The Little Demon

After Mass the members of the congregation scattered to their homes. A few stopped to talk under the old maples and lindens near the white stone walls, within the enclosure. All were in holiday dress and looked at one another cheerily. It appeared as if the inhabitants of this town lived peacefully and amicably⁠—even happily. But it was only in appearance.

Peredonov, a schoolmaster in the gymnasia, stood among his friends, and as he looked at them gravely out of his small, stealthy eyes, across the golden rims of his spectacles, he remarked:

“Princess Volchanskaya herself made the promise to Vara. ‘As soon,’ she said, ‘as you marry him, I’ll hunt up an inspector’s job for him.’ ”

“But how can you think of marrying Varvara Dmitrievna?” asked the red-faced Falastov. “She’s your first cousin.”

Everyone laughed. Peredonov’s usually rosy, unconcerned, somnolent face showed anger.

“Second cousin,” he said gruffly, as he looked angrily past his companions.

“Did the Princess give you the promise herself?” asked Routilov, a tall, pale, smartly dressed man.

“She didn’t give it to me, but to Vara,” answered Peredonov.

“Of course, you are ready to believe all she tells you,” said Routilov with animation. “It’s easy enough to make up a tale. Why didn’t you see the Princess herself?”

“This is how it was: I went with Vara, but we didn’t find her in, missed her by just five minutes,” explained Peredonov. “She had gone to the country, and wouldn’t be back for three weeks or so. I couldn’t wait for her, because I had to be back here for the exams.”

Varvara Dmitrievna Maloshina, the mistress of Peredonov, awaited him. She was dressed in a slovenly fashion, and her face was powdered and rouged.

Jam tarts were being baked in the oven for lunch: Peredonov was very fond of them. Varvara ran about the kitchen on her high heels, preparing everything for Peredonov’s arrival. Varvara was afraid that Natalya, the stout, freckled servant-maid, would steal one of the tarts and possibly more. That was why Varvara did not leave the kitchen and, as she habitually did, was abusing the servant. Upon her wrinkled face, which still kept the remains of beauty, there was a continual expression of discontented maliciousness.

A feeling of gloom and irritation came over Peredonov, as always happened when he returned home. He entered the dining-room noisily, flung his hat on the windowsill, sat down at the table and shouted:

“Vara! Where’s my food?”

Varvara brought in the food, skilfully limping in her narrow, fashionable shoes, and waited upon Peredonov herself. When she brought the coffee Peredonov bent down to the steaming glass and smelt it. Varvara was disturbed and looked a little frightened; she asked:

“What’s the matter with you, Ardalyon Borisitch? Does the coffee smell of anything?”

Peredonov looked morosely at her and said:

“I’m smelling to see whether you haven’t put poison in it!”

The next day Peredonov went to see the District Attorney Avinovitsky.

Again it was a gloomy day. The wind came in violent blasts, and whirled clouds of dust before it. The evening was coming on, and everything was permeated with the dead melancholy light of bleak skies. A depressing silence filled the streets, and it seemed as if all these pitiful houses had sprung up to no purpose, as if these hopelessly decayed structures timidly hinted at the poor tedious life that lurked within their walls. A few people walked in the streets⁠—and they walked slowly, as if they barely conquered the drowsiness that inclined them to repose. Only children, eternal, unwearying vessels of divine joy, were lively, and ran about and played⁠—but even they showed signs of inertia, and some sort of ugly, hidden monster, nestling behind their shoulders, looked out now and then with eyes full of menace upon their suddenly dulled faces.

In the midst of the depression of these streets and houses, under estranged skies, upon the unclean and impotent earth, walked Peredonov, tormented by confused fears⁠—there was no comfort for him in the heights and no consolation upon the earth, because now, as before, he looked upon the world with dead eyes, like some demon who, in his dismal loneliness, despaired with fear and with yearning.

“You know that a young student by the name of Pilnikov has just entered the school and been put straight into the fifth form as if he’d come from Rouban, for his aunt has bought an estate in our district.”

“Yes, I know,” said Varvara, “I saw him when he came with his aunt. Such a pretty boy, almost like a girl, and always blushing.”

“But, dearest, why shouldn’t he look like a girl? He is a girl dressed up!”

“What do you mean!” exclaimed Varvara.

“They’ve thought of it on purpose to catch Ardalyon Borisitch,” said Grushina quickly with many gesticulations, very happy that she had such important news to tell. “You see this girl has a first cousin, a boy, an orphan, who went to school at Rouban. And this girl’s mother took him away from Rouban and used his papers to send the girl here. And you will notice that they have put him in a house where there are no other boys. He’s there alone, so that the whole matter, they thought, would be kept secret.”

“And how did you find out?” asked Varvara incredulously.

“Varvara darling, news gets about quickly. It was suspicious at once: all the other boys are like boys, but this one is so quiet and walks about as if he had just been dipped in the water. To look at he’s a fine-looking fellow, red-cheeked and chesty, but his companions notice that he’s very modest⁠—they tell him a word and he blushes at once. They tease him for being a girl.

With intense solemnity Peredonov and Volodin seated themselves in the Adamenkos’ drawing-room. Peredonov sat on a sofa and Volodin in an armchair. Nadezhda looked at her visitors in astonishment. The visitors talked about the weather and various bits of news, with the look of people who had come upon a delicate affair and did not know how to approach it. At last Peredonov coughed, frowned and began:

“Nadezhda Vassilyevna, we’ve come on business.”

“On business,” said Volodin, making a significant face; and he protruded his lips.

“It’s about him,” said Peredonov, and pointed at Volodin with his forefinger.

“It’s about me,” echoed Volodin, and pointed his own forefinger at his breast.

Nadezhda smiled.

“Please go on,” she said.

“I’m going to speak for him,” said Peredonov. “He’s bashful, he can’t make up his mind to do it himself. He’s a worthy, non-drinking, good man. He does not earn much, but that’s nothing. Everyone needs a different thing⁠—one needs money, another needs a man. Well, why don’t you say something?” He turned to Volodin, “Say something!”