The Little Demon
Page 33
‘Well, we’ve patched things up with Mrs Pylnikov,’ Lyudmila said gaily. ‘But we don’t want you to be hard on Sasha because of us. If you think that our house is really so dangerous for schoolboys, then we shan’t let him come anymore, if you so wish.’
‘You’ve been very kind to him,’ Khripach said rather vaguely. ‘We can have nothing against his visiting his friends in his free time, as long as he has his aunt’s permission. We don’t want to turn the boys’ lodgings into places of confinement. However, until the whole affair concerning Peredonov is cleared up I think it would be best if Pylnikov stayed at home.’
The Rutilovs’ and Sasha’s story was soon confirmed by a terrible event that took place at the Peredonovs’ and left no doubt in anyone’s mind that all the rumours about Sasha and the Pylnikov sisters were the ravings of a lunatic.
THIRTY-TWO
It was a cold overcast day. Peredonov was returning from Volodin’s, feeling sad and weary. Unable to resist Vershina’s seductively inviting voice, he was lured into her garden once more. They walked together towards the summer-house, along wet paths strewn with dark rotting leaves. Inside there was an unpleasant damp smell. Through the bare trees the shuttered house could be seen.
‘I want you to know the truth,’ Vershina muttered, giving Peredonov a quick look and then turning her black eyes away. She was wrapped in a black jacket. Round her head was a black kerchief. Her lips, blue with cold, firmly grasped a black cigarette holder. Thick clouds of black smoke rose into the air.
‘You can go to hell with your truth,’ Peredonov replied. ‘All the way!’
Vershina smiled wryly and replied, ‘I don’t like to hear you talk like that. I’m so very sorry to hear how you’ve been cheated.’ She spoke this sentence with malicious glee and the spiteful words just rolled off her tongue. ‘You relied on someone’s patronage, but you were far too trusting. You were fooled because you were so ready to believe. Anyone can forge a letter. You should have known with whom you were dealing. And as for your wife, she has no scruples at all.’
Peredonov had great difficulty in following her muttering and he could find barely any meaning behind all those circumlocutions. Vershina was afraid of speaking too loudly or bluntly: if she spoke too loudly someone might hear and tell Varvara. And things might turn out very nasty, as Varvara wouldn’t hesitate to make a scandal. And if she spoke clearly and to the point, Peredonov might lose his temper and even beat her. So it was best to drop hints and let him guess for himself. But he was incapable of guessing. He had been told before, to his face, that he had been fooled. But still he was too stupid to realize that the letters had been faked. And still he thought that the princess herself was deceiving him and leading him up the garden path.
Finally Vershina decided to tell him quite bluntly. ‘Do you really think that the princess wrote those letters? The whole town knows that Grushina forged them because your wife asked her to. The princess knows nothing about the whole affair. Ask anyone you like. Everyone knows that the two of them gave the game away themselves. Then Varvara stole the letters from you and burned them to destroy the evidence.’
Peredonov’s brain was filled with dark, oppressive thoughts. He now understood one thing: that he had been duped. But he still couldn’t believe that the princess knew nothing of what was going on. No, she knew very well. She hadn’t emerged unharmed from the fire for nothing.
‘You’re lying about the princess,’ he said. ‘I tried to burn her, but didn’t finish her off. She escaped by spitting.’
Suddenly he was seized by a fit of mad rage. Fooled! He struck the table savagely with his fist, leaped up from his seat and dashed home without saying goodbye to Vershina. Joyfully she watched him go, and the black clouds of smoke whirled from her mouth, to be broken up and carried away by the wind.
Peredonov was burning with anger. But as soon as he saw Varvara he was struck dumb by a feeling of agonizing fear.
Next day, as soon as he was up, Peredonov got hold of a small knife which was kept in a leather sheath and he carefully concealed it in his pocket. Throughout the morning, right up to dinner time, he stayed with Volodin, watching him work and listening to his stupid remarks. Volodin was always pleased to have Peredonov for company and found his ridiculous actions quite amusing.
