The Little Demon quotes

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:

Marta began to talk to her brother in whispers. They both laughed. Peredonov looked suspiciously at them.

Whenever people laughed in his presence without his knowing the reason he always supposed that they were laughing at him.

Vershina felt disturbed and tried to catch Marta’s eye. But Peredonov himself showed his annoyance by asking:

Peredonov sat solemnly and gazed straight in front in a befogged sort of way and chewed a caramel. He felt pleased because the others had gone—otherwise they might have laughed again.

Though he was quite certain that they had not been laughing at him, the annoyance remained⁠—just as after contact with stinging nettles the pain remains and increases even though the nettles are left behind.

“Why don’t you get married?” said Vershina very abruptly, “What are you waiting for, Ardalyon Borisitch. You must forgive me if I speak frankly, but Varvara is not good enough for you.”

“You just wait at the gate,” said Routilov persuasively, “I’ll bring out the loveliest one—whichever one you like. Listen, I’ll prove it to you. Twice two is four, isn’t it?”

“Well, as twice two is four, so it’s your duty to marry one of my sisters.”

Peredonov was impressed. “It’s quite true,” he thought, “of course, twice two is four.” And he looked respectfully at the shrewd Routilov. “Well, it’ll come to marrying one of them. You can’t argue with him.”

“Bring Liudmilla here!” said Peredonov.

“He’s a devil in spectacles,” he grumbled to himself and went to his sisters.

“It’s your happiness, Liudmilla,” she said cheerfully.

“Well, I don’t want to be a bull,” explained Peredonov.

“Ardalyon Borisitch,” said Routilov in tones of annoyance, “you will never be a bull, for you are a real swine.”

“I’m not a liar—I can prove I’m not,” said Routilov spitefully.

He got his news from other people. In fact there was nothing he wanted to know—there was nothing in the outside world he was interested in. He used even to deride subscribers to newspapers as people who wasted both time and money.

One might have thought that his time was very valuable!

He went up to the shelf, grumbling.

“You’re very severe towards contemporary literature. But good books are written even nowadays.”

“I read all the good books long ago,” announced Peredonov. “I don’t intend to begin to read what’s being written now.”

Volodin looked at Peredonov with respect. Nadezhda Vassilyevna sighed lightly and—as there was nothing else for her to do—she began a string of small-talk and gossip to the best of her ability.

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.

All objects revealed their imperfections to him and their imperfections gave him pleasure. When he walked past an erect and clean column, he had a desire to make it crooked and to bespatter it with filth.

He laughed with joy when something was being besmirched in his presence.

He detested very clean schoolboys, and persecuted them. He called them “the skin scrubbers.” He comprehended the slovenly ones more easily.

The same was true of his meetings with people. Especially with strangers and new acquaintances, to whom it was not possible to be impolite.

Happiness for him was to do nothing, and, shutting himself in from the world, to gratify his belly.

“And now I must go against my will,” he thought, “and explain matters.” What a burden! What a bore! If he had an opportunity at least of besmirching the place he was about to visit—but even this consolation was denied to him.

“I have enemies,” growled Peredonov, as he looked dejectedly into his glass of yellow vodka before drinking it.

“There was once a pig who lived without enemies,” said Avinovitsky, “and he also was slaughtered. Have a bit⁠—it was a very good pig.”

Peredonov took a slice of ham and said: “They’re spreading all sorts of scandal about me.”

This was evident in his eyes, which now and then stared into the distance—eyes alert yet inanimate in their tinny gleam.

It was as if someone had taken out his live soul and put it into a long box, and had replaced it with a skilful, bustling machine.

He was of low stature, thin, youngish—so youngish and ruddy that now and then he looked like a boy who had glued on a false beard and had assumed grownup manners with complete success. His movements were quick but precise;

Before Peredonov arrived there was already a visitor there. Peredonov knew him—but then who is not known to everyone in our town?

