The Little Demon, Fyodor Sologub [reading the story of the TXT] 📗

promising his hostess that he would certainly get the May number of the Russkaya Misl, in order to read Mister Chekhov’s story. Peredonov listened with an expression of unconcealed boredom on his face. At last he said:

“I haven’t read it either. I don’t read such nonsense. There’s nothing but stupidities in stories and novels.” Nadezhda Vassilyevna smiled amiably and said:

“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. Although she disliked such conversation she managed to keep it up with the ease and buoyancy of a lively, well-trained girl. The guests became animated. She was intolerably bored, but they thought that she was particularly gracious and they put it down to the charm of Volodin’s personality.

Once in the street Peredonov congratulated Volodin upon his success. Volodin laughed gleefully and skipped about. He had already forgotten all the other girls who had rejected him.

“Don’t kick up your heels like that,” said Peredonov. “You’re hopping about like a young sheep! You’d better wait; you may have your nose pulled again.”

But he said this only in jest, and he fully believed in the success of the match he had devised.

Grushina came to see Varvara almost every day. Varvara was at Grushina’s even oftener, so that they were scarcely ever parted from each other. Varvara was agitated because Grushina delayed⁠—she assured Varvara that it was very difficult to copy the handwriting so that the resemblance would be complete.

Peredonov still refrained from fixing a date for the wedding. Again he demanded his inspector’s post first. Recollecting how many girls were ready to marry him, he more than once, as in the past winter, said to Varvara threateningly:

“I’m going out to get married. I shall be back in the morning with a wife and then out you go. This is your last night here!”

And having said this he would go⁠—to play billiards. From there he would sometimes return home, but more often he would go carousing in some dirty hole with Routilov and Volodin. On such nights Varvara could not sleep. That is why she suffered from headaches. It was not so bad if he returned at one or two⁠—then she could breathe freely. But if he did not turn up till the morning then the day found Varvara quite ill.

At last Grushina had finished the letter and showed it to Varvara. They examined it for a long time and compared it with the Princess’s letter of last year. Grushina assured her that the letter was so like the other that the Princess herself would not recognise the forgery. Although there was actually little resemblance, Varvara believed her. She also realised that Peredonov would not remember the Princess’s unfamiliar handwriting so minutely that he would see it was a forgery.

“At last!” she said joyously. “I have waited and waited, and I’d almost lost patience. But what shall I tell him about the envelope if he asks?”

“You can’t very well forge an envelope; there’s the postmark,” said Grushina laughing as she looked at Varvara with her cunning unequal eyes, one of them wider open than the other.

“What shall we do?”

“Varvara Dmitrievna darling, just tell him that you threw the envelope into the fire. What’s the good of an envelope?”

Varvara’s hopes revived. She said:

“Once we’re married, he won’t keep me any longer on the run. I’ll do the sitting and he can do the running for me.”

On Saturday after dinner Peredonov went to play billiards. His thoughts were heavy and melancholy. He thought:

“It’s awful to live among hostile and envious people. But what can one do⁠—they can’t all be inspectors! That’s the struggle for existence!”

At the corner of two streets he met the Officer of the gendarmerie⁠—an unpleasant meeting.

Lieutenant-Colonel Nikolai Vadimovitch Roubovsky, a medium-sized, stout man with heavy eyebrows, cheerful grey eyes, and a limping gait which made his spurs jingle unevenly and loudly, was a very amiable person and was therefore popular in society. He knew all the people in town, all their affairs and relations, and loved to hear gossip, but was himself as discreet and silent as the grave, and caused no one any unnecessary unpleasantness.

They stopped, greeted each other and entered into conversation. Peredonov looked frowningly on each side and said cautiously:

“I hear that our Natasha is with you now. You mustn’t believe anything she tells you about me, because she’s lying.”

“I don’t listen to servants’ gossip,” said Roubovsky with dignity.

“She’s really a bad one,” said Peredonov, paying no attention to Roubovsky’s remark; “her young man is a Pole; very likely she came to you on purpose to get hold of some official secret.”

“Please don’t worry about that,” said the Lieutenant-Colonel dryly. “I haven’t any plans of fortresses in my possession.”

This introduction of fortresses perplexed Peredonov; it seemed to him that Roubovsky was hinting at something⁠—that he thought of imprisoning Peredonov in a fortress.

“It’s nothing to do with fortresses⁠—it’s a very different matter,” he muttered. “But all sorts of stupid things are being said about me, for the most part from envy. Don’t believe any of them. They’re informing against me in order to get suspicion away from themselves, but I can do some informing myself.”

Roubovsky was mystified.

“I assure you,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and jingling his spurs, “that no one has informed against you. It is obvious that someone has been pulling your leg⁠—people of course will talk nonsense sometimes.”

Peredonov was mistrustful. He thought that the Lieutenant-Colonel was concealing something, and he suddenly felt a terrible apprehension.

Every time that Peredonov walked past Vershina’s garden, Vershina would stop him and with her bewitching gestures and words would lure him into the garden. And he would enter, unwillingly yielding to her quiet witchery. Perhaps she had a better