The Little Demon

by Fyodor Sologub

  ‘Stop whining, Pavlusha,’ Peredonov said. ‘It’s sickening enough as it is.’ Then he turned to the marker and said, ‘Now you go and look for them, as we want to play. Without fail. In the meantime you can bring us three beers.’

  They drank their beer but soon grew bored. The balls couldn’t be found anywhere. They swore at one another and cursed the marker, who felt it was all his fault and didn’t say a word.

  For Peredonov the theft was a dirty new trick on the part of his enemies. Why did they do it? he thought wearily, uncomprehendingly.

  He went into the gardens and sat down on a bench near the pond. It was the first time he’d sat there. He stared blankly into the still green water. Volodin sat beside him, sharing his grief and looking abjectly into the pond with his sheeplike eyes.

  ‘Why is this mirror so dirty, Pavlushka?’ Peredonov asked, pointing his walking-stick at the water.

  Volodin grinned and replied, ‘It’s not a mirror, Ardalyon, it’s a pond. As there’s no wind to ruffle the surface, you can see the trees in it. That’s why it looks like a mirror.’

  Peredonov looked up. Beyond the pond was a high fence, which separated the gardens from the street. ‘Why’s that cat sitting there?’ he asked.

  Volodin looked in the same direction and laughed out loud. ‘There was one, but it’s gone now.’

  In fact there had been no cat. That terrible tireless enemy, with its green eyes full of evil cunning, was nothing but a figment of his imagination.

  Peredonov’s thoughts turned to the lost billiard-balls. Who could have wanted them? Had the little demon swallowed them? No, I haven’t seen it today, he thought. I bet it’s gorged itself on them and gone somewhere to sleep it off.

  He trudged wearily homewards.

  The sun was sinking. A small rain-cloud was wandering across the sky, gliding stealthily and silently (clouds have soft shoes!) – it was spying on him. On its dark edges was a faint, enigmatic silver light. Above the stream that flowed between the gardens and the town, shadows of houses and bushes quivered and whispered to each other, as if they were searching for someone. And on the earth, in that dark and perpetually hostile town, lived only evil, mocking people. Everything conspired in hostility towards Peredonov. Dogs laughed at him, people barked.

  The ladies of the town began to visit Varvara. Some, filled with curiosity, had come two or three days after the wedding to see the house. Others didn’t come until a week later. And some, like Vershina, didn’t come at all.

  Every day the Peredonovs anxiously awaited return visits and noted on a piece of paper those who hadn’t yet been. They were particularly impatient about the headmaster and his wife and were on tenterhooks the whole time in case they should suddenly turn up.

  A week went by and still the Khripachs didn’t come. Varvara became terribly bad-tempered and kept cursing. All this waiting plunged Peredonov into a really deep depression. His eyes lost their fire and at times became like those of a corpse, vacant and blank. He was tormented by the most absurd fears. For no apparent reason even the simplest object became a source of terror. For several days now he had been obsessed with and tormented by the thought that someone might cut his throat. Anything sharp terrified him and he hid all the knives and forks in the house. Perhaps they’ve been bewitched. I could easily cut my own throat on them! he thought. And as a result they didn’t have any meat for a whole week but made do with cabbage soup and gruel instead.

  ‘What do we need knives for?’ he asked Varvara. ‘Chinamen eat with chopsticks, you know.’

  Varvara wanted to avenge the torments Peredonov had made her suffer before the wedding and whenever possible she confirmed his suspicions, telling him he wasn’t imagining things for nothing. More than once she told him that he had many enemies: indeed, why shouldn’t people be jealous of him? And more than once she had teased him by saying that there was no doubt at all that people had informed against him, both to the authorities and the princess herself. She took much delight in seeing how frightened he was.

  Soon it became apparent to Peredonov that the princess was dissatisfied with him. Surely she could have sent him an icon, or some cake as a wedding present? He racked his brains as to how he could please her. But how? By telling her lies? By slandering someone, spreading malicious gossip, reporting someone to the police? All women loved scandal, so it might not be a bad idea to invent some salacious story about Varvara – he could even make it amusing – and write to her about it. She would be tickled pink and he would get the job. But he couldn’t bring himself to write anything of the sort – what a terrible thought, writing to the princess in person! And so the plan was forgotten.