Everyone knows everyone else, but some have quarrelled and broken off the acquaintance.

This was the District physician, Georgiy Semenovitch Trepetov, a little man—even smaller than Kirillov—with a pimply, insignificant, sharp-featured face. He wore blue spectacles, and he always looked under or to the side of them, as if it were an effort to look at his companion.

He thought that every house here had its dead. And that all who lived in the old houses fifty years ago were now dead. Some of the dead he still remembered.

When a man dies his house should be burnt afterwards, thought Peredonov dejectedly, because it makes one feel horribly.

Olga Vassilyevna Kokovkina, with whom Sasha Pilnikov lived, was a paymaster’s widow. Her husband had left her a pension and a small house, which was sufficiently large to accommodate two or three lodgers, but she gave preference to students.

“

Don’t you come here! When two dogs are fighting the third one had better keep away!

Yes, and I’ll see to you!”

“Well,” exclaimed Peredonov with an expression of fear in his face, “why did you let it go?”

“You didn’t expect me to sew his tail to my petticoat, did you?” asked Varvara in irritation.

Volodin sniggered. Peredonov thought it had perhaps gone to the Officer of the gendarmerie to purr out all it knew about Peredonov and about where and why he went out at night—she would reveal everything and would even mew a little more than had happened.

“You’ve made a big enough fool of yourself, Ardalyon Borisitch. How can he do you any injury?”

“Any fool can do you harm,” said Peredonov dejectedly.

Volodin thrust out an offended lip, shook his head and said:

He took the opened pack of cards which had only been used once and looked through them as if he were trying to find something. The faces of the court cards did not please him—they had such big eyes.

Latterly when he was playing it seemed to him that the cards smiled like Varvara.

Even the ordinary six of spades had an insolent and unfriendly look.

Latterly when he was playing it seemed to him that the cards smiled like Varvara.

Even the ordinary six of spades had an insolent and unfriendly look.

Peredonov gathered together all the cards he had and put out the eyes of all the kings, queens and knaves, so that they should not stare at him.

“Why did you do it?” asked Routilov with a loud laugh.

“Why should they have eyes?” said Peredonov morosely. “They don’t need to see!”

Everyone roared with laughter, but Peredonov remained morose and silent. It seemed to him that the blinded figures were making wry faces, mocking at him and winking with the gaping little holes in their eyes.

“What are you making such a row about, Ardalyon Borisitch? You won’t let me sleep.”

“The queen of spades is annoying me. She’s got a quilted capote on,” mumbled Peredonov.

Varvara rose, grumbling and cursing, and gave Peredonov some medicine.

“Well, it was all little sheep and little sheep, and then I woke up,” concluded Volodin.

“A sheep has sheepish dreams,” growled Peredonov. “It isn’t such great shakes being Tsar of the sheep.”

“I also had a dream,” said Varvara with an impudent smile, “only I can’t tell it before men. I’ll tell it to you alone.”

Blinded by the illusions of personality and distinct existence he could not understand elemental Dionysian exultations rejoicing and clamouring in nature.

He was blind and pitiful, like so many of us.

When the Peredonovs returned from the wedding the sun had gone down, but the sky was all fiery and golden. But this did not please Peredonov. He growled:

“They’ve dabbed pieces of gold on the sky and they’re falling off. Who ever saw such a waste!”

The locksmith’s sons met them just outside the town in a crowd of other street boys. They ran alongside and hooted. Peredonov trembled with fear. Varvara uttered curses, spat at the boys, and showed them the Koukish. The guests and the bride’s-men roared with laughter.

“The Headmaster could drink a glass of vodka,” said Routilov.

“Headmasters don’t drink vodka, they have to drink Madeira,” said Peredonov reasonably.

“But suppose he likes vodka?” persisted Routilov.

“I’m not simple at all,” he replied, “I’m a graduate of a University.”

“You may be a graduate, but anyone who wants to can take you in.”

“I can take in everyone myself,” argued Peredonov.

