The Petty Demon (5 page)

A
T ONE TIME
it seemed to me that Peredonov’s career was finished and that he would no longer emerge from the psychiatric hospital where
he was placed after he cut Volodin’s throat. But lately rumors have started to reach me concerning the fact that Peredonov’s
mental derangement had proved to be temporary and had not prevented him from finding himself at liberty after a certain time.
Rumors, of course, that have little likelihood. I only make mention of them because in our times the unlikely does happen.
I even read in one newspaper that I was getting ready to write the second part of
The Petty Dimon
.

I heard that supposedly Varvara succeeded in convincing someone that Peredonov had cause for acting as he had, that more than
once Volodin had uttered shocking words and had revealed shocking intentions and that before his death he had said something
incredibly impertinent that had prompted the fateful denouement. I have been told that Varvara interested Princess Volchanskaya
with this story, and the Princess, who earlier had kept forgetting to put in a word on Peredonov’s behalf, apparently now
was actively involved in his fate.

My information is unclear and contradictory on the subject of what happened to Peredonov after he came out of the hospital.
Some people have told me that Peredonov joined the police service, as Skuchaev had indeed advised him, and was a councillor
in a provincial administration. He somehow distinguished himself in this post and was making a good career.

From others I have heard that it was not Ardalyon Borisych who was serving with the police, but a different Peredonov, a relative
of our Peredonov. Ardalyon Borisych himself had not succeeded in joining the police service, or had not wished to. He took
up literary criticism. Those very characteristics that had distinguished him earlier were now evident in his articles.

This latter rumor seems even less like the truth than the first.

In any event, if I manage to receive specific information about the subsequent activities of Peredonov I shall pass it on
in ample detail.

T
HE ATTENTIVE READERS
of my novel
Smoke and Ashes
(the fourth part of
The Created Legend
) already know, of course, the path Ardalyon Borisych is now following.

May 1913

D
IALOGUES

(
To the seventh edition
)

“My soul, why are you so dismayed?”

“Because of the hatred that surrounds the name of the author of
The Petty Demon
. Many people who disagree in all else are agreed in this.”

“Accept their spite and abuse in peace.”

“But could it be that our work is not deserving of gratitude? Where does the hatred come from?”

“This hatred can be likened to fear. You are too outspoken in arousing conscience, you are too frank.”

“But is there really no benefit from my fidelity?”

“You expect compliments. But this isn’t Paris here.”

“Oh, indeed, it’s not Paris.”

“You, my soul, are a true Parisienne, a child of European civilization. You’ve come in a fine dress and delicate sandals to
a place where coarse peasant blouses and greased boots are worn. Don’t be surprised when at times a greased boot stamps rudely
on your delicate foot. Its owner is a decent fellow.”

“But so sullen. And so clumsy.”

May 1913

“
I wanted to burn her, the wicked witch
.”

A
FTER THE HOLIDAY MASS
the parishioners headed home. Some lingered in the churchyard behind the white stone walls under the old lindens and maples
and chatted. Everyone was attired in holiday dress, exchanging amiable looks, and it seemed as though people were living peacefully
and harmoniously in this town. Eva happily. But it only seemed that way.

Peredonov, a teacher at the gymnasium, stood in a circle of his friends, gazing sullenly at them with small swollen eyes from
behind gold-framed spectacles, and said to them:

“Princess Volchanskaya herself promised Varya, so it must be for certain. She said that as soon as Varya marries me then she
will immediately take it upon herself to find me a position as an inspector.”

“But how can you marry Varvara Dmitrievna?” asked the red-faced Falastov. “After all, she’s your first cousin! Has a new law
been issued that allows marriage to first cousins?”

Everyone burst into laughter. Peredonov’s ruddy and customarily indifferent, sleepy face grew furious.

“Second cousin …” he growled, peering angrily past his companions.

“But did the Princess promise you yourself?” asked the pale, tall and foppishly dressed Rutilov.

“Not me but Varya,” Peredonov replied.

“Well, there you go, and you believed it,” Rutilov said with animation. “It’s possible to say anything. Why didn’t you go
and see the Princess yourself?”

“Look, Varya and I did go but missed the Princess, we were all of five minutes late,” Peredonov said. “She had gone off to
the country and was to return in three weeks, and I couldn’t possibly wait, I had to come back here for the examinations.”

“There’s something suspicious,” said Rutilov and laughed, showing his rotten-looking teeth.

Peredonov grew thoughtful. His companions dispersed. Only Rutilov stayed behind with him.

“Of course,” Peredonov said, “I can marry anyone that I care to. Varvara isn’t the only one.”

“It goes without saying, Ardalyon Borisych, that anyone would marry you,” confirmed Rutilov.

They left the churchyard and slowly crossed the unpaved and dusty square. Peredonov said:

“But what about the Princess? She would get angry if I threw Varya over.”

“Who cares about the Princess!” Rutilov said. “You don’t have to pussy-foot around with her. Let her give you a position first,
then you’ll have plenty of time to get hitched. Otherwise you’ll be doing it for nothing, blindly.”

“That’s true …” Peredonov agreed thoughtfully.

