The Little Demon

by Fyodor Sologub

  ‘She’s a notorious charlatan,’ the attorney said. ‘She used to tell fortunes from cards and cheated some poor fools, but I told the police that she had to be stopped. On that occasion they had the sense to do what I told them.’

  ‘And she’s still at it,’ said Peredonov. ‘Whenever she told my fortune she always saw a long journey and an official letter.’

  ‘She knows just what to say to everyone. I bet you she’ll set some kind of trap and then try and extort money from you. If she does, come and see me right away. She’ll get a hundred of the best!’ This was one of his favourite expressions and was not meant to be taken literally. All it meant was a severe reprimand.

  And so Avinovitsky promised to defend Peredonov. But his visitor left in an even worse frame of mind, tormented by fears that had no discoverable cause but which were strengthened by Avinovitsky’s threatening attitude and thunderous tirades.

  Every day Peredonov set out on one of his visits, before dinner. He never managed more than one a day because of the time needed to make a full deposition. In the evenings he usually went off to play billiards.

  Vershina still succeeded in luring him into her garden, Rutilov still sang his sisters’ praises, Varvara was more insistent than ever that they marry as soon as possible – but still he came to no decision. Sometimes he thought that the best thing would be to marry her and have done with it. But what would happen if the princess were to trick him? He’d be the laughing-stock of the whole town. And this consideration kept holding him back.

  That the women kept pursuing him, that all his friends were jealous – these were more figments of his imagination than anything else – all this, together with the plots he thought were being hatched against him, made his life dreary and miserable, just like the weather, which for several days on end had been wretched, often culminating in long periods of nasty, cold, slowly falling rain. Life really was turning out to be horrible, he felt. But soon, he thought, he would be an inspector and then everything would take a turn for the better.

  TEN

  On Thursday Peredonov went to see General Veriga, marshal of the nobility. The marshal’s house was like one of those spacious country villas one sees in Pavlovsk or Tsarskoye Selo, eminently suitable for summer or winter. It wasn’t strikingly luxurious but the newness of much of the furnishings seemed unnecessarily pretentious. Veriga was waiting for Peredonov in his study. He pretended he was hurrying to greet his guest and that he’d been too busy to come earlier.

  Veriga held himself extremely stiffly, even for a retired cavalry officer. It was rumoured that he wore a corset. His smooth face was of a uniform red, as if it had been powdered. His hair was cut very short indeed to distract attention from his bald patch. His eyes were grey and friendly, though they revealed a certain aloofness. He was very civil to everyone and had fixed and positive views. A good military training was apparent in every movement and at times he bore himself like the governor he hoped to be one day.

  Peredonov told him why he had come, from the opposite side of the carved oak table. ‘All sorts of rumours are being spread about me and since I belong to the nobility I am appealing to you. People have been saying the most ridiculous things about me, Your Excellency!’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything,’ Veriga replied with an expectant smile. He stared at Peredonov with his piercing grey eyes. Peredonov stared into one corner of the room. ‘I’ve never been a Socialist. I may have said something I shouldn’t have at some time or other – who doesn’t get carried away when they’re young? But I never think such things now.’

  ‘So you were once a keen Liberal?’ Veriga asked with a friendly smile. ‘You wanted a constitution, didn’t you? Well, we all did when we were young. Would you care for one?’ Veriga held out a box of cigars, but Peredonov was too scared to take one and refused. Veriga lit one himself.

  ‘Of course we did, Your Excellency,’ Peredonov confessed. ‘At university I too wanted one – only a different kind from the others.’

  ‘And what kind exactly?’ Veriga asked, a note of increasing dissatisfaction creeping into his voice.

  ‘I wanted a constitution without a parliament,’ Peredonov explained. ‘In parliament all they do is squabble.’

  Veriga’s grey eyes twinkled: this was very good entertainment!

  ‘A constitution without a parliament!’ he said dreamily. ‘That sounds most practical!’