“You may be a graduate, but anyone who wants to can take you in.”

“I can take in everyone myself,” argued Peredonov.

Prepolovenskaya smiled slyly and left him. Peredonov was dully perplexed.

“What’s a soul got to do with it?” said Grushina harshly.

“A dog and a man have the same breath, but there is no soul. You live while you live.”

Varvara decided to steal the letter, though this was difficult. Grushina urged her to hurry. There was one hope—to take the letter from Peredonov when he was drunk. And he drank a great deal now.

After dinner he shut himself in his bedroom, barricaded the room with various objects—a chair upon a table—and very carefully surrounded himself with crosses and exorcisms and sat down to write denunciations against everyone he could think of.

He wrote denunciations not only against people but against playing-card queens.

As soon as he had written one he would take it immediately to the Officer of the gendarmerie. And in this way he spent every evening.

“Why are you dancing by yourself, Ardalyon Borisitch?” she asked, smiling stupidly and insolently as always.

“I’ve killed a beetle,” explained Peredonov morosely.

His eyes gleamed in wild triumph. Only one thing annoyed him; the disagreeable odour. The murdered spy stank putridly behind the wallpaper. Horror and triumph shook Peredonov—he had killed an enemy! He had hardened his heart to the very end of the deed.

“It only seemed to you, Ardalyon Borisitch.”

“Surely everything doesn’t merely seem to me,” muttered Peredonov sadly. “There must be also truth upon the earth.”

Even Peredonov, in common with all conscious life, strove towards the truth, and this striving tortured him. He was not conscious that he, like all people, was striving towards the truth, and that was why he suffered this confused restlessness.

The warm, languid air caressed them and called to remembrance the irrevocable.

The sun, as if diseased, burned dimly and lividly in the pale, tired sky.

The dry leaves lay humbly on the dark earth, dead.

“Why are you crying?” asked Sasha, smiling unconcernedly.

“My heart is stung with happiness. My breast is pierced with seven swords of happiness⁠—how can I help crying?”

“You are a little fool, really you’re a little fool,” said Sasha with a laugh.

“Yes, yes?” said Sasha incredulously.

“You must forget and forget yourself and then you’ll understand everything,” whispered Liudmilla.

“In your opinion, do wise men think?”

It seemed to her that it was only his rage; he must have guessed that they had fooled him and was angry.

He wouldn’t go out of his mind⁠—a fool has no mind to go out of. And even if he did⁠—well, madness cheers the stupid!

“Do you know, Ardalyon Borisitch,” said Khripatch, “you look very unwell?”

At the same time Khripatch wrote again to the Head Office of the District and awaited from day to day the appointment of the physicians for an examination of Peredonov.

But the officials were very leisurely. That was because they were officials.

Peredonov did not go to the gymnasia and awaited something. During the last few days he had clung more and more to Volodin. Directly he opened his eyes in the morning Peredonov thought gloomily of Volodin: where was he now? Was he up to something?

“You mean you won’t live to see it, but I shall.”

“May God grant you,” said Volodin gaily, “to live two hundred years, and then to crawl on all fours for three hundred.”

Peredonov no longer pronounced exorcisms—let the worst come. He would triumph over everything; he had only to be on his guard and not yield.

Night muttered something angrily and walked away. She only wanted two or three cards to show at home, to prove that she had received some.

Modest desires often go unsatisfied.

The schoolmistress, Skobotchkina, dressed herself as a she-bear, that is, she simply threw a bearskin cross her shoulders and put on a bear’s head as a helmet over the usual half-mask. This was generally speaking shapeless, but it suited her stout figure and stentorian voice.

As for Sasha he had redressed himself that night at Routilovs and, turning once more into a simple barefoot boy, ran home, crept through the window and went quietly to sleep.

In the town, seething with slanders, in the town where everyone knew everything about everyone, Sasha’s nocturnal adventure remained a secret. For long, but, of course, not for always.