THE LITTLE DEMON
BY FEODOR SOLOGUB
AUTHORISED TRANSLATION
BY JOHN COURNOS AND
RICHARD ALDINGTON
ALFRED A. KNOPF
NEW YORK
MCMXVI
TRANSLATORS' PREFACE
"_The Little Demon" is a successful and almost imperceptible merging
of comedy with tragedy. It is in fact a tragedy in which the comic
forms an integral part and is not sandwiched in superficially merely to
please the reader. The method resembles in a measure that of Gogol's
"Dead Souls," with which "The Little Demon" was compared upon its first
appearance in_ 1907.
_It is a work of art--and it is a challenge; and this challenge is
addressed not to Russia alone, but to the whole world._
"_What a sad place Russia is!" exclaimed Pushkin when Gogol read his
story to him. But what the world knows to-day is that Gogol gave us
a portrait of the human soul, and that only the frame was Russian.
Prince Kropotkin assures us that there are Chichikovs in England, and
Professor Phelps of Yale is equally emphatic about their presence in
America._
_And this is also true of Peredonov, of "The Little Demon."_
_In spite of its "local colour" and its portrayal of small town life in
Russia, this novel has the world for its stage, and its chief actor,
Peredonov, is a universal character. He is a Russian--an American--an
Englishman. He is to be found everywhere, and in every station of life.
Both translators agree that they have even met one or two Peredonovs at
London literary teas--and not a few Volodins, for that matter._
_Certainly there is a touch of Peredonov in many men. It is a
matter of degree. For the extraordinary thing about this book is
that nearly all the characters are Peredonovs of a lesser calibre.
Their Peredonovism lacks that concentrated intensity which lifts the
unfortunate Peredonov to tragic--and to comic--heights in spite of his
pettiness; or perhaps because his pettiness is so gigantic._
_"The Little Demon" is a penetration into human conscience, and a
criticism of the state of petty "provinciality" into which it has
fallen._
"_The Kingdom of God is within you." So is the kingdom of evil. That
is the great truth of "The Little Demon." And in Peredonov's case, the
inner spirit takes possession of external objects, and all the concrete
things that his eyes see become symbols of the evil that is within
himself. More than that: this spirit even creates for him a "little
grey, nimble beast"--the Nedotikomka--which is the sum of the evil
forces of the world, and against which he has to contend._
_The author enters his "hero's" condition so deeply that even people
and objects and scenery are rendered, as it were, through Peredonov's
eyes--and the mood created by this subjective treatment helps to
inveigle the reader into comprehending the chief character._
_The beautiful Sasha-Liudmilla episode relieves the Peredonovian
atmosphere as a dab of vermilion relieves grey. But what the author
shows us is that even such an idyllic love episode is affected by
contact with this atmosphere, and that its beauty and innocence become
obscured under the tissue of lies as under a coat of grey dust. This,
as well as other aspects of "The Little Demon," are dealt with at
length in my article on Feodor Sologub in "The Fortnightly Review"
(September, 1915), and if I refrain from going over the ground again,
it is because I hope that the tale is simple and clear enough to
provide its own comment._
_Finally, I may be pardoned for speaking of the difficulties
of translating "The Little Demon." Not only is the original
extraordinarily racy in parts and rich in current Russian slang--at
times almost obscure in meaning, but the characters occasionally
indulge in puns or speak in rhymes--rhyme-speaking is not uncommon
among the peasant classes in Russia. In every case the translators have
striven to give the English equivalent; where the difficulty was of a
nature rendering this impossible, the translators have had to make use
of absolutely unavoidable footnotes. The translators have also made
every effort to preserve the mood of Sologubian descriptive prose,
which is not always an easy matter, when you consider the natural
pliancy of Russian and the comparatively rigid nature of English._
_JOHN COURNOS_
_December_ 1915
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
TO THE SECOND RUSSIAN EDITION, 1908
_This novel, "The Little Demon," was begun in_ 1892 _and finished in_
1902. _It originally appeared in_ 1905 _in the periodical "Voprosi
Zhizni," but without its final chapters. It was first published in its
complete form in March,_ 1907, _in the "Shipovnik" edition._
_There are two dissenting opinions among those I have seen expressed in
print as well as among those I have chanced to hear personally:_
_There are some who think that the author, being a very wicked man,
wished to draw his own portrait, and has represented himself in the
person of the instructor Peredonov. To judge from his frankness it
would appear that the author did not have the slightest wish to justify
or to idealise himself, and has painted his face in the blackest
colours. He has accomplished this rather astonishing undertaking in
order to ascend a kind of Golgotha, and to expiate his sins for some
reason or other. The result is an interesting and harmless novel._
_Interesting, because it shows what wicked people there are in this
world. Harmless, because the reader can say: "This was not written
about me."_
_Others, more considerate toward the author, are of the opinion
that the Peredonovstchina portrayed in this novel is a sufficiently
widespread phenomenon._
_Others go even further and say that if every one of us should examine
himself intently he would discover unmistakable traits of Peredonov_.