  When Peredonov was entertaining, guests of no particular importance had to make do with vodka and the cheapest port. But for the headmaster he bought a three-rouble bottle of madeira. He was convinced that this was a lot of money for madeira, so he kept it in the bedroom and would show it to less fortunate guests with the words, ‘It’s reserved for the headmaster.’

  Once, when Rutilov and Volodin were present, Peredonov showed them the madeira.

  ‘We can’t tell what it’s like by just looking at it,’ Rutilov laughed. ‘Come on, give us some of your expensive madeira!’

  ‘The idea!’ Peredonov angrily replied. ‘And what shall I give the headmaster?’

  ‘He can make do with a glass of vodka,’ Rutilov said.

  ‘Headmasters don’t drink vodka! Headmasters drink madeira!’ Peredonov reasoned.

  ‘But supposing he wants vodka?’ Rutilov persisted.

  ‘You don’t really think that an important person like him would drink vodka, do you?’ Peredonov replied confidently.

  ‘Give us some of that madeira, all the same,’ Rutilov said.

  But Peredonov hastily took the bottle away and they could hear him locking the little cupboard where he kept his wine. When he returned he started talking about the princess – just to change the subject.

  ‘As for the princess,’ he said gloomily, ‘she used to sell rotten apples in the market. God knows how she managed to hook a prince!’

  Rutilov guffawed. ‘So princes go shopping in markets, do they?’

  ‘She knew how to catch him all right, don’t you worry,’ Peredonov said.

  ‘You can’t expect us to believe that cock-and-bull story,’ said Rutilov. ‘The princess is a real lady.’

  Peredonov glared at him and thought, He’s standing up for her. That can only mean he’s in league with her. She must have bewitched him – even though she lives as far away as St Petersburg.

  The little demon darted around, silently laughing and convulsed with mirth. Its presence set a whole train of alarming thoughts in motion. Peredonov nervously looked around and whispered, ‘In every town there’s an officer from the secret police. During the day he doesn’t wear uniform and he works in the civil service, or does business deals or something. But at night, when everyone’s asleep, he puts on a blue uniform and in two seconds he’s a police officer.’

  ‘Why does he put on a uniform?’ Volodin inquired in a business-like voice.

  ‘No one dares appear before the authorities without one. He’d get flogged for it,’ Peredonov explained.

  Volodin sniggered. Peredonov went close up to him and whispered, ‘And sometimes he even becomes a werewolf. And you’re mistaken if you think it’s simply a cat we have in the house. It’s really a police officer in disguise. No one can hide from a cat – it can hear everything you say.’

  After about two weeks the headmaster’s wife finally decided to pay them a visit. She came with her husband one day in the week, at four o’clock in the afternoon. She had put on one of her best dresses and smelled sweetly of violets. The Peredonovs were very much taken by surprise, as they had been expecting the Khripachs on a Sunday, and somewhat earlier in the day. They got into a dreadful panic. Varvara was in the kitchen at the time, half dressed and filthy. She dashed off to get changed, while Peredonov received the guests looking as if
he had just got out of bed.

  ‘She won’t be long,’ he mumbled. ‘She’s just changing. She’s been cooking. We’ve a new maid, you know, and that stupid cow doesn’t know how to do things our way yet.’

  Varvara soon appeared in some old dress she’d hurriedly put on. She was very red in the face and seemed frightened. She held out a dirty, sweaty hand to the visitors. In a trembling voice she said, ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, we didn’t expect you on a weekday.’

  ‘I seldom go out on a Sunday,’ Mrs Khripach said. ‘There are too many drunks on the streets. I usually let the servants have the day off then.’

  After awkward beginnings the conversation got under way. Varvara was somewhat encouraged by the headmaster’s wife’s rather condescending, but none the less friendly, attitude. In fact Mrs Khripach spoke to her as if she were addressing a repentant sinner who had to be treated kindly, but on whom one could nevertheless soil one’s hands. She gave Varvara a few little words of advice, as if in passing, about clothes and furniture.