“You tell Varvara that,” Rutilov pressed him. “First the position, you say to her, otherwise you don’t really believe it.
When you do get the position, then you can go ahead and marry whomever you take a fancy to. Best of all, take one of my sisters,
there are three, choose any one of them. They’re educated young ladies, clever, and it’s not flattery to say that Varvara
is no match for them. She can’t hold a candle to them.”

“Hm-hm …” Peredonov made a lowing sound.

“It’s true. What’s your Varvara? Here, take a whiff.”

Rutilov bent over, broke off a shaggy stalk of henbane, crumpled it together with the leaves and dirty white flowers, and
grinding it between his fingers, raised it to Peredonov’s nose. The latter screwed up his face from the unpleasant heavy smell.
Rutilov said:

“Grind her up and throw her away, and that’s your Varvara. She and my sisters, now brother, there’s a real difference for
you. My young ladies are perky and full of life, just take any one of them and you won’t be dozing off. And they’re young
too, the eldest is three times younger than your Varvara.”

As was his custom, Rutilov uttered all of this quickly and cheerfully, with a smile, yet he was tall, narrow-chested and seemed
consumptive and brittle. Sparse, closely cropped light hair stuck out rather miserably from beneath his new and stylish hat.

“Come now, three times,” Peredonov objected listlessly, removing his gold spectacles and wiping them.

“It’s really true!” exclaimed Rutilov. “Mind you don’t dawdle, because as I live, those sisters of mine have their pride—when
you feel like it later, then it’ll be too late. But any single one of them would be more than pleased to marry you.”

“Yes, everyone is in love with me here,” Peredonov boasted sullenly.

“Now look, you just seize the opportunity,” Rutilov urged him.

“The main thing for me is that I don’t want her to be scrawny,” Peredonov said with melancholy in his voice. “I prefer one
that’s a little plump.”

“Don’t go worrying yourself on that account,” Rutilov said heatedly. “They’re chubby little ladies right now and if they haven’t
quite filled out yet, then it’s just a matter of time. Soon as they get married they’ll put on some flesh like the eldest
one. Our Larisa, as you know yourself, has become a proper dumpling.”

“I would get married,” Peredonov said, “but I’m afraid that Varya would cause a big scandal.”

“If you’re afraid of a scandal, then this is what you should do,” Rutilov said with a cunning smile. “Get married right away
today, or even tomorrow. You show up at home with your young wife and, quick as a wink, it’ll be over. Really, if you want
I’ll go and throw it together quick—for tomorrow evening? Which one do you want?”

Peredonov suddenly burst into loud and fitful laughter.

“What about it? Is it a deal?” Rutilov asked.

Peredonov stopped laughing just as suddenly and said sullenly, quietly, almost in a whisper:

“She’ll inform on me, the shrew.”

“She won’t inform about anything, there’s nothing to inform about,” Rutilov tried to convince him.

“Or she’ll poison me,” Peredonov whispered fearfully.

“You just leave everything to me,” Rutilov pressed him heatedly. “I’ll fix everything up for you just right …”

“I’m not getting married without a dowry,” Peredonov cried angrily.

Rutilov was not amazed in the least by the new jump in the thoughts of his sullen companion. Hit protested with the same animation:

“You queer fellow, do you really think they have no dowry! Well, are you satisfied then? I’ll run along and get everything
organized. Only mind you, not so much as a whisper to anyone, you hear!”

He shook Peredonov’s hand and ran off. Peredonov stared silently after him. He recollected the yang Rutilov ladies, cheerful
and derisive. An immodest thought produced the foul likeness of a smile on his lips. It appeared only for an instant and disappeared.
A vague anxiety arose inside him.

“What am I supposed to do about the Princess?” he thought. “There’s not a kopeck or any patron age backing them up, but with
Varvara I’ll get to be an inspector and later I’ll be made a headmaster.”

He glanced after Rutilov who was busily dashing off and thought maliciously:

“Let him run around.”

That thought brought a listless and dull pleasure. But he grew bored of being alone. He pushed his hat down over his forehead,
knit his light-cooled brows and hastily made off in the direction of home through the unpaved deserted streets that were overgrown
with grass that had been trumpled into the dirt, wild radish and pearlwort with its white flowers.

Someone called him in a
quiet and quick voice:

“Ardalyon Borisych, come in and visit us.”

Peredonov raised his gloomy eyes and glanced angrily over the hedge. Standing in the garden behind the gate was Natalya Afanasyevna
Vershina, a small, thin, dark-skinned woman, dressed all in black, black, browed and black-eyed. She was smoking a cigarette
in a dark cherry-wood holder and smiling slightly as though she knew something that couldn’t be said but that was worth smiling
over. She was urging Peredonov into her garden not so much with words as with light, quick movements: she opened the gate,
stood to the side, smiled entreatingly and
at the same time confidently indicated with her hands as though to say: “Come in, why stand there?”

And Peredonov did enter, submitting to her soundless almost spellbinding movements. But he immediately stopped on the sandy
path where he caught sight of the broken pieces of dry twigs and glanced at his watch.

“It’s time for lunch,” he grumbled.

