The Petty Demon (12 page)

A
S SOON AS
Peredonov had left to play billiards, Varvara went to Grushina’s. They conferred for a long while and finally decided to
correct matters with a second letter. Varvara knew that Grushina had acquaintances in Petersburg. By using them it shouldn’t
be difficult to have the letter, which they were preparing here, sent there and then back again.

As was the case the first time, Grushina pretended to refuse for a long while.

“Oh, Varvara Dmitrievna, sweetheart,” she said, “I’m still all atremble and afraid over the one letter. No sooner do I see
the policeman near my house than I go completely to pieces thinking that they’re coming for me and they want to put me in
jail.”

Varvara went on trying to convince her for a good hour, pledging all manner of presents, giving her some money in advance.
Finally Grushina agreed. They decided to do it in the following manner. First Varvara would say that she had written a reply
to the Princess thanking her. Then, after a few days a letter would arrive, supposedly from the Princess. In this letter it
would be written even more definitely that there were positions available and if she were to quickly get married, then it
would be possible right then to help secure one for Peredonov. The letter would be written by Grushina here, like the first
one. Then they would seal it, affix a seven-kopeck stamp, Grushina would put it inside another letter to her friend and the
latter would drop it in the post box in St. Petersburg.

And thus Varvara and Grushina went to a shop at the far end of town and there they bought a packet of envelopes, narrow ones
with a colored lining, and colored paper. For the envelopes and paper they selected the only remaining ones of that type in
the shop—a precaution which Grushina thought of in order to conceal the forgery. The narrow envelopes were chosen because
then the forged letter could easily fit into another envelope.

On returning to Grushina’s, they composed a letter from the Princess. Two days later when the letter was ready it was perfumed
with cypress. They burned the rest of the envelopes and paper so that no evidence would be left.

Grushina wrote to her friend to tell her on precisely which day to post the letter. They calculated so that the letter would
arrive on a Sunday, then the postman would deliver it while Peredonov was at home and that would be extra proof that the letter
was not forged.

On Tuesday Peredonov tried to return home earlier from the gymnasium. Chance came to his rescue. His final lesson was in a
classroom whose door fronted on the corridor close to the spot where the clock hung and the watchman, a dashing non-commissioned
reservist who kept vigil by ringing the bell at the appointed hours, was stationed.

Peredonov sent the watchman to the teachers’ room to fetch the class register while he himself set the clock a quarter-hour
ahead. No one noticed.

At home Peredonov refused lunch and said that dinner should be made later—he had to go out on business.

“They keep trying to get me entangled but I’ll untangle it,” he said angrily, thinking about the intrigues his enemies were
mounting against him.

He put on a dress jacket he rarely used and which now felt tight and uncomfortable on him. With the years he had put on weight
and the jacket had shrunk. He was annoyed that he had no medals. Others had them. Even Falastov from the town school had them,
but he had none. It was all the doing of the headmaster. Not once had he wanted to recommend Peredonov for any. Promotion
through the ranks
^*
continued, the headmaster couldn’t stop that, but what did it matter if no one could actually see it. It was good that he
would be able to wear epaulettes according to his rank and not according to the type of position he held. That would be important,
having epaulettes like a general and one large star. Immediately everyone would see that it was a State Councillor walking
down the street. “I better order a new uniform as quickly as possible,” Peredonov thought.

He went out into the street and only then did he begin to consider whom to start with.

It seemed that the most indispensable people in his situation were the district police chief and the procurator of the regional
court. He ought to start with them. Or with the marshal of the nobility. But Peredonov felt frightened to begin with them.
The marshal of the nobility, Veriga, was a general and had aspirations to a governorship. As for the district police chief
and the procurator, they were the frightening representatives of the police and the courts.

“To begin with,” Peredonov thought, “I must choose the less imposing authorities to get my bearings there and have a sniff
around. From them it should be apparent how they regard me and what they say about me.” Therefore, Peredonov decided that
the smartest thing would be to start with the town mayor. Although the latter was a merchant and had only attended the regional
school, nevertheless he had been everywhere. Everyone had been in his home and he enjoyed respect in the town. He had rather
important acquaintances in other towns as well, even in the capital.