  Varvara did her best to please Mrs Khripach, but her red hands and chapped lips kept trembling with fear. This had a somewhat inhibiting effect on Mrs Khripach, so she tried to be even more friendly. However, an involuntary feeling of revulsion took possession of her. By her whole attitude she tried to give Varvara to understand that there could never be any intimate friendship between the two of them. But she did this with such grace and charm that Varvara completely misunderstood and concluded that she and the headmaster’s wife would be the greatest of friends.

  Khripach felt like a fish out of water, although he skilfully and bravely concealed the fact. He refused the madeira: he wasn’t in the habit of drinking wine so early in the day, he said. They discussed the latest town gossip, forthcoming staff changes in the district court. It was only too apparent, however, that he and Peredonov moved in completely different circles.

  They didn’t stay long and Varvara was delighted when they left: it had been short and sweet. As she changed she gaily remarked, ‘Well, thank God they’ve gone. I just didn’t know what to say to them. That’s how it is with people you don’t know very well – you never know what line to take with them.’

  Suddenly she remembered that when the Khripachs had said goodbye they hadn’t invited them back. At first this disturbed her, but then she pointed out, ‘They’ll send us an invitation, giving the time and date. People like them do everything in their own sweet time. It might be a good idea if I took up French, I just haven’t a clue how to speak it.’

  When she arrived home the headmaster’s wife told her husband, ‘What a pathetic, dreadfully vulgar woman! It’s quite impossible to treat her as an equal. There’s nothing about her that corresponds with her position.’

  ‘She corresponds with her husband in every way! I can’t wait until they remove him.’

  After the wedding Varvara had begun to drink for the sheer joy of it, and her constant companion was Grushina. Once, when she’d had a drop too much and Mrs Prepolovensky was there, she let slip about the letter. She didn’t tell all, but gave quite enough away. It was enough for the cunning Sofya Prepolovensky: suddenly the truth dawned on her and she blamed herself for not having guessed right away. She told Vershina – in strict confidence of course – about the forged letters and as a result the whole town soon knew all about it.

  Whenever Mrs Prepolovensky met Peredonov she couldn’t help laughing at his credulity and would say, ‘How gullible you are, Mr Peredonov.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he would reply. ‘I was at university, you know.’

  ‘You may have been. But that doesn’t alter the fact that it’s easy for anyone to take you in.’

  ‘I can fool anyone if I want to,’ Peredonov would reply.

  Mrs Prepolovensky would smile and leave. Peredonov would watch her go in blank bewilderment. What can she mean? he’d wonder. It must be out of spite – that’s it! Of course, everyone was his enemy. And he would stick out two fingers after her. ‘You’ll get nothing out of me,’ he said to console himself. But he was tormented with fear.

  There was little substance to these hints of Mrs Prepolovensky’s. Obviously she didn’t want to tell him the whole truth, in so many words. Why should she pick a quarrel with Varvara? From time to time she sent him anonymous letters in which the hints grew stronger. But still Peredonov didn’t catch on.

  In one letter she wrote, Why don’t you have a look round? Perhaps the princess who wrote those letters is living quite near you.

  Peredonov took this to mean that the princess had in fact come all the way from St Petersburg to keep an eye on him. Obviously she’s fallen for me and wants to take me away from Varvara, he thought. And these letters both frightened and angered Peredonov. So he kept asking Varvara, ‘Where’s the princess? I hear she’s in town.’

  Avenging herself for her previous sufferings, Varvara tormented him with vague hints, taunts and nasty cowardly double entendres. With an impudent smile, and in the uncertain voice of someone who lies without much hope of being believed, she would tell him, ‘How on earth should I know where she lives!’

  ‘You’re lying! You do know!’ Peredonov said in horror.

  He didn’t know what to believe – the message conveyed by her words, or the lying tone of voice in which they were spoken. And this, like everything he didn’t understand, terrified him.

  ‘Well, whatever next!’ Varvara retorted. ‘Perhaps she’s visiting from St Petersburg. She doesn’t have to ask my permission.’

  ‘So perhaps she’s really here?’ Peredonov asked timidly.

  ‘Yes, perhaps she’s really here,’ Varvara replied, mimicking him. ‘She’s fallen for you and she’s come to feast her eyes on you.’

