Night mumbled something angrily and glided away. If only she could have just two or three cards to show at home, and could tell them they’d been given her. But modest dreams never come true.
The schoolmistress Skobochkina was dressed as a bear – that is to say, she had simply draped herself in a bearskin, with a bear’s head as a kind of helmet over the usual half-mask. It looked dreadful; all the same, it suited her robust figure and stentorian voice. She tramped along and roared so loudly that the lights in the chandeliers quivered. Her costume was a great success and she was handed quite a number of cards. But she was unable to hold on to them as she hadn’t found herself a quick-witted partner like the others, and more than half her cards were stolen from her after she had been plied with drink by local tradesmen, who really appreciated her decided talent for mimicking a she-bear.
‘Just look at that bear swilling vodka!’ people in the crowd shouted. Skobochkina had decided not to refuse vodka: she was convinced that a she-bear would drink it if she were offered it.
Someone dressed as an ancient Teuton stood out on account of his height and sturdy figure. He was admired by many for his robustness and because his powerful arms with their superbly developed muscles were visible.
It was mainly the women who followed him and gathered around him, whispering to each other in terms of adoration. He was soon recognized as Bengalsky the actor. He was a great favourite with everyone in our town, so he was showered with cards. Many reasoned as follows, ‘If I don’t win the prize then let it go to an actor or actress. If any of our lot wins it, we’ll never hear the end of it.’
Grushina’s costume was a success; more accurately, a succès de scandale. Men swarmed after her, laughing and making obscene remarks. The ladies were shocked and turned away. In the end the district police officer came up to Grushina, sweetly smacking his lips, and said, ‘I must ask you to cover yourself, madam.’
‘What’s that? You can’t see anything you shouldn’t!’ Grushina answered perkily.
‘Madam, the other ladies are complaining,’ Minchukov said.
‘The other ladies can go to hell!’ Grushina shouted.
‘But I must insist on you covering your bosom and your back, at least with a handkerchief.’
‘And supposing my handkerchief’s covered in snot?’ Grushina retorted with a brazen laugh.
Minchukov was undeterred, however, and continued, ‘As you wish, madam. But if you don’t cover yourself you’ll have to leave.’
Cursing and spitting, Grushina stormed off to the ladies’ room, where the attendant helped her rearrange the folds of her costume so that they covered her front and back. She returned more decently attired, but she still eagerly sought admirers, flirting indiscriminately with anyone she came across. When everyone’s attention was diverted, she went to the buffet to steal some sweets and fruit. She soon returned to the main hall, showed Volodin two peaches, smiled impudently and told him, ‘I helped myself!’ And she immediately tucked the peaches up in the folds of her dress.
Volodin beamed. ‘Well, I’m off to get some!’ he said gleefully.
Soon Grushina was completely drunk and she made a real exhibition of herself, shouting, waving her arms about and spitting on the floor.
‘Our huntress is warming up,’ they said.
This, briefly, was the fancy-dress ball to which the light-headed sisters had brought the frivolous Sasha. Because of the delay in getting Sasha ready, they all arrived fairly late, in two cabs.
As a result they made a conspicuous entry. The geisha, in particular, met with wide acclaim. It was rumoured that she was Kashtanova, a local actress who enjoyed great popularity with the men. Therefore Sasha was given a lot of cards. In actual fact Kashtanova wasn’t there at all – her little son had fallen dangerously ill the previous night.
Sasha was quite intoxicated by the novelty of the situation and flirted madly. The more cards that were thrust into his small hands, the more seductively his eyes gleamed through the narrow slits of his mask. He curtseyed, raised his tiny fingers, laughed softly, fluttered his fan, striking one or two men on the shoulder with it. Every now and then he opened out his pink parasol and shyly hid behind the fan. Although these movements couldn’t be described as graceful, they were enough to captivate all of Kashtanova’s admirers.
‘I hereby present the most charming lady here this evening with my card,’ Tishkov said as he handed the geisha his ticket with a dashing bow. He was very drunk and red in the face – he looked just like a doll with that smile on his motionless face, and his awkward figure. And he never stopped making his stupid rhymes.
