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

at the resplendent altar with a concerned and appealing expression on his face; with entreaty and sadness in his black eyes shaded by long intensely black eyelashes. Smooth-faced and graceful, his chest standing out broad and high as he rested there, calm and erect on his knees, as if under some sternly observing eye, he appeared at that moment to Peredonov altogether like a girl.

Peredonov now decided to go directly after Vespers to Pilnikov’s rooms.

They began to leave the church. It was noticed that Peredonov no longer wore a hat but a cap with a badge. Routilov asked laughingly:

“Ardalyon Borisitch, how is that you’re strolling about with your badge nowadays? That comes of having an inspectorship in view.”

“Will the soldiers have to salute you now?” asked Valeria with pretended ingenuousness.

“What nonsense!” said Peredonov angrily.

“You don’t understand, Valerotchka,” said Darya. “Why do you say soldiers! But Ardalyon Borisitch will get a great deal more respect from his pupils now than before.”

Liudmilla laughed. Peredonov made haste to take leave of them in order to get away from their sarcasms.

It was too early to go to Pilnikov and he had no desire to go home. Peredonov walked about the dark streets wondering how he could waste an hour. There were many houses, and lights shone from many windows, sometimes voices could be heard from the open windows. The churchgoers walked in the streets, and gates and doors could be heard opening and shutting. All around lived people, strange and hostile to Peredonov, and it was possible that at this very moment some of them were devising evil against him. Perhaps someone was wondering why he walked alone at this late hour and where he was going. It seemed to Peredonov that someone was following him stealthily. He began to feel depressed. He walked on hurriedly and aimlessly.

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. It so happened that the quietest boys were always placed at her house, those who studied diligently and completed their courses. At other students’ lodgings there were a considerable number of boys who went from one school to another and always left their studies unfinished.

Olga Vassilyevna, a lean, tall and erect old woman with a good-natured face, to which, however, she tried to give a stern expression; and Sasha Pilnikov, a well-fed youngster, carefully trained by his aunt, sat at the supper table. That evening it was Sasha’s turn to supply the jam, which he had bought in the village, and therefore he felt as if he were the host and ceremoniously attended to Olga Vassilyevna, and his black eyes shone brightly. A ring at the door was heard⁠—and a moment afterwards Peredonov appeared in the dining-room. Kokovkina was astonished at such a late visit.

“I’ve come to take a look at our pupil,” he said, “and to see how he lives.”

Kokovkina asked Peredonov to take some refreshment, but he refused. He wanted them to finish their supper, so that he could be alone with his pupil. They finished their supper and went into Sasha’s room, but Kokovkina did not leave them and talked incessantly. Peredonov looked morosely at Sasha, who was timidly silent.

“Nothing will come of this visit,” thought Peredonov with annoyance.

The maidservant for some reason or other called out for Kokovkina. Sasha looked dejectedly after her. His eyes grew dull, they were covered by his eyelashes⁠—and it seemed that these eyelashes, which were very long, threw a shadow on his smooth and suddenly pallid face. He felt uneasy in the presence of this morose man. Peredonov sat down beside him, put his arm awkwardly around him and without altering the immobile expression on his face asked:

“Well, Sashenka, has the little girl said her prayers yet?”

Sasha, shamefaced and frightened, looked at Peredonov and was silent.

“Well? Eh?” asked Peredonov.

“Yes,” said Sasha at last.

“What red cheeks you’ve got,” said Peredonov. “Well⁠—a⁠—you are a little girl? Yes? A girl, you rogue!”

“No, I’m not a girl,” said Sasha, and suddenly angry at his own timidity, he asked in a shrill voice, “How am I like a girl? That’s the fault of your students who try to tease me, because I don’t say nasty words; I’m not used to saying them. Why should I say them?”

“Will Mamma punish you?” asked Peredonov.

“I have no mother,” said Sasha. “My mother died long ago. I have only an aunt.”

“Well then, will Aunt punish you?”

“Of course she’ll punish me if I use nasty words. It isn’t nice, is it?”

“And how will your aunt know?”

“I don’t like it myself,” said Sasha quietly. “And there are several ways Aunt may find out. I might give myself away.”

“And which of your companions say nasty words?” asked Peredonov.

Sasha again blushed and was silent.

“Well, go on,” insisted Peredonov. “You’ve got to tell me. You mustn’t conceal things.”

“No one says them,” said Sasha in confusion.

“But you yourself just complained.”

“I did not complain.”

“Why do you deny it?” said Peredonov angrily.

Sasha felt himself caught in a detestable trap. He said:

“I only explained to you why some of my companions tease me with being a girl. But I didn’t want to tell tales about them.”

“So that’s it. And why so?” asked Peredonov indignantly.

“It isn’t nice,” said Sasha with an annoyed smile.

“Well, I shall speak to the Headmaster and he’ll make you tell,” said Peredonov spitefully.

Sasha looked at Peredonov with anger in his eyes.

“No, please don’t tell him, Ardalyon Borisitch,” he entreated.

And from the agitated tones of his voice it could be perceived that he tried to entreat but that he wanted to shout fierce, insulting words.

“No, I’ll tell.