_Of these two opinions I give preference to the one most agreeable to
me, namely, the second. I did not find it indispensable to create and
invent out of myself; all that is episodic, realistic, and psychologic
in any novel is based on very precise observation, and I found
sufficient "material" for my novel around me. And if my labours on this
novel have been rather prolonged, it has been in order to elevate to
necessity whatever is here by chance; so that the austere Ananke should
reign on the throne of Aisa, the prodigal scatterer of episodes._
_It is true that people love to be loved. They are pleased with the
portrayal of the nobler, loftier aspects of the soul. Even in villains
they want to see a spark of nobility, "the divine spark," as people
used to say in the old days. That is why they do not want to believe
the picture that confronts them when it is true, exact, gloomy, and
evil. They say: "It is not about me."_
_No, my dear contemporaries, it is of you that I have written my novel,
about the Little Demon and his dreadful Nedotikomka, about Ardalyon
and Varvara Peredonov, Pavel Volodin, Darya, Liudmilla, and Valeria
Routilov, Aleksandr Pilnikov and the others. About you._
_This novel is a mirror--very skilfully made. I have spent a long time
in polishing it, I have laboured over it zealously._
_The surface of my mirror is pure. It has been remeasured again and
again, and most carefully verified; it has not a single blemish._
_The monstrous and the beautiful are reflected in it with equal
precision._
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
TO THE FIFTH RUSSIAN EDITION, 1909
_I once thought that Peredonov's career was finished, and that he
was not to leave the psychiatric hospital where he was placed after
cutting Volodin's throat. But latterly rumours have begun to reach me
to the effect that Peredonov's mental derangement has proved to be
only temporary, and that after a brief confinement he was restored to
freedom. These rumours sound hardly plausible. I only mention them
because even in our days the unplausible happens. Indeed, I have read
in a newspaper that I am preparing to write a sequel to "The Little
Demon."_
_I have heard that Varvara has apparently succeeded in convincing
someone that Peredonov had cause for behaving as he did--that
Volodin uttered more than once objectionable words, and had betrayed
objectionable intentions--and that before his death he said something
amazingly insolent which led to the fatal catastrophe. I am told that
Varvara has interested the Princess Volchanskaya in this story, and the
Princess, who earlier had neglected to put in a word for Peredonov, is
now taking a keen interest in his fate._
_As to what happened to Peredonov after he had left the hospital, my
information is rather vague and contradictory. Some people have told
me that Peredonov has entered the police department, as he had been
advised to do by Skouchayev, and has served as a councillor in the
District Government. He has distinguished himself in some way or other,
and is making a fine career._
_I have heard from others, however, that it was not Ardalyon Borisitch
who served in the police, but another Peredonov, a relative of our
Peredonov. Ardalyon Borisitch himself did not succeed in entering
the service, or else he did not wish to; instead, he has taken up
with literary criticism. His articles reveal those qualities which
distinguished him before._
_This rumour strikes me as being even more unlikely than the first._
_In any case, if I should succeed in receiving precise information
about the latest doings of Peredonov, I will try to relate it in all
its adequate detail._
DIALOGUE
TO THE SEVENTH RUSSIAN EDITION, MAY 1913
"_My soul, why are you thus dismayed?"_
"_Because of the hate that surrounds the name of the author of 'The
Little Demon.' Many people who disagree upon other things are agreed on
this._"
"_Accept the malice and the abuse submissively._"
"_But is not our labour worthy of gratitude? Why then this hate?_"
"_This hate is rather like fear. You waken the conscience too loudly,
you are too frank."_
"_But isn't there some use in my truth?"_
"_You want compliments! But this is not Paris."_
"_Oh, no, it is not Paris!"_
"_My soul, you are a true Parisienne, a child of European civilisation.