Valeriya was extremely envious of Sasha’s success. She wanted to be the centre of attraction, to have her costume and slender, shapely figure admired by everyone and consequently to win the prize. Now she saw how impossible this was, much to her chagrin, as her sisters had agreed to try and get cards only for the geisha and, should they receive any themselves, to give them to her all the same.
Dancing had started in the hall. Volodin, who had rapidly become inebriated, started dancing a wild Cossack dance, squatting and kicking up his legs, until the police intervened. In a jolly, deferential voice he told them, ‘I’ll stop if you really object!’
Two shopkeepers, however, who had followed suit and were dancing the trepak, refused to stop. ‘You’ve no right to do that,’ they said to the police. ‘We paid our fifty copecks!’
They were escorted out of the hall. Volodin went with them, smiling and performing a little dance of his own.
The Rutilov sisters decided that it would be a good idea to find Peredonov, so that they could have a good laugh. He was sitting alone by the window, looking at the festivities with restless eyes. To him, every person, every object was meaningless, but was hostile nevertheless. Lyudmila went up to him in her gypsy costume and said in a deep, guttural voice, ‘Can I tell your fortune, my fine sir?’
‘Go to hell!’ Peredonov shouted, startled by the gypsy’s sudden appearance.
‘Let me read your palm, my precious sir. I already see from your face that you’re going to be rich – and an important official!’ Undeterred, Lyudmila took his hand and continued.
‘All right, but make sure my fortune’s a good one,’ Peredonov growled.
‘Oh, my sweet sir, you have many enemies. They’re going to report you to the police. You’ll weep many tears and go and die by a fence.’
‘You rotten bitch!’ Peredonov shouted as he snatched his hand away.
Lyudmila smartly ran off into the crowd. Then Valeriya came up, sat down beside him and whispered tenderly:
I am a young Spanish maid,
You are the height of my desire,
But by your wife you are betrayed,
My charming, simple squire.
‘You’re a lying imbecile,’ Peredonov growled.
Valeriya carried on whispering:
Hotter than noon, sweeter than night,
Is my Sevillian embrace.
You must take your wife
And spit in her stupid face.
Varvara’s not worthy of handsome Ardalyon,
Why – you’re as wise as old Solomon!
‘That’s true,’ Peredonov said. ‘But how can I spit in her face? She’d only complain to the princess and then I wouldn’t get the job.’
‘Why do you want the job? You’re a high enough position as it is.’
‘No, I just couldn’t live if they don’t give me it,’ he said dolefully.
Darya pushed a letter into Volodin’s hand. It had a pink seal. Volodin opened it with a joyful bleat, read it through quickly and reflected for a few moments. He looked very pleased with himself, but seemed puzzled. The letter was very clear and concise:
My darling!
Meet me tomorrow night by the military bathhouse at eleven.
Yours anonymously,
Zh
Volodin believed it was genuine, but the question was: should he go? Who was Zh for instance? Some
girl called Zhenya? Or was it the first letter of a surname? He showed the letter to Rutilov.
‘Of course you should go!’ urged Rutilov. ‘You must go and see what it’s all about. It might be some rich girl who’s fallen in love with you and whose parents are against the marriage. That’s why she wants to declare her feelings this way.’
After much thought Volodin finally decided it wasn’t worth going. ‘I just can’t shake them off!’ he said pompously. ‘But I draw the line at sluts like her.’
He was afraid he might be beaten up if he went: the baths were in a dark, remote place, right on the outskirts of town.
In the midst of all the uproar and drunken laughter in the various crowded rooms, loud shouts of approval suddenly came from the room near the entrance and everyone immediately flocked there. People said that they had seen the most awfully original mask yet. A tall thin man wearing a soiled, patched dressing-gown, with a birch brush under one arm and with a bucket in one hand, was forcing his way through the surging mass. He had a cardboard mask, representing a stupid face, with a tiny beard, side-whiskers, and on his head he wore a cap with an official’s badge.
