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

schoolboy, with a rosy, ingenuous face and innocent blue eyes. Peredonov said to him:

“Hullo there, Mashenka, hullo, girlie!”

Misha Koudryavtsev flushed painfully. Peredonov often teased him by calling him “Mashenka”⁠—Misha did not understand why and could not make up his mind to complain. A number of his companions, stupid youngsters elbowing each other, laughed at Peredonov’s words. They too liked to tease Misha.

The church, dedicated to the prophet Elias, an old structure built in the days of Tsar Mikhail, stood in the square, facing the school. For this reason, on church holidays, at Mass and for Vespers, the schoolboys had to gather here and to stand in rows on the left by the chapel of St. Catherine the Martyr, while behind them stood one of the assistant masters in order to keep discipline. Here also in a row, nearer the centre of the church, stood the form masters, as well as the inspector and the Headmaster, with their families. It was usual for nearly all the orthodox schoolboys to gather here, except the few who were permitted to attend their parish churches with their parents.

The choir of schoolboys sang well, and for this reason the church was attended by merchants of the First Guild, officials and the families of landed gentry. There were only a few of the common folk⁠—especially since, in conformity with the Headmaster’s wish, Mass was celebrated there later than in other churches.

Peredonov stood in his usual place, from which he could see all the members of the choir. Screwing up his eyes, he looked at them and thought that they were standing out of their places. If he had been inspector he would have pulled them up. There was, for example, a smooth-faced boy, named Kramarenko, a small, thin, fidgety youngster who was constantly turning this way and that way, whispering, smiling⁠—and there was no one to keep him in order. It seemed to be no one’s affair.

“What confusion!” thought Peredonov. “These choirboys are all good-for-nothings. That dark youngster there has a fine, clear soprano⁠—so he thinks he can whisper and grin in church.”

And Peredonov frowned.

At his side stood a latecomer, the inspector of the National Schools, Sergey Potapovitch Bogdanov, an oldish man with a brown, stupid face, who always looked as if he wanted to explain to somebody something which he could never make head or tail of himself. No one was easier to frighten or to astonish than Bogdanov: no sooner did he hear anything new or disquieting than his forehead would become wrinkled from his inward, painful efforts and from his mouth would issue a string of incoherent and perplexed exclamations.

Peredonov bent towards him and said in a whisper:

“One of your schoolmistresses walks about in a red shirt!”

Bogdanov was alarmed. His white Adam’s apple twitched with fear under his chin.

“What do you say?” he whispered hoarsely. “Who is she?”

“The loud-voiced, fat one⁠—I don’t know what her name is,” whispered Peredonov.

“The loud-voiced one, the loud-voiced one,” repeated Bogdanov in a confused way, “that must be Skobotchkina. Yes?”

“Yes, that must be the one,” declared Peredonov.

“Well! Good heavens! Who’d have thought that!” exclaimed Bogdanov. “Skobotchkina in a red shirt! Well! Did you see it with your own eyes?”

“Yes, I saw her, and they tell me she goes into school like that. And sometimes even worse; she puts on a sarafan14 and walks about like a common girl.”

“You don’t say so! I must look into it! We can’t have that! We can’t have that! She’ll have to be dismissed, dismissed, I say,” babbled on Bogdanov. “She was always like that.”

Mass was over. As they were leaving the church, Peredonov said to Kramarenko:

“Here, you whippety-snippet! Why were you grinning in church? Just wait, I shall tell your father!”

Kramarenko looked at Peredonov in astonishment and ran past him without speaking. He belonged to that number of pupils who thought Peredonov coarse, stupid and unjust, and who therefore disliked and despised him. The majority of the pupils thought similarly. Peredonov imagined that these were the boys who had been prejudiced against him by the Headmaster, if not personally, at least through his sons.

Peredonov was approached on the other side of the fence by Volodin. He was chuckling happily, and his face was as cheerful as if it were his birthday; he wore a bowler hat and carried his cane in the fashionable way.

“I’ve something to tell you, Ardalyon Borisitch,” he said gleefully. “I’ve managed to persuade Cherepnin, and very soon he’s going to smear Marta’s gate with tar!”

Peredonov said nothing for a moment. He seemed to be considering something, and then suddenly burst into his usual morose laughter. Volodin at once ceased grinning, assumed a sober look, straightened his bowler hat, looked at the sky, swung his stick and said:

“It’s a fine day, but it looks as if it will rain this evening. Well, let it rain; I shall spend the evening at the future inspector’s house.”

“I can’t waste any time at home now,” said Peredonov, “I’ve got more important affairs to attend to in town.”

Volodin looked as if he comprehended, though he really had no idea what business Peredonov had to attend to. Peredonov determined that he must, without fail, make several visits. Yesterday’s chance meeting with the Lieutenant-Colonel had suggested to him an idea which now seemed to him very important: to make the rounds of all important personages of the town to assure them of his loyalty. If he should succeed, then, in an emergency, Peredonov would find defenders in the town who would testify to the correctness of his attitude.

“Where are you going, Ardalyon Borisitch?” asked Volodin, seeing that Peredonov was turning off from the path by which he usually went back from church. “Aren’t you going home?”

“Yes, I’m going home,” answered Peredonov, “but I don’t like to go along that street now.”

“Why?”

“There’s a lot of durman growing there, and the smell’s very strong. I’m very much affected by it⁠—it stupefies me. My nerves are on edge just now. I seem