You have come in a charming dress and in light sandals to a place where
they wear smocks and greased boots. Do not be astonished if the greased
boot sometimes steps rudely on your tender foot. Its possessor is an
honest fellow."_
"_But what a morose, what an awkward fellow!"_
AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION
TO THE ENGLISH EDITION
_It is quite natural for the author of a novel to experience pleasure
and pride upon learning that his work is about to become accessible
to a new circle of readers. Upon learning, however, that Mr. John
Cournos was translating my novel,_ "_The Little Demon," into English
I experienced not a little apprehension. In days of Anglo-Russian
rapprochement, in days of great stress, when a common danger unites the
two great nations, it seemed to me perhaps unseasonable to acquaint
England with this sombre picture. It occurred to me that there was
a danger of my new readers accepting this novel as a precise and
characteristic portrayal of Russian life. But my friends told me that
Mr. John Cournos was fulfilling his task with great love and care_,
_and this gives me the hope that the true meaning of my work will be
also understood in the translation, reproducing so accurately the
original._
_In any case, I should like to warn my readers against the temptation
of seeing only Russian traits in this novel. The portrait of Peredonov
is an expression of the all-human inclination towards evil, of the
almost disinterested tendency of a perverse human soul to depart from
the common course of universal life directed by one omnipotent Will;
and, taking vengeance upon the world for its own grievous loneliness,
to bring into the world evil and abomination, to mutilate the given
reality and to defile the beautiful dreams of humanity._
_This inclination towards evil, raging in the hearts of mankind in
all latitudes and longitudes, invests itself only outwardly with
an appearance of selfish expedience. A soul marred by this tragic
affliction, that of a morose separation from the world, is borne along
by a sovereign justice, which rules worlds and hearts, upon disastrous
paths, towards madness and towards death._
_The afflicted soul does not rejoice at its gains, to such a degree
visionary, to such a degree worthless. A foreboding of ultimate
destruction torments it with a gnawing sadness._
_Where then, in what blessed land, is not man tormented with this
agonising sadness, these true tokens of the same morose and sombre
affliction? The Russian "khandra" and the English spleen are the
expression of one and the same malady of the spirit. Even in more
noble souls, these harsh visitors, so familiar to both Englishmen
and Russians, have been created by the omnipotent Will not without a
beneficent design. They incessantly remind the soul, succumbing in the
life struggle, that the enemy is near, cunning and strong._
_I would be glad if my new readers should appraise not only the
detestable sinfulness and perversity of a soul warped by the force of
evil, but also the great yearning of this soul--the evil evil atones to
a certain degree in this truly human feeling; and in this feeling the
afflicted man also communes with each one of us._
_This novel will not be accepted by you in condemnation of my
country--my country has not a few enchantments, which make her beloved
not only by her own, but also by the observant stranger. Perhaps
the attentive reader will find even in this sombre novel certain
reflections of enchanting Russian nature, and of the live Russian soul._
_FEODOR SOLOGUB_
_January_ 1916
CHAPTER I
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."
"It sounds suspicious," laughed Routilov, showing his yellow teeth.
Peredonov grew thoughtful. His companions left him; Routilov alone
remained.
"Of course," said Peredonov, "I can marry whom I like. Varvara is not
the only one."
"You're quite right, Ardalyon Borisitch, anyone would be glad to marry
you," Routilov encouraged him.
They passed out of the gate, and walked slowly in the unpaved and dusty
square. Peredonov said:
"But what about the Princess? She'll be angry if I chuck Varvara."
"What's the Princess to you?" said Routilov. "You're not going with
her to a kitten's christening. She ought to get you the billet first.
There'll be time enough to tie yourself up--you're taking things too
much on trust!"
"That's true," agreed Peredonov irresolutely.
"You ought to say to Varvara," said Routilov persuasively, "'First the
billet, my dear girl, then I'll believe you.' Once you get your place,
you can marry whom you like. You'd better take one of my sisters--your
choice of the three. Smart, educated, young ladies, any one of them,
I can say without flattery, a queen to Varvara. She's not fit to tie
their shoe-strings."
"Go on," shouted Peredonov.
"It's true. What's your Varvara? Here, smell this."
