have visitors.’

  ‘And they’ll
get the same treatment!’ Yershova shouted. ‘What the hell do I want with your visitors!’

  She lurched into the parlour and then, with a sudden change of tactics, bowed so low to Mrs Prepolovensky that she almost fell on to the floor.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of a drunken old woman, dear. But there’s something I’d like to get off my chest. You ought to know what she says about your sister when you’re not here! And why does she tell me, a cobbler’s drunken wife? Because she wants the whole world to know, that’s why!’

  Varvara went purple and said, ‘I didn’t tell you anything.’

  ‘You didn’t? You’re a dirty liar,’ Yershova shouted, rushing at Varvara with clenched fists.

  ‘Now shut up!’ Varvara muttered in confusion.

  ‘No I won’t,’ Yershova said spitefully and turned to Mrs Prepolovensky once more. ‘That bitch told me your sister is sleeping with your husband, that’s what!’

  Sofya Prepolovensky flashed her angry, cunning eyes at Varvara, stood up and said, with a weak attempt at a laugh, ‘Delighted to hear it, I didn’t expect that!’

  ‘You’re lying!’ Varvara screamed at Yershova.

  Yershova made an angry gurgling noise, stamped her feet and shook her fist at Varvara. Then she turned to Mrs Prepolovensky and said, ‘If you only knew what the gentleman’s been saying about you: That you were sleeping around before you got married! They’re scum, that’s what. Spit in their faces, lady, that’s the only way with trash like that.’

  Mrs Prepolovensky turned a deep red and went out into the hall without saying a word. Peredonov scurried after her and tried to explain.

  ‘She’s lying, don’t believe a word she says. Only once did I tell her that I thought you were a bit silly and that was because I was angry. I swear to God that was all. She made up the rest.’

  Mrs Prepolovensky calmly replied, ‘Don’t worry yourself, Mr Peredonov! Do you think I can’t see that she’s drunk? She doesn’t know what she’s saying. But what I cannot understand is why you allow all this in your own house.’

  ‘Well, you tell me what to do with her,’ replied Peredonov.

  Angry and upset, Mrs Prepolovensky started putting her coat on. Peredonov didn’t think of helping her but went on muttering. His words fell on deaf ears and he went back into the parlour, where Yershova gave him another taste of her tongue. Varvara ran out on to the porch to console Mrs Prepolovensky.

  ‘Well, you know what a fool he is, he doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time.’

  ‘Now don’t you worry yourself,’ Mrs Prepolovensky replied. ‘A drunken woman is liable to say anything.’

  A thick clump of tall nettles grew outside, just where the porch jutted out. Mrs Prepolovensky smiled and the last trace of displeasure faded from her large white face. Once more she became polite and friendly towards Varvara. She would take her revenge for that insult and there wouldn’t be the need for any dramatics either. They walked around the garden waiting until the landlady sobered up.

  Mrs Prepolovensky didn’t take her eyes off the nettles, which grew in profusion along the garden fence too. After a while she said, ‘You’ve so many nettles! Do you think you could spare some?’

  Varvara laughed and replied, ‘Take some, they’re no use to me.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’d like to. We don’t have any.’

  ‘But what do you need them for?’ Varvara asked in amazement.

  ‘Oh, I’ll find something,’ Mrs Prepolovensky laughed.

  ‘Please tell me for what, dear,’ begged the inquisitive Varvara.

  Mrs Prepolovensky leaned over to Varvara and whispered in her ear, ‘A good way of putting on weight is rubbing yourself with nettles. That’s why my sister Genichka’s so nice and plump.’

  Peredonov’s predilection for fat women and distaste for skinny ones was well known. Varvara was very worried that she was so thin and getting even thinner by the day. How to put on weight – that was one of her main preoccupations. She kept asking everyone if they knew of something that would do the trick. Mrs Prepolovensky was now convinced that Varvara would give the nettles a good try: in this way she would be her own scourge.

  THREE

  Peredonov and Yershova came out into the garden.

  ‘Come on!’ he was muttering.

  Yershova was very merry and shouting at the top of her voice. The two of them were about to dance. Mrs Prepolovensky and Varvara had gone through the kitchen into the main living-room, where they sat by the window to see what was going on.

  Peredonov and the landlady, locked in a close embrace, danced on the grass around the pear tree. Peredonov’s face was, as usual, quite blank and his short-cropped hair and gold-rimmed spectacles bobbed up and down in lifeless rhythm. Yershova kept letting out little squeals and shouts, waving her arms and staggering all over the place.

  ‘Hey you, Lady Muck, come and join us!’ she shouted through the window to Varvara. ‘Or are you being snooty again?’

  Varvara said nothing and turned away.

  ‘You can go to hell! Ooh, I’m on my last legs!’ Yershova shouted and sank on to the grass, taking Peredonov with her.