Although the watch had served him for a long while, he gazed with pleasure at its large gold case just as he always did in
the presence of people. It was twenty minutes to twelve. Peredonov decided that he could spend a little time. He sullenly
followed Vershina along the paths, past the barren bushes of black and red currant, raspberry and gooseberry.

The garden had turned yellow and was a colorful profusion of fruit and late flowers. Here were many fruit and ordinary trees
as well as bushes: low spreading apple, round-leaved pear, lindens, cherry with smooth shiny leaves, plum, honeysuckle. Red
berries glistened on the elder bushes. Siberian geraniums with their delicate purple-veined pale pink buds blossomed thickly
along the fence.

Milk thistle thrust its purple heads out from beneath the bushes. Off to the side stood a small, grayish, single-story dwelling
with a wide summer kitchen leading into the garden. It seemed nice and comfortable. A portion of the vegetable garden was
visible behind it. Dry poppy pods swayed back and forth together with the enormous white and yellow caps of camomile. Wilting,
the yellow heads of sunflower bowed low. Among the herbs towered the white umbrellas of fool’s parsley and the pale purple
umbrellas of storks-bill, while pale yellow buttercups and low flowering spurge blossomed.

“Were you at mass?” Vershina asked.

“I was,” Peredonov replied sullenly.

“Marta has only just returned,” Vershina said. “She goes to our church regularly. I laugh about it. I say to her: Marta, on
whose account are you going to our church? She blushes and says nothing. Come, let’s sit a while in the summer house,” she
said quickly without making any transition from what she had been saying earlier.

Standing in the midst of the garden in the shade of spreading maples was an old, grayish summer house: three steps up, a moss-covered
dais, low walls, six pot-bellied, turned columns and a six-cornered roof.

Marta was sitting in the summer house, still attired for mass. She was wearing a light-colored dress with small bows but it
didn’t suit her. The short sleeves revealed her angular red elbows and her large strong hands. Incidentally, Marta wasn’t
really bad looking. The freckles didn’t spoil her looks. Particularly among her own people, the Poles, of whom there were
a fair number here, she even had the reputation of being good looking.

Marta was rolling cigarettes for Vershina. She was eager to have Peredonov look at her and be entranced. That desire betrayed
itself on her simple-hearted face in an expression of nervous amiability. Incidentally, whether or not Marta was in love with
Peredonov had nothing to do with it. Vershina wished to fix her up with someone (Marta came from a large
family) and Marta herself wanted to please Vershina with whom she had been living for several months, since the day Vershina’s
old husband had been buried. She wanted to please Vershina on behalf of herself as well as of her brother, a student at the
gymnasium, who was also a guest there.

Vershina and Peredonov went into the summer house. Gloomily, Peredonov exchanged greetings with Marta and sat down. He chose
a spot where a column would protect his back from the wind and a draught wouldn’t blow in his ears. He glanced at Marta’s
yellow shoes with pink pompons and had the thought that he was the target of their husband hunting. He always thought that
when he saw young ladies who were being amiable with him. In Marta he noted only shortcomings: a lot of freckles, large hands
and coarse skin. He knew that her father, a Polish gentleman, was leasing a small estate about six versts from the town. The
income was small, the number of children large. Marta had completed the pro-gymnasium, one son was studying at the gymnasium
and the other children were even younger.

“May I pour you some beer?” Vershina asked quickly.

On the table stood glasses, two bottles of beer, fine-grained sugar in a tin box, a silver-plated spoon wet with beer.

“I’ll have a drink,” Penedonov said abruptly.

Vershina glanced at Matta. Marta poured a glass, and moved it towards Peredonov all the while a strange smile, more fearful
than actually happy, played over her face. Vershina said quickly, just as though she were spilling the words:

“Put some sugar in the beer.”

Marta moved the tin of sugar towards Peredonov. But Peredonov said with annoyance:

“No, it’s vile with sugar.”

“Come now, it tastes good,” Vershina said in a quick, casual monotone.

“Very tasty,” Marta said.

“Vile,” Peredonov repeated and cast an angry glance at the sugar.

“As you wish,” Vershina said and in the same voice began to talk about something else without pausing or making any transition.
“Cherepnin is getting to be a bore,” she said and laughed.

Marta laughed as well. Peredonov looked on with indifference. He never took part in the affairs of others. He didn’t like
people, he never thought about them other than in connection with what benefits or pleasures he might derive from them. Vershina
smiled complacently and said:

“He thinks that I’m going to marry him.”

“Terribly insolent of him,” Marta said, not because she herself thought so but because she wanted to please and flatter Vershina.

“He was spying at the window yesterday,” Vershina related. “He sneaked into the garden when we were having dinner. There’s
a barrel under the window, we put it there to catch the rain and it was completely full. It was covered with a board and you
couldn’t see the water He crawled up on the barrel and was looking through the window. The lamp was burning where we were,
so he could see us but we couldn’t see him. Suddenly we
heard a noise. At first we were frightened, we ran outside. And there he had tumbled into the water. But he crawled out and
ran off completely wet. There was a wet trail along the path. But we recognized him from the back.”