Routilov bent down, broke off a fleecy stalk of henbane, crumpled it
up in his hand, together with the leaves and dirty white flowers, and
crushing it all between his fingers, put it under Peredonov's nose. The
heavy unpleasant odour made Peredonov frown. Routilov observed:
"To crush like this, and to throw away--there's your Varvara for you;
there's a big difference between her and my sisters, let me tell you,
my good fellow. They are fine, lively girls--take the one you like--but
you needn't be afraid of getting bored with any of them. They're quite
young too--the eldest is three times younger than your Varvara."
Routilov said all this in his usual brisk and happy manner,
smiling--but he was tall and narrow-chested, and seemed consumptive
and frail, while from under his new and fashionable hat his scant,
close-trimmed bright hair stuck out pitifully.
"No less than three times!" observed Peredonov dryly, as he took off
his spectacles and began to wipe them.
"It's true enough!" exclaimed Routilov. "But you'd better look out, and
don't be slow about it, while I'm alive; they too have a good opinion
of themselves--if you try later you may be too late. Any one of them
would have you with great pleasure."
"Yes, everyone falls in love with me here," said Peredonov with a grave
boastfulness.
"There, you see, it's for you to take advantage of the moment," said
Routilov persuasively.
"The chief thing is that she mustn't be lean," said Peredonov with
anxiety in his voice. "I prefer a fat one."
"Don't you worry on that account," said Routilov warmly. "Even now
they are plump enough girls, but they have far from reached their full
growth; all this will come in good time. As soon as they marry, they'll
improve, like the oldest--well, you've seen our Larissa, a regular
fishpie!"
"I'd marry," said Peredonov, "but I'm afraid that Vara will make a row."
"If you're afraid of a row--I'll tell you what you ought to do," said
Routilov with a sly smile. "You ought to make quick work of it; marry,
say, to-day or to-morrow, and suddenly show up at home with your young
wife. Say the word, and I'll arrange it for to-morrow evening? Which
one do you want?"
Peredonov suddenly burst into loud, cackling laughter.
"Well, I see you like the idea--it's all settled then?" asked Routilov.
Peredonov stopped laughing quite as suddenly, and said gravely,
quietly, almost in a whisper:
"She'll inform against me--that miserable jade!"
"She'll do nothing of the sort," said Routilov persuasively.
"Or she'll poison me," whispered Peredonov in fear.
"You leave it all to me," Routilov prevailed upon him, "I'll see that
you are well protected----"
"I shan't marry without a _dot,_" said Peredonov sullenly.
Routilov was not astonished by the new turn in the thoughts of his
surly companion. He replied with the same warmth:
"You're an odd fellow. Of course, my sisters have a _dot._ Are you
satisfied? I'll run along now and arrange everything. Only keep your
mouth shut, not a breath, do you hear, not to anyone!"
He shook Peredonov's hand, and made off in great haste. Peredonov
looked silently after him. A picture rose up in his mind of the
Routilov girls, always cheerful and laughing. An immodest thought
squeezed a degrading likeness of a smile to his lips--it appeared for
an instant and vanished. A confused restlessness stirred within him.
"What about the Princess?" he reflected. "The others have the cash
without her power; but if I marry Varvara I'll fall into an inspector's
job, and later perhaps they'll make me a Head-Master."
He looked after the bustling, scampering Routilov and thought
maliciously:
"Let him run!"
And this thought gave him a lingering, vague pleasure. Then he began
to feel sad because he was alone; he pulled his hat down over his
forehead, knitted his bright eyebrows, and quickly turned towards his
home across the unpaved, deserted streets, overgrown with pearl grass
and white flowers, and water-cress and grass that had been stamped down
into the mud.
Someone called to him in a quick, quiet voice:
"Ardalyon Borisitch, come in to us."
Peredonov raised his gloomy eyes, and looked angrily beyond the hedge.
In the garden behind the gate stood Natalya Afanasyevna Vershina, a
small, slender, dark-skinned woman, black-browed and black-eyed, and
all in black. She was smoking a cigarette, in a dark, cherry-wood
mouthpiece, and smiling lightly, as though she knew something that was
not to be said, but to be smiled at. Not so much by words, as by her
light, quick movements, she asked Peredonov into her garden; she opened
the gate and stood aside, smiled invitingly, and at the same time
motioned persuasively with her hands, as if to say: "Enter, why do you
stand there?"
