The Little Demon

by Fyodor Sologub

  Volodin walked beside Peredonov and scornfully bleated, ‘I ask you! Wearing a badge! Anyone would think he held an official’s rank. How could he?’

  ‘And you’re not allowed to wear one either.’

  ‘I know I’m not, and I don’t need to. True, I do wear one sometimes, but I know the right time and place for it. When I’m right out in the country I sometimes put one on. It gives me so much pleasure and there’s no one to stop me. You get much more respect from the peasants.’

  ‘A badge doesn’t suit your ugly mug, Pavlusha,’ Peredonov said. ‘And keep away from me, you’re covering me with dust with your ram’s hoofs.’

  Volodin was deeply hurt and fell silent, but still walked on beside him.

  ‘Those Rutilov girls will have to be reported too,’ Peredonov said anxiously. ‘All they go to church for is to giggle and chatter. They tart themselves up and off they go. And they steal incense to make scent – that’s why they’re always reeking of perfume.’

  ‘Well I never!’ exclaimed Volodin, shaking his head and goggling his vacant bulging eyes.

  The shadow of a storm cloud glided swiftly over the ground and filled Peredonov with terror. Amidst the clouds of dust along the road he occasionally caught a glimpse of the little grey demon. Whenever the grass stirred in the breeze Peredonov thought he could see it running around in it, biting off blades and gorging itself. It’s a disgrace there’s all this grass in the town! It should be rooted out.

  On a nearby tree a twig quivered, shrivelled up, turned black and flew off with a loud cawing. Peredonov shuddered, gave a wild cry and rushed home. Volodin followed him anxiously, his protruding eyes full of utter incomprehension. As he ran he clutched his bowler hat and swung his stick.

  That same day Bogdanov summoned Machigin to his house. Before he entered Machigin stood with his back to the sun, took off his hat and combed his hair with his fingers.

  ‘Well, young man, what’s it all about? What have you been up to?’ Bogdanov said, going straight into the attack. ‘What have you been up to, eh?’

  ‘What’s what all about?’ Machigin replied nonchalantly, toying with his straw hat and swinging his left foot. Bogdanov didn’t allow him to sit – it was far better reprimanding him if he were standing up.

  ‘How is it that you, young man, have been wearing a badge, eh? What made you break the rule, eh?’ He assumed an air of the utmost gravity and shook his little grey goatee.

  Machigin flushed but answered boldly, ‘What about it? Haven’t I the right to wear one?’

  ‘Do you think you’re a civil servant, eh? Or a government official?’ Bogdanov said excitedly. ‘What sort of official are you, eh? A copy clerk, eh?’

  ‘A badge is a sign of my professional status as a teacher,’ said Machigin daringly, and the thought of its importance brought a sweet smile to his face.

  ‘A stick. Yes, a stick – that’s the sign of your status,’ Bogdanov advised him with a shake of the head.

  ‘But please reconsider, Mr Bogdanov,’ replied Machigin in a hurt voice. ‘An ordinary stick! Anyone can have one of those, but a badge carries prestige.’

  ‘What do you want with prestige, eh? What prestige?’ Bogdanov replied, going into the attack again. ‘What prestige do you need, eh? Do you think you’re a government official?’

  Machigin tried to reason with him and said, ‘Please, Mr Bogdanov, a badge immediately wins the respect of the illiterate peasantry – they’ve been bowing much lower since I’ve been wearing one.’ He smugly stroked his red moustache.

  ‘It’s quite impossible, young man, quite impossible,’ Bogdanov said, mournfully shaking his head.

  ‘Please, Mr Bogdanov! A teacher without a badge is exactly the same as the British lion without its tail – a caricature!’

  ‘Tail? What have tails got to do with it, eh? What tails do you mean, eh?’ Bogdanov said excitedly. ‘And why do you have to bring politics into it, eh? What business is it of yours to discuss politics, eh? No, young man, you must do as I say and remove that badge. You can’t go around doing just as you please. Anyone could find out, God forbid!’

  Machigin shrugged his shoulders and wanted to say something else, but Bogdanov interrupted him: what seemed to him a brilliant idea had flashed through his mind. ‘Well, you came here today without a badge, didn’t you? So that shows you yourself feel it’s wrong.’