The little demon danced around Peredonov the whole day. It prevented him from having his usual nap after dinner and drove him to distraction. And when at last, towards evening, he was dropping off, an old wild-looking woman suddenly appeared from nowhere. Pug-nosed, very ugly, she came up to his bed and muttered, ‘The kvass* must be brewed, the tarts must be taken out of the oven, the meat must be roasted.’ Her cheeks were dark, but her teeth sparkled.
‘Go to hell!’ cried Peredonov.
The pug-nosed woman vanished as though she had never existed.
Evening set in and a melancholy wind moaned in the chimney. The rain beat against the windows, gently, slowly, persistently. Outside it was quite dark. Volodin was at the Peredonovs’ – he had been invited that morning for a cup of tea.
‘Don’t let anyone in, do you hear, Claudia?’ said Peredonov.
Varvara sniggered.
‘There’re some strange women prowling around the house,’ Peredonov muttered. ‘We must be careful. One of them just sneaked into my bedroom, she wanted a job as a cook. Now what do I need a pug-nosed cook for?’
Volodin laughed – rather, bleated, ‘There are women who roam the streets, but they have nothing to do with us. So we shan’t let them sit at our table!’
The three sat down at the table. They had vodka and savouries and they drank far more than they ate. Peredonov was in a deep gloom. In his eyes everything was like a nightmare, so meaningless, incoherent, chaotic. He had a splitting headache too. One thought tormented him again and again: that Volodin was his deadly enemy and must be got rid of before it was too late. Then all the hostile cunning of his enemies would be exposed. Volodin was soon very drunk and amused Varvara with his gibberish.
Peredonov felt uneasy. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t let anyone in. Tell them I’ve gone to pray at Cockroach Monastery.’
He was afraid that any visitors might get in his way. Volodin and Varvara were amused, thinking he was only drunk. They winked at each other and went out, one by one, knocked at the door and asked in disguised voices, ‘Is General Peredonov at home?’ ‘One diamond-studded medal for General Peredonov.’
But Peredonov wasn’t tempted by any medal that day. ‘Don’t let them in! Chase them away! Let them bring it in the morning, now isn’t the time.’ No, he thought, I must be strong today. Today all will be revealed, but meanwhile my enemies are ready to sling anything at me so that they can do away with me once and for all.
‘Well, we’ve got rid of them,’ Volodin said. ‘They’re coming back in the morning.’ He sat down at the table again.
Peredonov looked at Volodin with his dull eyes and asked, ‘Are you my friend or my enemy?’
‘Why, your friend, your friend, Ardalyon!’ Volodin replied.
‘A true friend’s like a cockroach behind the stove,’ said Varvara.
‘Not a cockroach, but a sheep,’ corrected Peredonov. ‘Let’s drink together, Pavlusha, just the two of us. Varvara! Why don’t you join us? That will make two of us.’
Volodin sniggered and said, ‘What do you mean? That makes three if Varvara joins us, not two!’
‘Two,’ repeated Peredonov gloomily.
‘He means husband and wife are the devil in one,’ Varvara laughed.
Up to the very last Volodin didn’t suspect that Peredonov wanted to cut his throat. He bleated, played the fool, said stupid things to amuse Varvara. But Peredonov had his mind on the knife the whole evening. Whenever Volodin or Varvara came up to him on the side where he kept it he would shout fiercely and tell them to go away. Now and then he pointed to his pocket and said, ‘I’ve got something here, Pavlusha, that will make you quack.’
Volod
in and Varvara laughed.
‘I’m very good at quacking, Ardalyon,’ said Volodin. ‘Quack, quack! It’s really quite simple.’
Red-faced and stupefied with vodka, Volodin kept quacking and puffing out his lips. He became more and more insolent towards Peredonov. ‘Really fooled you, didn’t they, Ardalyon?’ he said in a sympathetic and at the same time contemptuous voice.
‘I’ll fool you in a minute!’ Peredonov roared.