And Peredonov entered, submitting to her witching, silent movements.
But he soon paused on the sand path where a few broken twigs caught his
eye, and he looked at his watch.
"It's time for lunch," he grumbled.
Though his watch had served him a long time, yet even now, in the
presence of people, he would glance with satisfaction at its large gold
case. It was twenty minutes to twelve. Peredonov decided that he would
remain for a short time. He walked morosely after Vershina along the
garden-path, past the neglected clumps of raspberry canes and currants
with their red and black clusters.
The garden was growing yellow and variegated with fruits and
late flowers. There were many fruit and other trees and bushes;
low-spreading apple trees, round-leafed pear trees, lindens, cherry
trees with smooth, glossy leaves, plum trees and honeysuckle. The
elderberry trees were red with berries. Close to the fence was a dense
growth of Siberian geraniums--small pale-rose flowers with purple
veins. Thorny purple buds stood out with intense vividness among the
bushes. A small, one-storey, grey, wooden house stood near by, and a
path at its door opened out wide into the garden. It seemed charming
and cosy. A part of the vegetable garden was visible behind it. The dry
poppy heads rocked there, as well as the large, white-yellow caps of
camomile. The yellow heads of sunflowers were beginning to droop with
ripeness, while among the useful herbs, some hemlock lifted its white,
and the hemlock geranium its pale purple umbrellas. Here bright yellow
buttercups and small slipper flowers also flourished.
"Were you at Mass?" asked Vershina.
"Yes, I was," answered Peredonov gruffly.
"I hear Marta has just returned also," said Vershina. "She often goes
to our church. I often laugh at her. 'On whose account,' I say to her,
'do you go to our church?' She blushes and says nothing. Let us go and
sit in the summer-house," she added abruptly.
In the garden, in the shade of the spreading maples, stood an old, grey
little summer-house. It had three small steps and a mossy floor, low
walls, six roughly-cut posts, a sloping slate roof with six angles.
Marta was sitting in the summer-house, still in her best clothes. She
had on a brightly coloured dress with bows, which were very unbecoming
to her. Her short sleeves showed her sharp, red elbows and her large,
red hands. In other respects Marta was not unpleasant to look at. Her
freckles did not spoil her face; she was even considered something of
a beauty, especially by her own people, the Poles, of whom there were
a number in the district. Marta was rolling cigarettes for Vershina.
She was very anxious for Peredonov to see her and admire her. This
desire gave her ingenuous face an expression of agitated affability.
It was not that Marta was altogether in love with Peredonov but rather
that Vershina wanted to get her a home--for her family was a large one.
Marta was anxious to please Vershina, with whom she had lived several
months, ever since the death of Vershina's old husband; not only on her
own account but on that of her young brother, a schoolboy, who was also
living with Vershina.
Vershina and Peredonov entered the summer-house. Peredonov greeted
Marta rather gloomily, and sat down. He chose a place where one of the
posts protected his back from the wind and kept the draught out of his
ears. He glanced at Marta's yellow boots with their rose pompoms and
thought that they were trying to entrap him into marrying Marta. He
always thought this when he met girls who were pleasant to him. He only
noticed faults in Marta--many freckles, large hands and a coarse skin.
He knew that her father held a small farm on lease, about six versts
from the town. The income was small and there were many children: Marta
had left her preparatory school, his son was at school, the other
children were still smaller.
"Let me give you some beer," said Vershina quickly.
There were some glasses, two bottles of beer and a tin box of
granulated sugar on the table, and a spoon which had been dipped in the
beer lay beside them.
"All right," said Peredonov abruptly.
Vershina glanced at Marta, who filled the glass and handed it to
Peredonov. A half-pleased, half-timorous smile passed over her face as
she did this.
"Put some sugar into the beer," suggested Vershina.
Marta passed Peredonov the tin sugar-box. But Peredonov exclaimed
irritatedly:
"No, sugar makes it disgusting!"
"What do you mean?" said Vershina, "sugar makes it delicious."
"Very delicious," said Marta.
"I say disgusting!" repeated Peredonov, looking angrily at the sugar.
"As you please," said Vershina, and changing the subject at once, she
remarked with a laugh:
"I get very tired of Cherepnin."
