The Petty Demon (11 page)

“I’m sorry. I only wanted to ask you to remark it.”

“Quiet, quiet now, please,” Vershina interrupted him, “I can’t bear arguments like this, I can’t bear them,” she repeated and
her entire dry body gave an almost impenceptible shudder. “When people are making a remark to you, you keep quiet.”

And Vershina heaped a fair amount of abuse on Vladya, smoking her
cigarette and smiling crookedly the way she always smiled regardless of what the discussion.

“Your father ought to be told so that he can punish you,” she concluded.

“He ought to be whipped,” Peredonov decided and looked angrily at Vladya who had offended him.

“Of course,” Vershina confirmed. “He ought to be whipped.”

“He ought to be whipped,” Marta said as well and then blushed.

“When I go to your father’s today,” Peredonov said, “I’ll tell him to whip you, and properly, while I’m there.”

Vladya was silent, looked at his tormentors, his shoulders hunched up, and smiled through his tears. His father was a stern
man. Vladya tried to console himself by thinking that these were merely threats. Did they really want to spoil his holiday?
After all, a holiday is a special day, a noteworthy and happy one, and everything about a holiday was incommensurate with
everything connected to school and a weekday.

But Peredonov liked it when boys cried, particularly if he had caused them to cry and then confess. Vladya’s embarrassment
and the restrained tears in his eyes, and his timid, guilty smile—all that delighted Peredonov. He decided to go with Marta
and Vladya.

“Well, fine, I’ll go with you,” he said to Marta.

Marta was overjoyed, but somehow frightened. Of course she wanted Peredonov to go with them, or, to be more exact, Vershina
wanted it for her and had conjured up the realization of this wish for Marta with her quick sorcery. But now, when Peredonov
said that he was going, Marta began to feel awkward because of Vladya. She felt sorry for him.

Vladya had an eerie feeling as well. Was Peredonov really going because of him? He felt like trying to gain favor with Peredonov.
He said:

“Ardalyon Borisych, if you think that it will be cramped, I can go on foot.”

Peredonov glanced at him suspiciously and said:

“Sure, if we let you go alone, you’ll run off somewhere. No sir, we better take you to your father, let him give it to you.”

Vladya blushed and sighed. He felt so awkward and melancholy and annoyed over this sullen and tormenting person. Nevertheless,
in order to soften up Peredonov, he decided to arrange his seat more comfortably.

“I’ll fix it up,” he showed him, “so that you’ll have an excellent seat.”

And he hastily made off for the cart. Vershina watched him go, smiling crookedly and smoking, and she said quietly to Peredonov:

“They’re all afraid of their father. He’s a very stern person.”

Marta blushed.

Vladya had wanted to take his new English fishing rod, which he had bought with his savings, to the country with him and he
had wanted to take a few other things, but all of that would have, taken up a lot of space in the cart. So Vladya carried
all his things back into the house.

It wasn’t hot. The sun was setting. The road, which had been dampened by the morning rain, wasn’t dusty. The cart rolled smoothly
along the fine gravel, carrying the four passengers out of the town. The gray, well-fed horse was trotting as though it took
no notice of their weight,
and the lazy, taciturn worker, Ignaty, controlled the horse’s speed by means of movements on the reins which were apparent
only to a practiced eye.

Peredonov was sitting beside Marta. They had cleared so much space for him that it was quite uncomfortable for Marta to sit.
But he took no notice of that. And even if he had taken notice of it, he would have thought that that was the way it should
have been. After all, he was the guest.

Peredonov felt quite good. He decided to have a polite chat with Marta, to joke a bit and amuse her. This is how he began:

“Well, now, are you going to start a revolt soon?”

“Why a revolt?” Marta asked.

“You Poles are always getting ready to revolt, but it won’t do you any good.”

“I hadn’t even considered it,” Marta said. “None of us want to revolt.”

“Sure, that’s just what you’re saying, but you hate the Russians.”