In his eyes Volodin now appeared menacing and terrifying. He must defend himself. He pulled out the knife, threw himself on Volodin and with one stroke slit his throat. Blood spurted out in a stream. Peredonov took fright and the knife dropped from his hands. Volodin continued to bleat and tried to grasp his throat. Obviously he was mortally frightened, growing feebler, and could not reach his throat. Suddenly he went numb and fell on to Peredonov, letting out a terrible broken groan as if he were choking. Then he was silent. Peredonov shrieked with horror. He pushed Volodin away and he slumped on to the floor. He made a wheezing noise, kicked his feet out – and was soon dead. His wide-open eyes became glassy and stared straight at the ceiling. The cat came in from the next room, sniffed the blood and mewed evilly. Varvara stood there as if petrified. Claudia came running in to see what the noise was.
‘God, they’ve cut his throat!’ she wailed.
Varvara came to her senses and ran screaming out of the dining-room with Claudia.
The news soon spread. Neighbours gathered in the street, in the front garden. The bolder ones came into the house, but didn’t dare enter the room for some time. They kept peering round the door and whispering. Peredonov was looking at the corpse with the eyes of a madman, listening to the whispering behind the door. A dull anguish weighed heavily on him … His mind was a complete blank.
At length the people summoned up courage and came in. Peredonov was sitting there, his head bowed, muttering something incoherent and meaningless.
19 June 1902
Variants
1. Natasha did want to steal a tart and consume it on the sly, but this was impossible. In the first place, Varvara was always hanging around her and there was no way she could get rid of her. Secondly, even if Varvara did leave her on her own and she managed to take a tart from the pan, later on Varvara would count how many there should have been from the marks on the pan and then she would notice the shortage. So it was impossible to steal even one and this made Natasha furious. As usual, Varvara was cursing her maid, taking her to task for being so slipshod in many things and for what was, in her opinion, sheer inefficiency. Her wrinkled yellow face, which still bore a few traces of its former charms, had a peevish, predatory look.
‘You lazy cow!’ Varvara shouted in her jarring voice. ‘Have you gone soft in the head or something? You’ve only just started in this house and already you don’t want to do a thing, you filthy slut!’
‘Just tell me if there’s anyone who’ll put up with you!’ Natasha rudely replied.
And she was right. Servants never stayed for very long at Varvara’s. She fed her maids badly, was constantly swearing at them and was always trying to put off paying them their wages. If she happened to find one who wasn’t very bright, she would push her, pinch her and slap her cheeks.
‘Shut up, you bitch!’ Varvara shouted.
‘Why should I? Everyone knows that nobody can stick it here for long, madam. You think no one’s good enough! Well, you’re not so wonderful yourself. I’ve never known anyone so fussy as you!’
‘How dare you – you filthy cow!’
‘Well, I don’t even have to dare! How could anyone live with an old hag like you? Who’d want to?’
Varvara completely lost her temper, shrieked and stamped her feet. But Natasha stood her ground. A furious slanging-match followed.
‘You starve me to death and yet you want me to work!’ shouted Natasha.
‘All the refuse in a rubbish dump wouldn’t be enough to satisfy you,’ Varvara replied.
‘And you know who’s a rubbish dump, where all the rubbish goes … !’
‘I may be rubbish, but I’m from the gentry. And you’re just a servant. You filthy slut! You wait, I’ll give you one in the mug in a minute!’ cried Varvara.
‘And I can give as good as I get!’ rudely replied Natasha, looking down contemptuously on little Varvara from her great height. ‘Right in the mug. I know the master keeps bashing you there. But I’m not his mistress, no one’s going to pull me around by the ears.’
Just then the loud drunken voice of a woman came through the window from outside. ‘Hey you, madam! Or should I say young lady? What am I supposed to call you? Tell me, where’s your sweetheart?’
‘And what’s that got to do with you, you pain in the neck?’ cried Varvara as she ran to the window.
Down below stood the landlady, Irinya Stepanovna, a cobbler’s wife. She was bareheaded and wore a filthy cotton dress. She and her husband lived in a little outbuilding in the yard and rented out the house. Recently Varvara had had lots of violent arguments with her – the woman was constantly turning up half drunk and was always bullying her, as she suspected they intended moving out.