Marta also laughed. Peredonov looked indifferent: he did not take
any interest in other people's lives--he did not care for people and
he never thought of them except as they might contribute to his own
benefit and pleasure. Vershina smiled with self-satisfaction and said:
"He thinks that I will marry him."
"He's very cheeky," said Marta, not because she thought so, but because
she wished to please and flatter Vershina.
"Last night he looked into our window," related Vershina. "He got
into the garden while we were at supper. There was a rain-tub under
the window, full of water. It was covered with a plank. The water was
hidden. He climbed on the tub and looked in the window. As the lamp
on the table was lighted he could see us, but we couldn't see him.
Suddenly we heard a noise. We were frightened at first and ran outside.
The plank had slipped and he had fallen into the water. However, he
climbed out before we got there and ran away, leaving wet tracks on the
path. We recognised him by his back."
Marta laughed shrilly and happily like a good-natured child. Vershina
told this in her usual quick, monotonous voice and then was suddenly
silent, and smiled at the corners of her mouth, which puckered up
her smooth, dry face. The smoke-darkened teeth showed themselves
slightly. Peredonov reflected a moment and suddenly burst into a laugh.
He did not always respond at once to what he thought was funny--his
receptivity was sluggish and dull.
Vershina smoked one cigarette after another. She could not live without
tobacco smoke under her nose.
"We'll soon be neighbours," announced Peredonov.
Vershina glanced quickly at Marta, who flushed slightly and looked at
Peredonov with a timorous air of expectation, and then at once turned
away towards the garden.
"So you're moving?" asked Vershina; "why?"
"It's too far from the _gymnasia_," explained Peredonov.
Vershina smiled incredulously.
It's more likely, she thought, he wants to be nearer Marta.
"But you've lived there for several years," she said.
"Yes," said Peredonov angrily. "And the landlady's a swine."
"Why?" asked Vershina, with an ambiguous smile.
Peredonov grew somewhat animated.
"She's repapered the rooms most damnably," he exclaimed, "one piece
doesn't match another. When you open the dining-room door you find
quite another pattern. Most of the room has bunches of large and small
flowers, while behind the door there is a pattern of stripes and nails.
And the colours are different too. We shouldn't have noticed it, if
Falastov had not come and laughed. And everybody laughs at it."
"It certainly must be ridiculous," agreed Vershina.
"We're not telling her that we're going to leave," said Peredonov, and
at this he lowered his voice. "We're going to find new apartments and
we shall go without giving notice."
"Of course," said Vershina.
"Or else she'll make a row," said Peredonov, with a touch of anxiety in
his eyes. "That means that we should have to pay her a month's rent for
her beastly hole."
Peredonov laughed with joy at the thought of leaving the house without
paying.
"She's bound to make a demand," observed Vershina.
"Let her--she won't get anything out of me," replied Peredonov angrily.
"We went to Peter[1] and we made no use of the house while we were
away."
"But you had rented it."
"What then? She ought to make a discount; why should we have to pay for
time when we weren't there? Besides, she is very impertinent."
"Well, your landlady is impertinent because she's yours--your cousin
is particularly quarrelsome," said Vershina, with an emphasis on the
"cousin."
Peredonov frowned and looked dully in front of him with his half-sleepy
eyes. Vershina changed the subject. Peredonov pulled a caramel out of
his pocket, tore the paper off and began to chew it. He happened to
glance at Marta and thought that she wanted a caramel.
"Shall I give her one or not?" thought Peredonov. "She's not worth it.
I suppose I ought to give her one to show that I'm not stingy. After
all, I've got a pocketful."
And he pulled out a handful of caramels.
"Here you are!" he said, and held out the sweets, first to Vershina and
then to Marta.
"They're very good bonbons," he said, "expensive ones--thirty kopecks a
pound."
Each of the women took a sweet.
"Take more," he said, "I've lots of them. They're very nice bonbons--I
wouldn't eat bad ones."
"Thank you, I don't want any more," said Vershina in her quick,
monotonous voice.
And Marta repeated after her the same words, but with less decision.
Peredonov glanced incredulously at Marta and said:
"What do you mean--you don't want them? Have another."
He took a single caramel for himself from the handful and laid the
others before Marta. She smiled without speaking and bent her head a
little.
"Little idiot!" thought Peredonov, "she doesn't even know how to thank
one properly."