  ‘But all that was a long time ago,’ Peredonov said hastily, ‘I don’t think about such things now.’*

  He looked hopefully at Veriga, who blew a fine smoke-ring, paused for a moment and then said, ‘Well, you’re a teacher. However, my duties happen to keep me in contact with the schools too. I’d be interested to know which type you prefer, the local Church schools or these so-called district ones?’ Veriga knocked the ash from his cigar and stared right into Peredonov’s face with an amiable, over-attentive look.

  Peredonov frowned and looked away. Then he said, ‘The district schools need thoroughly overhauling.’

  ‘Overhauling?’ Veriga repeated in a vague voice. ‘Quite so.’ And he looked down at his smouldering cigar as if preparing himself for a lengthy explanation.

  ‘The teachers there are nihilists and the women teachers don’t believe in God. They just stand in church and blow their noses.’

  Veriga gave Peredonov a swift glance, smiled and said, ‘We all have to do that sometimes, you know!’

  ‘Yes, but the one I’m talking about blows hers like a horn to make the choirboys laugh,’ Peredonov said angrily. ‘She does it deliberately. Her name is Skobochkina.’

  ‘That’s not so good,’ Veriga said, ‘but that’s more from ill-breeding than anything else. I must admit she does have quite appalling manners. None the less, one can’t deny she’s a very conscientious teacher. But in any event it’s not very nice, she ought to be told about it.’

  ‘What’s more, she goes around in a red blouse. And sometimes she even walks barefoot, in a peasant tunic. And she plays knucklebones with the boys. They’re allowed to do just what they like at school. There’s no discipline and no one is ever punished. Anyhow, peasant children can’t be treated the same as children of the gentry: they should be whipped.’

  Veriga calmly looked at Peredonov and appeared to be embarrassed by his tactlessness. He looked down and said in a cold, almost magisterial voice, ‘I feel it is incumbent on me to say that I have witnessed much that is good in district-school pupils. There is no doubt that in the great majority of cases they apply themselves to their work conscientiously. Of course there are lapses at times but this applies to children everywhere. It is a recognized fact that misconduct can take more violent forms as a result of bad upbringing and unfavourable environment. This is all the more so since, among the rural population of Russia today, the sense of duty and respect for private property are sadly lacking. The schools must deal strictly with behaviour of this sort. When all attempts at persuasion have failed, and in serious cases, then more extreme measures must be taken to avoid the necessity of expelling the pupil. This applies to all children, even of the nobility. I am, however, in complete agreement with you inasmuch as the system of teaching in district schools is deficient and not wholly satisfactory. Madame Shteven* has written a very interesting book on the subject. Have you read it by any chance?’

  ‘No, Your Excellency,’ said Peredonov in embarrassment. ‘I never have time for reading as I’m so busy at school. But I shall read it.’

  ‘It’s not all that important,’ Veriga replied with an amused smile, as if giving Peredonov to understand that he was excusing him from the task. ‘This Madame Shteven was very indignant when two of her pupils, both lads of seventeen, were sentenced to be birched by the district court. They held their heads high, those young lads, and I think all of us suffered while that shameful sentence was hanging over their heads – as you know, that kind of thing was later abolished. If I were in Madame Shteven’s place I would not rest until I had let all Russia kn
ow about that outrage. Put on trial for stealing apples – I ask you! They were her best pupils, she writes, and yet they stole apples! That says a lot for their education! It must be frankly admitted that there’s no respect for property these days!’

  In his excitement Veriga got up, took two steps forward, but then immediately composed himself and sat down again.

  ‘I would do things differently if I became inspector of district schools,’ Peredonov said.

  ‘So you have that appointment in view?’ Veriga asked.

  ‘Yes, Princess Volchansky promised me.’

  Veriga smiled pleasantly. ‘I shall look forward to shaking your hand then. I have no doubt that, under your direction, there will be a distinct and rapid improvement.’

  ‘But what concerns me, Your Excellency, is that certain people in this town are talking all sorts of nonsense about me. Who knows, someone might report me to the authorities and that would severely damage my prospects. There’s no truth in any of it.’