“No, we aren’t considering it,” Vladya said, turning to Peredonov from the front seat where he was sitting beside Ignaty.

“We know what you mean when you say you’re not considering it. Only we’re not going to give you your Poland back. We conquered
you. We’ve done a lot of good deeds for you, and apparently, regardless of how you feed a wolf, it keeps looking at the forest.”

Marta didn’t protest. Peredonov was silent for a while and then suddenly said:

“The Poles are brainless.”

Marta blushed.

“There are all kinds of people like that, both Poles and Russians,” she said.

“No, that’s not so, it’s true,” Peredonov insisted. “The Poles are stupid. They only know how to swagger about. Now the Jews,
those are smart people.”

“The Jews are cheats and not at all smart,” Vladya said.

“No, the Jews are a very clever race. The Jew can always dupe a Russian, but a Russian can never dupe a Jew.”

“People shouldn’t cheat,” Vladya said. “Is it really so smart to cheat and dupe people?”

Peredonov glanced angrily at Vladya.

“The smart thing is in studying,” he said. “And you aren’t studying.”

Vladya sighed and again turned and began to watch the regular trot of the horse. Peredonov said:

“The Jews are smart at everything, at learning too, and just everything. If they allowed Jews to be professors, then all professors
would be Jews. But the Poles are all slovenly.”

He glanced at Marta and noting with pleasure that she had blushed deeply, he said politely:

“Don’t go thinking that I’m talking about you. I know that you’ll make a good housekeeper.”

“All Polish women are good housekeepers,” Marta replied.

“Sure,” Peredonov protested, “some housekeepers they are, clean on the outside but with dirty petticoats underneath. But then
you did have
Mickiewicz.
^*
He’s better than our Pushkin. I have a picture of him on my wall. Pushkin used to hang there but I took him out to hang in
the outhouse. He was a bedchamber lackey.”

“But you’re Russian,” Vladya said, “What does our Mickiewicz mean to you? Pushkin is good and Mickiewicz is good too.”

“Mickiewicz is better,” Peredonov repeated. “The Russians are fools. The only thing they invented was the samovar and nothing
else.”

Peredonov glanced at Marta, screwed up his eyes and said:

“You have a lot of freckles. It’s not very pretty.”

“What can I do,” Marta murmured, smiling.

“I have freckles too,” Vladya said, turning around on his narrow seat and bumping against the taciturn Ignaty.

“You’re a boy,” Peredonov said. “It doesn’t matter, a man doesn’t have to be good-looking, but for you,” he continued, turning
to Marta, “it’s not nice. That’s why no one will want you for a wife. You have to wash your face with pickle brine.”

Marta thanked him for the advice.

Vladya was looking at Peredonov with a smile.

“What are you smiling for?” Peredonov said. “Just you wait, when we arrive then you’ll get a first-rate licking.”

Turning around on his seat, Vladya was gazing attentively at Peredonov, trying to guess whether he was joking or telling the
truth. But Peredonov couldn’t bear it when people stared at him.

“What are you eyeing me for?” he asked rudely. “I haven’t stripes on me. Or do you want to give me the evil eye?”

“Excuse me,” he said timidly. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Do you believe in the evil eye?” Marta asked.

“There’s no such thing as the evil eye, it’s only superstition,” Peredonov answered angrily. “Only it’s terribly rude to stare
and scrutinize.”

An awkward silence ensued for, a few minutes.

“You’re actually poor,” Peredonov suddenly said.

“We’re not rich,” Marta replied. “Still we’re not that poor. Each of us has something put aside.”

Peredonov looked at her mistrustfully and said:

“Of course I know you’re poor. You go around barefoot at home everyday.”

“We don’t do it because we’re poor,” Vladya said pertly.

“And I suppose you do it because you’re rich or something?” Peredonov asked and abruptly roared.

“It has nothing to do with being poor,” Vladya said, blushing. “It’s very good for your health. We build up our health and
it’s nice to do in the summer.”