‘I was told that there was a fancy-dress ball here, but I can’t see anyone washing* himself,’ he said in a surprised voice, dejectedly swinging his bucket.
The crowd followed him, gasping and displaying unfeigned delight at his brilliant invention.
‘I bet he wins the prize,’ Volodin said enviously.
He envied him like many of the others did – spontaneously, without thinking. But Volodin really had no reason to be envious as he hadn’t entered the competition. As for Machigin, he was in raptures over the costume, particularly the badge. He laughed joyfully, slapped his knees and told all and sundry, whether he knew them or not, ‘A superb caricature. Those lousy bureaucrats are too fond of acting high and mighty, and like nothing more than showing off their badges and uniforms. That’s really one in the eye for them. Very neat!’
When he began to feel hot the official in the dressing-gown started fanning himself with the birch brush. ‘Phew, it’s like a sauna in here!’ he exclaimed.
People near by burst into fits of laughter and poured their cards into his bucket.
Peredonov looked at the brush waving about in the crowd: to him it looked just like the little demon. It’s turned green, the filthy beast! he thought in horror.
THIRTY
At last they started counting the cards. The judges were all club stewards and a large crowd gathered outside their room and waited in tense expectation. For a short while it was quiet and boring in the hall. The music stopped and everyone became silent. It made Peredonov feel quite scared. But soon everyone started talking again and there were impatient murmurs. Someone was convinced that both prizes would go to the actors.
‘You’ll soon see,’ someone replied in an irritated hissing voice.
Many believed him. The crowd became restless. Those who had received few cards seethed inwardly; those who had received a large number were agitated, thinking that an injustice was about to be done.
Suddenly a bell tinkled with a faint, nervous, vibrating sound. Out came the judges: Veriga, Avinovitsky, Kirillov and some other stewards. A wave of excitement ran through the hall and then there was a sudden hush. Avinovitsky announced in his stentorian voice, which could be heard all over the hall, ‘The prize of an album for the best male costume has been awarded to the gentleman in the Teutonic costume.’
Avinovitsky held the album high above his head and angrily surveyed the surging mass. The tall Teuton started to make his way through the crowd. He met with hostile looks and they didn’t even make way for him.
‘Stop pushing, please!’ the dejected-looking woman dressed as Night tearfully implored.
‘Just because he’s won the prize he thinks all the ladies have to prostrate themselves in front of him,’ someone malevolently hissed from the crowd.
‘What do you expect if you won’t let me through?’ replied the Teuton, trying to control himself.
Somehow he managed to reach the judges and took the album from Veriga. The band played a flourish, but the sound of the music was lost in the ensuing uproar. People shouted abuse. The Teuton was hemmed in and jostled. Some shouted, ‘Off with your mask!’
The Teuton didn’t reply. He could easily have forced a way through the mob, but was evidently afraid of using all his strength. Gudayevsky grabbed the album and at the same time someone tore the mask off.
‘It’s the actor!’ everyone shouted.
And sure enough it was none other than Bengalsky.
‘And what if I am an actor?’ he angrily shouted. ‘You yourselves gave me the cards, I didn’t ask for them!’
Back came the venomous replies, ‘You could have slipped some of your own in!’, ‘You had them printed!’, ‘More cards have been handed in than there are people here!’, ‘He brought fifty with him when he came,’ and so on.
Bengalsky turned pale and said, ‘It’s disgraceful, accusing me like that! You can verify it if you like by checking the cards with the number of competitors.’
Here General Veriga came up and told those nearest him, ‘Calm yourselves, gentlemen, please. There’s been no cheating, you can rest assured. The number of cards corresponds exactly with the number of competitors.’
The stewards, aided by some of the more reasonable guests, somehow managed to pacify the crowd. Then everyone began to wonder who would win the fan.
Veriga announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the largest number of cards for the ladies’ costume has been received by the lady dressed as a geisha. She therefore wins the fan. Will you please step this way, Miss Geisha, and collect your prize. Ladies and gentlemen! Kindly let her pass!’