  They sat for a while, closely interlocked, and then got up to dance again. The routine was repeated several times: first they would dance, then rest under the pear tree, on the bench or on the grass. Volodin enjoyed the performance immensely, watching the dancers from the window. He roared with laughter, pulled funny faces, bent his knees and shouted, ‘They’re crazy! What fun!’

  ‘She’s a filthy slut,’ Varvara said angrily.

  ‘Yes, a slut,’ agreed Volodin, laughing out loud. ‘Just you wait, my dear landlady, I’m going to do you a nice little favour. Let’s mess up the parlour too. It’s all right, she won’t come back today. She’ll tire herself out over there on the grass and then go and sleep it off.’

  He broke into peals of bleating laughter and leaped about like a young sheep. Mrs Prepolovensky egged him on, ‘Yes, let’s, Pavel – why give a damn for her! If she comes back we could say she did it herself when she was drunk!’

  Leaping about and laughing his head off, Volodin rushed into the parlour. After he had wiped the soles of his boots on the wallpaper he cried, ‘Varvara! Do you have some rope?’

  Varvara waddled like a duck across the parlour into the bedroom and returned with some threadbare knotty rope. Volodin made a noose, stood a chair in the middle of the room and hung the rope from a lamp-hook.

  ‘That’s for the landlady! She’ll find it very handy when you’ve gone!’

  Both women squealed with laughter.

  ‘And now a pencil and some paper!’ shouted Volodin.

  Varvara ferreted around in the bedroom again and emerged with a small piece of paper and a pencil. Volodin wrote on it For the landlady and pinned it to the noose, making the most hilarious faces. Then he furiously attacked the wallpaper once again, wiping his boot-soles on it in convulsions of laughter – his bleating laugh could be heard all over the house. The white cat, its ears pinned back in terror, peered out of the bedroom and apparently didn’t know where to run. Peredonov managed at last to detach himself from Yershova and came back on his own, while the completely exhausted landlady went home to sleep. As he came in, he was met by Volodin who told him, ‘We’ve decorated the parlour as well! Three cheers!’

  ‘Three cheers!’ shouted Peredonov and he discharged short loud salvoes of laughter, as if he were firing from a cannon.

  The ladies shouted ‘Three cheers!’ too and a general jollification commenced.

  ‘Pavlusha, let’s dance!’ Peredonov shouted.

  ‘Yes, let’s, my dear Ardalyon,’ Volodin replied with an inane giggle. They danced under the noose and kicked out wildly. The floor shook under Peredonov’s heavy stamping.

  ‘Ardalyon’s really letting himself go,’ observed Mrs Prepolovensky with a faint smile.

  ‘There’s no telling what he’ll do next, he gets the craziest ideas,’ grumbled Varvara, admirin
g Peredonov all the same.

  She really thought he was handsome and a fine young man and found nothing exceptionable about his wildest behaviour. In her eyes he was neither ridiculous nor repugnant.

  ‘How about a dirge for the landlady?’ said Volodin. ‘Give me a cushion.’

  ‘Whatever will he think of next!’ Varvara laughed.

  She brought a cushion in a dirty calico case from the bedroom. Then they put it on the floor to represent the landlady and read the funeral service over it in wild, shrill voices. Natalya the maid was called to turn the handle of the musical-box, while all four of them danced a quadrille, making absurd faces and kicking their legs high in the air.

  For some reason the dancing put Peredonov in a generous mood and his bloated face shone with a strange vigour. He was suddenly filled with an almost mechanical determination, perhaps induced by his previous exertions. He pulled out his wallet, counted some notes and, with a proud, self-satisfied expression, threw them to Varvara.

  ‘Catch these, Varvara!’ he shouted. ‘You can get yourself some material for the wedding dress.’

  The notes fluttered over the floor and Varvara wasted no time in picking them up, far too pleased with the present to take offence at Peredonov’s rudeness. Mrs Prepolovensky thought, It’s anybody’s guess who’ll marry him, and smiled wickedly. Volodin, of course, did not dream of helping Varvara pick up the money.

  Mrs Prepolovensky made her farewell and on her way out she met a new visitor, Grushina.

  Marya Osipovna Grushina was a young widow of prematurely decayed appearance. She was very thin and her dry skin was covered with fine wrinkles seemingly filled with dust. Though her face was not unpleasant, her teeth were black and neglected. Her hands were small, her fingers long and clawlike, with filthy nails. At first glance she did not so much appear filthy as give the impression that she never washed herself but merely shook off the dust. One imagined that a few strokes with a carpet-beater would send a column of dust to the very heavens from her clothes, which had never seen an iron and hung on her in crumpled folds as if they had been tied up in a bundle for many years. She existed on a scant pension, supplemented by income from small business commissions and interest on mortgages. For the most part her conversation was quite indecent and she was always pursuing all the men in the district in the hope of finding another husband. There was nearly always an unmarried clerk or minor official renting a room in her house.