  ‘You’re lying! Do you think she’d fall in love with me?’

  Varvara gave a spiteful laugh.

  From that time onwards Peredonov kept a close lookout for the princess. Sometimes he thought that she was looking through the window, listening at the keyhole, or whispering to Varvara.

  The days went by and still the eagerly awaited papers didn’t come, nor did he hear anything privately. He did not dare ask the princess herself – Varvara kept frightening him off by telling him that she was very important. Besides, he himself felt that if he wrote to her in person there could be very nasty consequences. He couldn’t say exactly what they would do to him if the princess should complain, but the thought itself was enough to frighten the wits out of him.

  ‘Surely you know what aristocrats are like?’ Varvara said. ‘Just be patient. They’ll do what’s necessary. And you’d only get her back up by reminding her. Aristocrats think a lot of themselves. Very proud they are – and they like to be trusted. No, you’d only make matters worse.’

  And for the moment Peredonov believed her. But he was still furious with the princess. At times he even thought that she might report him, just to free herself of her obligations. Or perhaps she might do it because she was angry with him for marrying Varvara, when she herself was in love with him. That explained why she had planted spies all around him – so many that they gave him no breathing-space at all. They were constantly following him. Not for nothing was she so distinguished – she could do anything she liked with him. Out of sheer spite he began to invent the most absurd lies about her. He told Rutilov and Volodin that he had been her lover and that he had been generously rewarded for his services. ‘Only I’ve spent it all on drink,’ he said. ‘What the hell do I need the money for? What’s more, she promised me a life pension, but she didn’t keep her word.’

  ‘And would you have accepted it, anyway?’ Rutilov tittered.

  Peredonov was silent: he didn’t understand the question. Volodin answered for him, most sensibly, ‘Why shouldn’t you take the money if she’s rich? She had her pleasure, so she ought to pay for it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care if she were anything to look at,’ Peredonov said wearily. ‘She’s covered in spots and she’s snub-nosed. If she hadn’t
paid me so well at the time I wouldn’t have even deigned to spit in the old she-devil’s face. But she must get me that job.’

  ‘You’re lying, Ardalyon,’ Rutilov said.

  ‘So I’m lying, am I? Do you really think she paid me for nothing? She’s jealous of Varvara. That’s why she’s taking so long about the job.’

  Peredonov had no qualms at all about pretending that the princess had paid him for his services. Volodin was a ready audience and the absurdities and contradictions in Peredonov’s stories completely escaped him. Rutilov, though, in spite of his objections, still thought that there’s no smoke without fire and that there really was something between the two.

  ‘She’s as old as the hills,’ Peredonov said with conviction, as if it were an established fact. ‘But please don’t tell a soul – I’d be in deep trouble if she got to hear of it. She smothers herself with mascara and tries to make herself look as young as a piglet by injecting herself with something. You’d never tell how old she is. She must be a hundred.’

  Volodin nodded and smacked his lips. He believed every word.

  It turned out that on the day after this conversation Peredonov happened to read Krylov’s fable ‘The Liar’* in class. For several days afterwards he was too frightened to cross the town bridge and went by boat instead – you never know, bridges can collapse.

  ‘I was telling you the truth about the princess, only the bridge might suddenly not believe me and just collapse to hell,’ he explained to Volodin.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Rumours about the forged letters spread like wildfire through the town and were a constant source of gossip and amusement. Almost everyone praised Varvara and was glad to see Peredonov made to look a complete fool. And all those who actually saw the letters unanimously affirmed that they had guessed the truth from the start.

  The Vershina household in particular had good reason to gloat. Although Marta was going to marry Murin, she had still been turned down by Peredonov; Vershina would have liked Murin for herself, but had to surrender him to Marta; and Vladya had his own delicate reasons for hating Peredonov and rejoicing in his failure. Although he was annoyed that Peredonov was still teaching at the school, this was more than compensated for by the news that Peredonov had been duped. Moreover, it was constantly rumoured among the boys that the headmaster had informed the director of district schools that Peredonov had lost his reason. Soon they would be sending someone down to officially certify him and then he’d be put away somewhere.