“Well, you’re lying there,” Peredonov objected rudely. “Rich people don’t go around barefoot. Your father has a lot of children,
but he only earns a pittance. Not enough money for so many boots.”
⁴

V
ARVARA KNEW NOTHING
about where Peredonov had gone. She spent a horribly anxious night.

But even when he returned to town in the morning, Peredonov didn’t go home. Rather he had himself taken to church. Mass was
beginning at the time. It seemed dangerous to him now not to attend church regularly. To be sure, people could denounce him
for that.

As he entered the churchyard he met a cute young male gymnasium student with a rosy and naive face and guileless pale blue
eyes. Peredonov said:

“Ah, Mashenka, greetings, you sissy.”

Misha Kudryavtsev blushed painfully. Peredonov had already teased him on several occasions by calling him Mashenka. Kudryavtsev
couldn’t understand why and couldn’t bring himself to make a complaint. Several of his friends, silly young boys, immediately
got together and began to laugh at Peredonov’s words. It made them happy as well to tease Misha.

The Church of the Prophet Ilya, an old church built back during the reign of Tsar Mikhail,
^*
stood on a square opposite the gymnasium. Consequently, on holidays the gymnasium students were obliged to gather here for
mass and vespers and stand in rows on the left side by the chapel of St. Ekaterina the Martyr, while one of the school prefects
was stationed behind them to supervise. Immediately alongside, closer to the center of the church, stood the teachers from
the gymnasium together with the inspector and headmaster and with their families. As a rule, almost all the orthodox students
were gathered there, with the exception of a few who received permission to visit their own parish churches together with
their parents.

A choir of gymnasium students sang well and for that reason the church was attended by the front-rank merchantry, officials
and families of the landed gentry. There weren’t many of the simple folk for the additional reason that, in accord with the
wishes of the headmaster, mass was celebrated here at a later hour than in other churches.

Peredonov stood in his usual spot. From here he could see all the singers. Screwing up his eyes, he looked at them and thought
that they were
standing in a disorderly fashion and that he would have straightened them out if he had been the inspector at the gymnasium.
There was the swarthy Kramarenko, small, slender and fidgety, he kept turning around first one way then the other, whispering
something, smiling—and no one stopped him. Just as though no one were concerned.

“A disgrace,” Peredonov thought. “These singers are always good-for-nothings. That swarthy lad has a clear and pure soprano,
so he thinks that he can go ahead and whisper and smile in church.”

And Peredonov frowned. Alongside him stood Sergei Potapovich Bogdanov, the inspector of public schools who had arrived a little
later. He was an old man with a brown stupid face which constantly bore the expression of a man who seemingly wanted to explain
to someone something that he himself could not comprehend. No one could be as easily amazed or frightened as Bogdanov. No
sooner would he hear something new or unsettling then some inner painful effort would bring a frown to his forehead, and confused,
perturbed exclamations would fly from his mouth.

Peredonov leaned over to him and said in a whisper:

“One of your lady teachers goes around wearing a red blouse.”

Bogdanov took fright. The white goatee on his chin started to shake.

“What, what’s that you say?” he whispered hoarsely. “Which one, which one is that?”

“That loud-mouthed one, the fatso, I don’t know what her name is,” Peredonov whispered.

“The loud-mouthed one, the loud-mouthed one,” Bogdanov was distractedly trying to recall. “Yes, that’s Skobochkina.”

“That’s her,” Peredonov confirmed.

“But how can it be, how can it be!” Bogdanov exclaimed in a whisper. “Skobochkina in a red blouse, goodness! And did you see
her yourself?”

“I did and people say that she’s always showing off in school. Or even worse things happen: she puts on a sarafan, and walks
around like some ordinary peasant girl.”

“You don’t say! We really must find out, we really must. That’s not allowed, not allowed. She could be dismissed for that,
yes, dismissed,” Bogdanov babbled. “She was always like that.”