  ‘Is there anyone you suspect of spreading these false rumours?’ Veriga asked.

  This question disconcerted Peredonov and he muttered, ‘Whom should I suspect? I have no idea. People talk and it worries me because it might harm my career.’

  Veriga decided that it wasn’t all that important for him to know: after all, he hadn’t been appointed governor yet. Then he slipped back into his marshal’s role and delivered a speech that Peredonov listened to in fear and trembling.

  ‘I am deeply appreciative of the confidence you have shown me in asking for my intervention’ (Veriga almost said ‘patronage’ but stopped himself in time) ‘in this very nasty affair. According to your statement, damaging rumours are being promulgated. Although they have not yet reached my ears you can rest assured that they are circulating in the dark and obscure places of this town, among the very lowest levels of society, whence they dare not emerge into the light of day. And there they shall remain. It affords me the greatest pleasure that you, who have been appointed to your present position by government authorities, value public opinion so highly, as well as the dignity of the position you occupy as nurturer of youth; you are one of those dedicated souls, in short, to whose enlightened guidance we, as parents, entrust our most priceless possessions, namely, our children, sole heirs of all we have. In your status as servant of the State, you owe allegiance to your highly respected headmaster. But as a member of society, and as a gentleman, you may always count upon the … co-operation of the marshal of the nobility in matters appertaining to your honour, your dignity as a human being and as a gentleman.’ Still declaiming, Veriga stood up, pressed heavily against the edge of the table with the fingers of his right hand and gave Peredonov the kind of disinterested paternal look of an orator who has just delivered a well-intentioned lecture to a large audience.

  Peredonov also stood up, crossed his hands over his stomach and looked mournfully at the carpet under the general’s feet. Veriga continued his peroration. ‘I am glad that you came to see me since at the present time it is particularly useful for members of the ruling class to remember that, above all else, they are noblemen and must duly value their membership of that class – not only on account of its privileges but also its code of honour. As you know, noblemen in Russia are principally civil servants and, strictly speaking, all government positions, except the very lowest, should of course be theirs for the asking. The presence of commoners in the civil service is one reason for such undesirable incidents as have disturbed your peace of mind. Intrigue and slander are the weapons of the lowest orders, of those not brought up in accordance with fine, gentlemanly traditions. But I hope public opinion will not hesitate to speak out loud and clear in your support – and in this you may count on my wholehearted co-operation.’

  ‘My most humble thanks, Your Excellency,’ Peredonov said. ‘I know that I can count on you.’

  Veriga smiled amiably and remained on his feet to show that the conversation was now over. He felt that, having delivered his speech, he had wasted his words, and that Peredonov was nothing but an impostor, a spineless adventurer who went around pestering people in pursuit of their protection. He said goodbye to Peredonov with the icy contempt he had come to feel for him on account of his disreputable life.

  As Peredonov was helped on with his coat in the hall by a footman and heard the distant sounds of a piano, he thought that the proud people in that house really knew how to lord it and had high opinions of themselves. He’s after a governorship, he concluded with a twinge of envious awe.

  On his way downstairs he met Veriga’s two small sons who had just returned from a stroll with their tutor. Peredonov looked at them with sullen curiosity. They’re so clean, he thought. Not a speck of dust in their ears. They look so alert, so well disciplined and obedient. I bet they’re never flogged. He watched them angrily as they raced up the stairs, gaily chatting. He was astonished that their tutor treated them as equals and didn’t grumble or shout at them.

  He arrived home to find Varvara standing in the drawing-room with a book in her hands, a rare occurrence. It was an old, tattered cookery book – the only one she ever used. The black binding depressed Peredonov immediately.

  ‘What are you reading, Varvara?’ he crossly asked.

  ‘What do you think? It’s a cookery book. I don’t read rubbish.’

  ‘But why a cookery book?’ Peredonov asked in horror.