And once again they confronted each other in a heated slanging-match. The landlady was the calmer, while Varvara was beside herself with rage. In the end the landlady turned her back to Varvara and lifted her skirt. Varvara immediately did the same.
Such scenes, all that never-ending shouting, gave Varvara migraines afterwards. But by now she had grown used to that rough disorderly life and could never resist obscene horseplay. She had long lost all respect for herself and for others.
2. Next day, after dinner, while Peredonov was asleep, Varvara set off for the Prepolovenskys’. Earlier she had sent her new maid with a whole sackful of nettles. She was terribly scared, but went all the same.
Seated in a circle around the oval coffee table in the Prepolovenskys’ drawing-room were Varvara, the hostess and her cousin Zhenya, a tall plump red-cheeked girl with languid movements and deceptively innocent eyes.
‘You can see for yourself,’ Sofya Prepolovensky was saying, ‘what a red-cheeked fatty we have here – and all because her mother used to whip her with nettles. I whip her too.’
Zhenya blushed crimson and burst out laughing. ‘Yes,’ she said in a lazy low-pitched voice, ‘the moment I start to get thin they immediately treat me to a good stinging and I put on weight again.’
‘But isn’t it painful?’ Varvara asked with cautious surprise.
‘Well, so what? It’s very healthy,’ Zhenya replied. ‘We’ve always done it. Even my younger sister was whipped when she was a little girl.’
‘Aren’t you scared?’ asked Varvara.
‘What can I do? No one asks my permission,’ Zhenya calmly replied. ‘They whip me and that’s all there is to it. It’s not that I want it of my own free will.’
‘What’s there to be afraid of?’ Sofya said reassuringly and unhurriedly. ‘It’s not that painful, I can vouch for that myself.’
‘And does it work?’ Varvara asked once more.
‘Well, really!’ Sofya retorted. ‘Can’t you see – there’s a living example right in front of you! First you lose some weight, but the very next day you start putting it on again.’
Finally the two cousins’ assurances and persuasiveness overcame any lingering doubts Varvara might have had. ‘All right,’ she said, grinning. ‘Go ahead! Let’s see what happens. But I only hope no one sees us.’
‘There’s no one here, all the servants have the day off,’ Sofya said.
They led Varvara to the bedroom. In the doorway she began to have second thoughts, but Zhenya pushed her from behind – she was a strong girl – and locked the door.
The curtains were drawn and it was half dark in the room. Not a sound could be heard from there. On two chairs lay a few bundles of nettles, their stalks wrapped in handkerchiefs so one could hold them without getting stung.
Varvara was terrified. ‘I’d rather not,
’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ve a slight headache. Tomorrow would be better …’
But Sofya cried, ‘Come on! Hurry up and get undressed, there’s nothing to be squeamish about.’
Varvara still hesitated and started backing towards the door. The cousins threw themselves on her and forcibly undressed her. Before she knew what was happening, she was lying on the bed with only her petticoat on. Zhenya grabbed both her hands with one powerful hand, whilst with the other she took a bundle of nettles from Sofya and started whipping Varvara. Sofya held Varvara’s feet in a firm grip and kept repeating, ‘Now stop fidgeting … really, you’re a terrible fidget!’
Varvara couldn’t hold out for long and soon she was screaming with pain. Zhenya whipped her hard and long, changing the bundles several times. She pressed Varvara’s head into the pillow with her elbow so that her screams couldn’t be heard far away.
Finally they let her go. She got up, sobbing with pain, and the cousins started comforting her.
‘What are you howling for?’ asked Sofya. ‘It’s nothing, really! It will smart for just a little while and then the pain will go. But that’s not nearly enough. We shall have to repeat the treatment in a few days.’
‘Oh my dear, you can’t mean it!’ Varvara cried plaintively. ‘I’ve suffered enough already.’
‘Come now, we didn’t make you suffer very much,’ Sofya said to comfort her. ‘Of course, this treatment must be repeated from time to time. Both of us have been whipped since childhood – and very often too. There’s no point in it otherwise.’
‘Puff pastry nettles!’ Zhenya chuckled.