Mass ended. They walked out of the church. Peredonov said to Kramarenko:

“Hey, you, you little blackamoor, why were you smiling in church? Just you wait, I’ll tell your father.”

Peredonov always addressed the students who weren’t from the gentry in the familiar fashion; but he used the formal manner
of address with the members of the gentry. He always found out, at the school office who was from which class and his memory
latched firmly onto these differences.

Kramarenko looked at Peredonov in amazement and silently ran past. He belonged to that number of students who found Peredonov
to be vulgar, stupid and unfair, and who hated and despised him for that. The majority of students were like that. Peredonov
thought that these were the ones whom the headmaster was inciting against him, if not personally, then through his sons.

Once he was outside the churchyard Volodin approached Peredonov with a delighted giggle. He had on what could pass for a blissful
birthday face. His derby was on the back of his head and he was shifting his walking stick from one hand to the other.

“Guess what I’m going to tell you, Ardalyon Borisych,” he whispered happily. “I’ve persuaded Cherepnin and in a few days he’s
going to smear tar all over Marta’s gate.”

Peredonov was silent for a few moments, weighing something, and then suddenly he roared sullenly. Volodin stopped grinning
just as quickly, assumed a modest appearance, straightened his derby, and looking up at the sky and waving his stick said:

“Nice weather, but it’s going to rain by evening. Well, what’s a little rain, the future inspector and I will sit at home
for a while.”

“I won’t have much time to sit around at home,” Peredonov said. “I have things to do today; I have to go into town.”

Volodin assumed an understanding face although, of course, he didn’t know what things Peredonov had suddenly found to do.
Peredonov was thinking that he absolutely had to pay a few visits. Yesterday’s chance meeting with the police officer had
led him to a thought which seemed entirely sensible: to make the rounds of all the important people in town and assure them
of his reliability. If he succeeded in doing that, then, whatever happened, Peredonov would have defenders in the town who
could attest to the correct nature of his thoughts.

“Where are you going, Ardalyon Borisych?’ Volodin asked, seeing that Peredonov was veering from the path that he always returned
by. “Aren’t you going home?”

“Yes, I’m going home,” Peredonov replied. “Only today I’m afraid to walk along the street,”

“Why?”

“A great deal of
durman
grows there and the fragrance is strong. It has a powerful effect on me, it makes me feel drugged. My nerves are weak today.
All kinds of troubles”

Volodin once more assumed an understanding and sympathetic look on his face.

Along the way Peredonov tore off several heads from some thistles and stuck them in his pocket.

“What are you gathering that for?” Volodin asked grinning.

“For the cat,” Peredonov replied with a frown.

“To stick them in its fur?” Volodin inquired in a serious tone.

“Yes.”

Volodin started to giggle.

“Don’t you start without me,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”

Peredonov invited him to come in right then, but Volodin said that he had some business. He suddenly felt that it was somehow
indecent never to have any business to do. Peredonov’s words about his own affairs had stirred him and he was thinking that
it would be a good idea now to drop in on his own to see the young Adamenko lady and to say to her that he
had some new and very exquisite drawings to be framed and wouldn’t she like to take a look at them. Moreover, Volodin was
thinking, Nadezhda Vasilyevna would treat him to coffee.

And Volodin did so. On top of it he came up with a very devious trick. He suggested to Nadezhda Vasilyevna that he give her
brother instruction in manual work. Nadezhda Vasilyevna thought that Volodin needed to earn some money and immediately gave
her consent. The agreement was for Volodin to give instruction three times a week, two hours each time, and for thirty roubles
a month. Volodin was ecstatic. He had both the money and the opportunity of frequent meetings with Nadezhda Vasilyevna.

As always, Peredonov was gloomy when he returned home. Varvara, pale from her sleepless night, started to grumble:

“You might have told me yesterday that you weren’t coming home.”