The band played a second flourish. The terrified geisha felt like escaping there and then, but the crowd nudged her, made way and led her to the front. With a warm, congratulatory smile Veriga handed her the fan. Sasha had a blurred impression of a sea of brightly coloured costumes as he stood there trembling, his eyes clouded with fear and confusion. He knew that he had to thank the judges, and the customary politeness of a well-brought-up boy showed. The geisha curtseyed, muttered something inaudible, giggled, lifted her tiny fingers. And once again there was uproar, with whistling and catcalls from every corner of the hall. There was a great surge towards the geisha. ‘Curtsey again, you hussy!’ savagely shouted the dishevelled Ceres.
The geisha made a dash for the exit, but didn’t get far. There were angry cries from the milling crowd. ‘Make her take her mask off! Don’t let her get away! Tear her costume off! Take her fan!’
‘Do you realize whom you’ve given the fan to?’ shouted Ceres. ‘To Kashtanova the actress! She stole someone’s husband, yet she wins the prize! Honest women don’t get prizes, only sluts like her!’
And she rushed at the geisha, shrieking and clenching her small bony fists. Others followed – mainly her escort of admirers. The geisha defended herself desperately. A wild scuffle broke out. The fan was seized, broken into small pieces and stamped on. With the geisha in the middle, the crowd moved across the hall in a wild frenzy, sweeping away all in its path. The Rutilovs and the steward had no hope of reaching the geisha. She was quick and strong, produced ear-splitting shrieks, scratched and bit; at the same time she firmly held on to the mask with whichever hand was free.
‘They should all be whipped!’ screeched some furious woman.
Grushina, who was quite drunk, hid behind the others and egged on Volodin and some of his friends. ‘Pinch her! Pinch the hussy!’ she cried.
Machigin, clutching his nose, which was streaming with blood, leaped out and said, ‘Look! She scored a direct hit with her fist!’
Some ferocious young man sank his teeth into the geisha’s sleeve and tore it in half. The geisha yelled for help. ‘Save me!’ she cried.
The others began to tear off her dress. Bare flesh appeared. Darya and Lyudmila made desperate attempts to elbow their way to the geis
ha, but to no avail. Volodin pulled her so hard, squealing and flailing about so much that he got in the way of others who were less intoxicated but more incensed than he was. He didn’t do it from spite, but for the sheer fun of it, in an excess of high spirits. He tore one sleeve clean off and tied it around his head. ‘That’ll come in handy!’ he guffawed. Having escaped from the mob, which rather cramped his style, he could now give full rein to his clowning, and he danced on the broken fan with wild shrieks. No one stopped him.
Peredonov looked at him in horror and thought, He’s dancing because he’s pleased about something. That’s how he’ll dance on my grave.
Finally the geisha managed to break free – the men who had been clustering around her were no match for those fast-moving fists and sharp teeth. She rushed from the hall. In the corridor Ceres again went into the attack and grabbed hold of her dress. The geisha tried to escape, but was surrounded again. Another scuffle broke out. ‘They’re pulling her ears!’ someone shouted.
A certain lady had seized an ear and was tugging it, at the same time yelling in triumph. The geisha screamed and somehow tore herself away, giving that nasty woman a hard blow with her fist.
Finally Bengalsky, who had meanwhile succeeded in changing out of his costume, fought his way through the crowd to the trembling geisha, whom he took up into his arms, shielded her as much as he could with his huge body and rapidly bore her away, skilfully brushing the mob aside with his elbows, to the accompaniment of shouts of ‘Rotter!’ and ‘Swine!’ from the crowd.
Bengalsky was pulled this way and that and punched in the back. ‘I won’t allow a mask to be torn from a lady. Do whatever else you like, but that I won’t allow!’ he protested.
He took the geisha along the corridor until they came to a narrow door leading into the dining-room. Here General Veriga managed to hold back the crowd for a time. With truly martial determination he stood before the door, guarding it with his body. ‘Gentlemen! You will come no further!’ he said.
The Little Demon Page 31