He did not know what to converse about with Marta. She had no interest
for him, like all objects and people with which he had no well-defined
relations, either pleasant or unpleasant.
The rest of the beer was poured into Peredonov's glass. Vershina
glanced at Marta.
"I'll get it," said Marta.
She always guessed what Vershina wanted without being told.
"Send Vladya--he's in the garden," suggested Vershina.
"Vladislav!" shouted Marta.
"Yes?" answered the boy from so close that it seemed as if he had been
listening to them.
"Bring some more beer--two bottles," said Marta, "they're in the box in
the corridor."
Vladislav soon came back noiselessly, handed the beer to Marta through
the window and greeted Peredonov.
"How are you?" asked Peredonov with a scowl. "How many bottles of beer
have you got away with to-day?"
Vladislav smiled in a constrained way and said:
"I don't drink beer."
He was a boy of about fourteen with a freckled face like Marta's, and
with uneasy, clumsy movements like hers. He was dressed in a blouse of
coarse linen.
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:
"What are you laughing at?"
Marta started and turned towards him, not knowing what to say.
Vladislav smiled, looking at Peredonov, and flushed slightly.
"It's very rude," said Peredonov, "to laugh like that before guests.
Were you laughing at me?"
Marta blushed and Vladislav looked frightened.
"Oh! no," said Marta. "We weren't laughing at you. We were talking
about our own affairs."
"A secret?" exclaimed Peredonov angrily. "It is rude to discuss secrets
before guests."
"It isn't at all a secret," said Marta, "but we laughed because Vladya
hasn't all his clothes on and feels bashful about coming in."
Peredonov was mollified and began to think of jokes about Vladya and
presently gave him a caramel.
"Marta, bring me my black shawl," said Vershina. "And at the same time
look into the oven to see how that pie's getting on."
Marta went out obediently. She understood that Vershina wanted to talk
with Peredonov, and felt glad of the respite.
"And you run away and play, Vladya," said Vershina, "there's nothing
for you to chatter about here."
Vladya ran off and they could hear the sand crunching under his feet.
Vershina gave a quick, cautious side-glance at Peredonov through
the clouds of cigarette smoke she was ceaselessly puffing out.
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."
Peredonov passed his hand over his slightly ruffled chestnut-brown hair
and announced with a surly dignity:
"There is no one here good enough for me!"
"Don't say that," replied Vershina, with a wry smile. "There are plenty
of girls better than she is here and every one of them would marry you."
She knocked the ash off her cigarette with a decisive movement as if
she were emphasising her remark with an exclamation point.
"Everyone wouldn't suit me," retorted Peredonov.
"We're not discussing everyone," said Vershina quickly, "you're not the
kind of man who'd run after a _dot_ if the girl were a fine girl. You
yourself earn quite enough, thank God."
"No," replied Peredonov, "it would be more of an advantage for me to
marry Varvara. The Princess has promised her patronage. She will give
me a good billet," he went on with grave animation.
Vershina smiled faintly. Her entire wrinkled face, dark as if saturated
with tobacco smoke, expressed a condescending incredulousness. She
asked:
"Did the Princess herself tell _you_ this?" She laid an emphasis on the
word "you."
"Not me, but Varvara," admitted Peredonov. "But it comes to the same
thing."
"You rely too much on your cousin's word," said Vershina spitefully.
"But tell me, is she much older than you? Say, by fifteen years? Or
more? she must be under fifty."
"Nonsense," said Peredonov angrily, "she's not yet thirty!"
Vershina laughed.
"Please tell me," she said with unconcealed derision. "Surely, she
looks much older than you. Of course, it's not my business, it's not my
affair. Still, it is a pity that such a good-looking, clever young man
should not have the position he deserves."
Peredonov surveyed himself with great self-satisfaction. But there was
no smile on his pink face and he seemed hurt because everybody did not
appreciate him as Vershina did.
"Even without patronage you'll go far," continued Vershina, "surely
the authorities will recognise your value. Why should you hang on to
Varvara? And none even of the Routilov girls would suit you; they're
too frivolous and you need a more practical wife. You might do much
worse than marry Marta!"
Peredonov looked at his watch.
"Time to go home," he observed and rose to say good-bye.
Vershina was convinced that Peredonov was leaving because she had
put to him a vital question and that it was only his indecision that
prevented him from speaking about Marta immediately.
[1] St. Petersburg.