Peredonov made for the home of the mayor with determination.

The weather was bleak. Leaves were falling from the trees, resigned and tired. Peredonov was a little afraid.

In the mayor’s home it smelled of parquet flooring that had recently been polished and of something else barely discernible,
something pleasantly savory. It was quiet and humdrum. The host’s children, a son from the gymnasium and a young girl in her
teens (“she’s being tutored by a governess,” the father said), spent the tune being well-behaved in their rooms. There it
was cozy, calm and cheerful, the windows looked out onto the garden, the furniture was comfortable, the games varied in the
rooms and in the garden and the voices of children rang brightly.

But in the rooms of the upper floor that fronted on the street and where guests were received, everything was strained and
severe. It was as though the mahogany furniture represented a version of toy furniture many times enlarged. It was uncomfortable
for ordinary people to sit on it. One felt as though one had fallen on a rock when sitting down. It made no difference to
the ponderous host. He would take a place, sit down and be comfortable. The archimandrite who would frequently visit the mayor
from the monastery in the town’s vicinity called these upholstered chairs and sofas “soul-saving,” to which the mayor would
respond:

“I don’t like those fragile ladies’ things you find in other homes. You sit down on springs and you yourself bounce and the
furniture bounces—what’s good about that? Incidentally, even doctors don’t approve of soft furniture.”

The mayor, Yakov Anikievich Skuchaev, greeted Peredonov in the doorway to the living room. He was a fat, tall man with shortly
cropped black hair. He bore himself with a dignity and a politeness that was not far removed from a certain disdain in his
attitude to people who were not well-off.

Sitting erect in a wide chair and replying to his host’s polite questions, Peredonov said:

“I’ve come to you on business.”

“My pleasure. How may I help you?” the host inquired politely.

A disdainful light was ignited in the mayor’s cunning black eyes. He thought that Peredonov had come to ask to borrow money
and he decided that he wouldn’t give him more than a hundred and fifty roubles. There were many officials in town who to a
greater or lesser extent were in debt to Skuchaev. Skuchaev never reminded them about returning the loan, but on the other
hand he wouldn’t extend any further credit to delinquent debtors. On the first occasion, however, he would give willingly,
according to the cash he had on hand and the financial condition of the suppliant.

“You, Yakov Anikievich, as the mayor, occupy the top position in the town,” Peredonov said. “This is why I have to talk with
you.”

Skuchaev assumed an important look and bowed slightly while sitting in his chair.

“People are cooking up all sorts of nonsense about me in town,” Peredonov said sullenly. “They’re making up things that aren’t
true.”

“You can’t stop people from talking,” the host said. “And, any way, as you know, in our Palestines the scandal-mongers have
nothing better to do than to wag their tongues.”

“They say that I don’t attend church, but it isn’t true,” Peredonov continued.
“I do attend. But if I wasn’t there on St. Ilya’s Day, it was because I had a stomach ache, otherwise I always attend.”

“That’s true,” the host confirmed. “I can say that I have had occasion to see you there. Even though I don’t always attend
your church. I go more frequently to the monastery. This is a long tradition in our family.”

“They cook up all manner of nonsense,” Peredonov said. “They say that I supposedly tell the gymnasium students vile things.
But that’s nonsense. Sometimes, of course, you tell something amusing in a lesson in order to liven things up. Your own son
is a student at the gymnasium. He never told you anything of the sort about me, did he?”

“That’s true,” Skuchaev agreed. “There was nothing of that sort. But then those lads are an exceedingly cunning lot: they
won’t say what they’re not supposed to. My son, of course, is still young, he might have blabbed something out of stupidity.
However, he’s never said anything of the sort.”

“In the senior classes they already know everything,” Peredonov said. “But even there I don’t say any vulgar words.”

“That’s the way things, are,” Skuchaev replied. “As everyone knows, the gymnasium isn’t a market square.”