Teasing her, Peredonov related how he had made the trip to Marta’s. Varvara was silent. She had the Princess’s letter in her
hands. Even though it was forged, nevertheless …

Over lunch she said with a smirk:

“While you were passing the time with Marfushka, I received a reply here from the Princess without you.

“Did you really write her?” Peredonov asked.

His face grew animated with the gleam of dreary anticipation.

“Look at him, indulging in his tomfoolery,” Varvara replied with a laugh. “You yourself told me to write.”

“Well, what does she write?” Peredonov asked anxiously.

“Here’s the letter, read it yourself.”

Varvara rummaged around in her pockets as though she were looking for the letter that she had stuffed somewhere and then she
pulled it out and handed it to Peredonov. He abandoned his food and pounced hungrily on the letter. He read it and rejoiced.
Here, finally, was a clear and positive promise. No doubts arose in him. He quickly finished his breakfast and went to show
the letter to his friends and acquaintances.

With sullen animation he quickly entered Vershina’s garden. As was practically always the case, Vershina was standing by the
gate and smoking. She rejoiced: earlier she had had to lure him, now he had dropped in of his own accord. Vershina was thinking:

“That’s what it means to go for a ride with a young lady and to spend some time with her—lo, he’s come running! Perhaps he
already wants to make a proposal?” she thought, anxiously and joyfully.

Peredonov disenchanted her almost immediately. He showed her the letter.

“There, you were all doubting,” he said “But look, the Princess herself has written. Here read it and see for yourself.”

Vershina looked mistrustfully at the letter, quickly puffed tobacco smoke several times in his direction, smiled crookedly
and asked quietly and quickly:

“And where’s the envelope?”

Peredonov suddenly took fright. He thought that Varvara could have
fooled him with the letter. She might have gone ahead and written it herself. He had to demand the envelope from her as quickly
as possible.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I have to ask.”

He said a hasty goodbye to Vershina and quickly went back to his house. It was essential to ascertain as quickly as possible
what the origin of the letter was. The sudden doubt was so agonizing.

Standing by the gate, Vershina watched him go, smiled crookedly and puffed rapidly on her cigarette as though she were hurrying
to complete a school lesson that had been assigned for that day.
⁵

Peredonov ran home with a frightened and desperate face, and while he was still in the front hall he shouted in a voice that
was hoarse with alarm:

“Varvara, where’s the envelope?”

“What envelope?” Varvara asked in a trembling voice.

She gave Peredonov an insolent look and would have turned red in the face if she hadn’t been rouged.

“The envelope, from the Princess, that the letter came in today,” Peredonov explained, looking spitefully and fearfully at
Varvara.

Varvara gave a tense laugh.

“I burned it, what did I need it for?” she said. “What do you expect me to do, collect envelopes or something, to make a collection
out of them? They don’t pay money for envelopes. It’s only for bottles that they give you money in the taverns.”

Gloomy, Peredonov walked about the rooms and grumbled:

“There are all kinds of Princesses around. Don’t we know it. Perhaps this Princess even lives here.”

Varvara pretended that she had no idea what he was suspicious about, but she was terribly afraid.

When Peredonov was passing Vershina’s garden towards evening, Vershina stopped him.

“Did you find the envelope?” she asked.

“Varya says that she burned it,” Peredonov replied.

Vershina laughed and then white clouds of tobacco smoke undulated before him in the calm and mild air.

“Strange,” she said. “How could your cousin be so careless. A business letter and suddenly there’s no envelope! Still one
might have been able to see from the postmark when and where the letter was dispatched.”

Peredonov was terribly annoyed. Vershina was unsuccessful in inviting him into the garden and was unsuccessful in promising
to tell his fortune with cards. Peredonov left.

Nevertheless he showed the letter to his friends and boasted. And his friends believed him.

But Peredonov didn’t know whether to believe or not to believe. In any event he decided that beginning on Tuesday he would
start out on his visits of self-vindication to the important people in the town. He couldn’t start on Monday—it was a painful
day.