  ‘What do you mean? I thought I’d try a new dish for you, as you’re so fussy with your food,’ Varvara explained with a proud, self-satisfied smile.

  ‘I won’t eat from a black book,’ Peredonov said determinedly, snatched the book and rushed into the bedroom with it.

  A black book! And preparing meals from it! he thought in terror. This was the last straw: they were going to get rid of him by black magic and quite openly at that! I must burn it at once, he thought, ignoring Varvara’s shrieks of protest.*

  On Friday he went to see the president of the local landowners’ association, Ivan Kirillov.

  Everything in that house suggested that its owners liked to live simply, but by no means austerely, and to work for the common good. Many of its contents immediately put one in mind of the simple, rural life: an armchair with a back made of a harness arch and axe-handles for arms; an ink-well shaped like a horseshoe and an ashtray like a peasant’s bast shoe. In the living-room, on the window-sills, on the floor, on tables, were scattered corn measures containing various types of grain. Here and there were bits of famine bread† and filthy clods of earth resembling peat. In the drawing-room were designs and models for agricultural machinery. The study was cluttered with piles of books on rural economy and educational matters. On the table there were heaps of papers, bills and shoeboxes filled with different-sized cards. There was much dust everywhere and not one picture.

  The host, Ivan Kirillov, tried very hard to combine the life of an elegant European with that of a respected landowner. Full of contradictions, he seemed to consist of two completely different and contrasting halves welded together. That he was industrious could be seen from the house and estate. But if one looked at him closely, one soon realized that all this activity was mere dilettantism, that his work was nothing more than a pastime, and that his real concern was with the future, into which he peered with dull eyes. It was as if someone had extracted his soul, put it away for safe keeping and replaced it with an ingenious boredom machine, which worked with monotonous and ruthless efficiency. He was rather short and thin and looked so young and rosy-cheeked that at times he resembled a small boy who had glued on a beard and become very successful in apeing the habits of grown-ups. Every movement was quick and precise. Whenever he greeted someone he would bow deeply and elaborately, shuffle his feet and appear to be gliding on the soles of his smart boots. He wore a grey jacket, a soft fine linen shirt with turned-down collar, a bright blue cord tie, narrow trousers and grey socks. One was tempted to call this ensemble fancy dress. And his almost invariably courteous speech also had tw
o sides to it. One moment he would speak most solemnly and suddenly he would break into childlike smiles and behave like a young boy; the next he would withdraw into his shell again and become serious. His wife was a quiet, demure woman who seemed older than her husband and came into the study on several occasions while Peredonov was there, to ask for some detailed advice on local matters.

  Their house was run quite chaotically, always full of business visitors and people drinking tea. Peredonov barely had time to sit down when they brought him a glass of lukewarm tea and a few rolls on a plate. Another guest was already there. Peredonov knew him – and in our town who doesn’t know everyone else? Only a few have quarrelled and fallen out.

  He was Georgy Trepetov, the local doctor, an insignificantlooking man, even smaller than Kirillov, with a sharp-featured pimply face. He was wearing blue spectacles and always looked down or sideways during a conversation, as if too nervous to look the other person in the face. He was incredibly honest but would never part with one copeck to help a friend in need. He detested anyone in government service. When he met civil servants he would shake hands, but he resolutely avoided having a serious conversation with them. As a result he was considered one of the luminaries of the district, like Kirillov, although he knew little and was a bad doctor. He was always intending to take up the simple life and to that end would often closely watch peasants when they blew their noses, scratched the backs of their necks, wiped their lips with the back of their hands; sometimes, when no one was looking, he liked to imitate them. But he was always postponing his own return to nature until the following summer.

  Peredonov repeated all his usual complaints about slanderous gossip in the town, about those envious people who wanted to stop him from becoming an inspector. At first Kirillov was flattered by the visit and exclaimed, ‘Yes, that’s what it’s like in the provinces. I’ve always said that the only salvation for thinking people is pulling together, combining forces. I’m delighted you’ve come to the same conclusion.’