  Machigin didn’t know what to say at first, but soon came up with an apt retort. ‘Since we’re country schoolmasters, we need only country privileges. But in town we’re looked upon as third-rate intellectuals.’

  ‘No, young man! I must tell you once again,’ Bogdanov said angrily, ‘that it’s not allowed, and if I hear of it again we shall be forced to dismiss you.’

  From time to time Grushina gave small parties for the young bachelors in the town, from among whom she hoped, sooner or later, to hook another husband. So as not to make her intentions too obvious, she invited married friends too.

  At one of these parties the guests arrived early. On the walls of Grushina’s living-room were some paintings covered over with thick muslin – not that there was anything indecent about them. When Grushina raised the muslin with a provocative smile, all the guests had to admire were very badly painted naked women.

  ‘Why is this one so crooked?’ Peredonov asked glumly.

  ‘She’s not at all crooked,’ Grushina said, quickly stepping to the picture’s defence. ‘She’s just bending over.’

  ‘She’s crooked,’ insisted Peredonov, ‘and her eyes are different sizes, like yours.’

  ‘A fat lot you understand about art!’ Grushina said, deeply offended. ‘These pictures are very good and they cost a lot of money. Artists always paint like that.’

  Peredonov suddenly laughed out loud, remembering the advice he had given Vladya a few days before.

  ‘What are you guffawing about?’ asked Grushina.

  ‘Nartanovich, one of the boys in my class, is going to set fire to his sister Marta’s dress. I told him to do it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be so damned stupid!’ retorted Grushina.

  ‘Of course he’ll do it,’ Peredonov replied with conviction. ‘Brothers and sisters are always quarrelling. When I was small I was always playing nasty tricks on my sisters. I beat the little ones and ruined the older ones’ dresses.’

  ‘Not all brothers and sisters quarrel,’ said Rutilov. ‘I don’t quarrel with mine.’

  ‘What do you do then? Hug and kiss them?’ Peredonov asked.

  ‘You, Ardalyon, are a swine and a scoundrel. For two pins I’d give you a punch on the nose,’ Rutilov said, very calmly.

  ‘I don’t like that kind of joke,’ replied Peredonov, edging away from Rutilov. He looked as if he really meant it, he thought. In actual fact there’s something really sinister about his face. ‘She has only one dress, and that’s black,’ he went on, referring to Marta.

  ‘Vershina is going to make her a new one,’ Varvara said with the utmost envy and spite. ‘She’ll make her whole trousseau for her. Marta’s such a beauty even the horses take fright!’ she said softly, looking menacingly at Murin.

  ‘It’s time you were married too,’ Mrs Prepolovensky said. ‘What are you waiting for, Mr Peredonov?’

  The Prepolovenskys already realized that after Peredonov had received the second letter he had finally made up his mind to marry Varvara. And they too thought it was genuine. They maintained that they had been on Varvara’s side from the start. But there was no sense in quarrelling with Peredonov – it was highly profitable playing cards with him. As for Genya, they’d have to wait until someone else came along. Mr Prepolovensky began, ‘Of course you should get married. You’d be doing a good deed as well as pleasing the princess. Yes, the princess will be pleased that you’re getting married, so you’ll be obliging her and doing a good deed. That’s all very good, because you’ll be doing the right thing, and pleasing the princess …’

  ‘I entirely agree,’ said Mrs Prepolo
vensky.

  But Mr Prepolovensky couldn’t stop and when he saw that everyone was moving away from him he trapped a young civil servant and started repeating everything he had just said.

  ‘I’ve decided to get married,’ announced Peredonov, ‘only Varvara and I don’t know how to go about it. Something has to be done, but I don’t know what.’

  ‘Well, it’s really quite simple,’ Mrs Prepolovensky said. ‘If you like, my husband and I will make all the arrangements. You won’t have to worry about a thing.’

  ‘Good,’ said Peredonov, ‘I accept. But you must see that everything is done properly and in style. Money is of no importance.’

  ‘Everything will be perfect, you won’t have to worry about a thing,’ Mrs Prepolovensky assured him.