“And we have the kind of people,” Peredonov complained, “who’ll go about bleating things that aren’t true. That’s why I came
to see you. You’re the mayor of the town.”

Skuchaev was quite flattered by the fact that people came to see him. He didn’t quite understand what it was for or what the
matter was here, but for the sake of politics, he didn’t show that he didn’t understand.

“And there’s something else bad that people say about me,” Peredonov continued. “They say that I’m living with Varvara. They
say that she isn’t my cousin, but my mistress. But swear to God, she is my cousin, only a distant cousin, a third cousin,
and one can marry those. And I am going to get married to her.”

“Indeed, indeed, of course,” Skuchaev said “The altar, in any event, would put an end to the business.”

“But it was impossible for me to do so earlier,” Peredonov said. “I had important reasons. It was just impossible. Otherwise
I would have gotten married long ago. You can believe me.”

Skuchaev assumed a dignified air, frowned and tapping on the dark table cloth with his white, puffy fingers, said:

“I believe you. If it’s so, then it’s really a different matter. Now I believe you. Otherwise, it must be admitted, it was
doubtful the way you, if I may be allowed to say, were living with your friend without being married. It’s doubtful, you know,
because the lads are a sharp folk. They imitate anything that’s bad. It’s difficult to teach them something good, but the
bad comes by itself. So, true, it was doubtful. Anyway, regardless of who is involved, that’s how I would judge it. But the
fact that you have made a complaint, then I feel flattered because even though we’re only homespun folk and didn’t get beyond
the country school, well, nevertheless I have gained the respect I hold through the trust of society. I’m in my
third term of office as mayor, so my word is worth something among the townspeople.”

Skuchaev was talking and getting more and more entangled in his thoughts and it seemed to him that the rambling speech issuing
from his mouth would never come to an end. And he broke off his speech and thought with melancholy:

“Anyway it’s like pouring water into a sieve. The trouble with these scholars,” he thought, “is that you can’t understand
what he wants. Everything is clear to him in books, this learned fellow, but soon as you drag his nose away from the book
he gets all tangled up and tangles others up.”

With melancholy perplexity he Stared at Peredonov, his sharp eyes had become glazed, the plump body had sagged and he no longer
seemed the same cheerful political figure of late, but simply a rather foolish old man.

Peredonov was also silent for a while as though spellbound by his host’s words, and then he said, screwing up his eyes with
a vaguely glum expression:

“You are the town mayor, so you can say that all of this is nonsense.”

“In what regard do you mean?” Skuchaev inquired cautiously.

“I mean,” Peredonov explained, “that if people denounce me to the district officials, saying that I don’t attend church or
tell them something else there, and then they come here to ask you.”

“That we can do,” the mayor said. “In any event, of that you can be assured. In a case like that we will stand up for you.
Why shouldn’t we put in a good word for a good person? We could even present you with a testimonial from the town council
if required. We can do all of that. Or, for example, we could give you the designation of a respected citizen. Why not, if
it’s required. Everything is possible.”

“So then I can rely on you,” Peredonov said sullenly as though replying to something that wasn’t very pleasant for him. “Otherwise
the headmaster will go on persecuting me.”

“I say!” Skuchaev exclaimed and shook his head sympathetically. “One must suppose that he’s doing so only because of the slander.
Nikolai Vlasyevich, it seems to me, is a solid gentleman and he wouldn’t offend someone for nothing. Indeed, I can see it
from my son. A serious gentleman, strict, doesn’t spoil anyone and he doesn’t show favorites, in short, a solid gentleman.
It could only be due to the slander. Why are you and he at odds?”

“We don’t share the same views,” Peredonov explained. “And I have people who are jealous of me in the gymnasium. They all
want to be inspectors. But Princess Volchanskaya promised to help secure an inspector’s post for me. So now they’re angry
out of jealousy.”

“I see, I see,” Skuchaev said cautiously. “Anyway, why are we having such an official conversation? We ought to have a bite
to eat and a drink.”