  Peredonov continued to list his requirements. ‘Some people are so stingy they have thin silver-gilt rings. I don’t want anything like that. I want solid gold. Actually, I would prefer bracelets to rings – they’re more expensive and look much more impressive.’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘You can’t wear bracelets for a wedding,’ Mrs Prepolovensky said, faintly smiling. ‘You must have a ring.’

  ‘Why not bracelets?’ Peredonov asked peevishly.

  ‘It’s just not done.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it is,’ Peredonov said sceptically. ‘I’ll go and see the priest. He knows best.’

  Rutilov tittered. ‘You’d better order some wedding belts while you’re about it, Ardalyon,’ he advised.

  ‘I can’t afford that,’ Peredonov replied, missing the joke. ‘I’m not a merchant banker. Only recently I dreamed that I was being married. I was in a velvet tailcoat and Varvara and I were both wearing golden bracelets. Behind us were two headmasters holding garlands over our heads and singing “Hallelujah”.’

  ‘I had a most interesting dream too last night,’ said Volodin, ‘but I’m foxed as to what it can mean. I was sitting on a throne with a golden crown and in front of me was a broad stretch of grass with nothing but flocks of sheep grazing on it and baaing! They walked – like this – and shook their heads – like this – and went baa-baa-baa!’ Volodin proceeded to walk up and down the room. He shook his head, stuck his lips out and bleated. All the guests laughed. Then he found himself a seat and blissfully surveyed the scene, screwing up his eyes with pleasure and laughing his sheeplike laugh.

  ‘Well, what happened next?’ Grushina asked, winking at the others.

  ‘That was all. Just sheep, lots and lots of them. Then I woke up.’

  ‘A sheep has sheepish dreams,’ Peredonov growled. ‘It’s no great shakes being tsar of the sheep!’

  ‘I had a dream too,’ Varvara told Grushina with an impish smile ‘but it’s strictly for the ladies. I’ll tell you when the men have gone.’

  ‘That’s very strange, Varvara, I had one like that too,’ Grushina said. She giggled and winked at everyone.

  ‘Come on, tell us. We’re modest gentlemen, just like the ladies,’ said Rutilov.

  The other men tried to prevail upon Varvara and Grushina to tell them their dreams, but the two women only exchanged meaningful glances and laughed obscenely.

  Everyone sat down to play cards. Rutilov assured the company that Peredonov was a brilliant player and Peredonov believed him. But as usual he lost and Rutilov won. As a result, Rutilov was overjoyed and his conversation became much livelier than usual.

  The little demon started playing tricks on Peredonov. It would hide somewhere close by and then reappear every now and then, sticking its head out from behind a table or someone’s back and then hiding again. It seemed to be waiting for something. Peredonov was terrified. The mere sight of the cards frightened him – he saw the queens double. Then he turned the queen of spades over to see if a third was hiding on the back. Rutilov said, ‘Mr Peredonov’s looking under his queen’s petticoat!’*

  Everyone roared with laughter.

  Meanwhile the two young police clerks sat down to play Fools on their own – and a very lively game was soon under way. The winner laughed for joy and thumbed his nose at the other; the loser became very angry.

  There was a smell of food. Grushina invited the guests into the dining-room. They all got up, jostling one another and behaving with exaggerated politeness. Somehow or other they took their places at the table.

  ‘Eat up, ladies and gentlemen!’ said Grushina. ‘Eat until your bellies burst!’

  ‘Eat your cake for your hostess’s sake!’ Murin joyfully cried. The sight of vodka and the thought that he had won put him in a very good mood.

  Volodin and the two young police clerks tucked in more heartily than anyone else. They took the best pieces of pie and didn’t spare the caviare.

  Grushina forced a laugh and said, ‘Our Pavel Volodin may be drunk, but he can still tell the difference between cake and bread.’

  As if she’d bought all that caviare just for him to hog! Pretending they were for the ladies, she put all the best dishes out of his reach. Volodin didn’t seem to mind and contented himself with whatever was left. He’d managed to scoff much of the best food at the start and now he couldn’t care less.

  Peredonov looked at them munching away and it struck him that they were all laughing at him – he wondered why. He stuffed the food blindly and ravenously into his mouth, greedily and messily devouring everything he could lay his hands on.

  After dinner they sat down to another game of cards. Peredonov soon got tired of losing. Throwing down the cards in disgust he said, ‘To hell with you! I never have any luck. I’m fed up – Varvara, we’re going home.’

  Many of the others followed them.

  In the hall Volodin noticed that Peredonov had a new walking-stick. Grinning, he turned it round and asked, ‘Ardalyon, why are there curled fingers carved on it? What does that mean?’

  Peredonov angrily snatched the stick from him, put its knob with the curled fingers carved in ebony to his nose and said, ‘It means a fig* for you – with butter!’

  ‘Excuse me, Ardalyon,’ he said, ‘I enjoy bread and butter, but not figs and butter.’

  Without listening to him Peredonov carefully swathed his scarf around his neck and buttoned up his coat. Rutilov laughed and said, ‘Why are you wrapping yourself up, Ardalyon? It’s quite mild outside.’

  ‘Health is more precious than anything else,’ Peredonov replied.

  In the street it was quiet and dark. In fact the street itself seemed to have settled down to sleep and was softly snoring. It was damp and miserable. Heavy clouds scudded across the sky. It’s got so dark. Now why is that? he wondered. But he wasn’t afraid, for Varvara was with him.

  A fine penetrating rain was falling. All was quiet, except for the sound of the rain, which seemed to be murmuring some dreary, melancholy, incomprehensible message to Peredonov.

  He felt that in nature was a true reflection of his own depression, a projection of his own fears. He was oblivious of that inner, indefinable life that is in the whole of nature, that life which alone creates deep and genuine relations between man and nature. Therefore all of nature was permeated with petty human emotions in his eyes. Blinded by the illusions of personality and his alienated existence, he had no understanding of those elemental Dionysian ecstasies triumphantly echoing throughout nature. He was pathetic and blind to them – like many of us.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Prepolovenskys undertook all the arrangements for the wedding. It was to be held quietly, in the country, about four miles from town. Varvara didn’t want to get married in town – after all, they had been living together for so many years, pretending that they were related to each other. The date was kept a secret: the Prepolovenskys spread the rumour that it would be on Friday, but in fact it was to take place on Wednesday afternoon. The idea was to stop the curious coming from town. Varvara had repeatedly told Peredonov, ‘Mind you don’t give the date away, Ardalyon. There’re plenty who’d like to put a stop to it.’

  Peredonov reluctantly gave
Varvara money for the expenses, mocking her as he did so. Sometimes he would bring his walking-stick with the carved fingers on the knob and say, ‘Only if you kiss the fingers will I give you some money.’

  And Varvara would kiss them. ‘Well, my lips won’t split,’ she would say.

  And so the wedding date was concealed until the day itself, even from the best men, in case they let the cat out of the bag. At first Rutilov and Volodin were invited to be best men and both willingly agreed. Rutilov expected something very funny to happen, while Volodin was flattered to be asked to play such an important part in the life of such a distinguished man. Then Peredonov decided that one best man for him wasn’t enough.

  ‘One’s all right for you, Varvara, but I need two. I’m very tall, so it’ll be difficult for one person to keep holding the wedding wreath over my head.’

  And so Peredonov invited Falastov to be his second best man.

  ‘What the hell do we need him for?’ Varvara grumbled. ‘We’ve two already, why do we need more?’

  ‘He wears gold-rimmed spectacles. It will look more impressive.’

  On the morning of the wedding Peredonov washed, as always, in hot water, to avoid catching cold. Then he powdered himself with rouge. ‘I must give myself a touch of colour every day now,’ he explained. ‘Otherwise they might think I am going senile and they won’t make me inspector.’ Varvara didn’t like Peredonov using any of her make-up, but was forced to give in – and Peredonov put rouge on his cheeks. ‘General Veriga paints himself to look younger,’ he muttered to himself. ‘How can I get married with white cheeks?’

  Then, in case Volodin should attempt to change places with him, he locked himself in the bedroom and marked himself in ink with a black P on his chest, stomach, arms – and on various other places. Volodin should really be marked too. But how? He’d rub it off straight away.

  Then he thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea if he wore corsets, just in case he was taken for an old man if he happened to bend over in church. He asked Varvara for a pair, but they were too tight and wouldn’t fasten across the middle.