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

and Volodin in an armchair. Nadezhda looked at her visitors in astonishment. The visitors talked about the weather and various bits of news, with the look of people who had come upon a delicate affair and did not know how to approach it. At last Peredonov coughed, frowned and began:

“Nadezhda Vassilyevna, we’ve come on business.”

“On business,” said Volodin, making a significant face; and he protruded his lips.

“It’s about him,” said Peredonov, and pointed at Volodin with his forefinger.

“It’s about me,” echoed Volodin, and pointed his own forefinger at his breast.

Nadezhda smiled.

“Please go on,” she said.

“I’m going to speak for him,” said Peredonov. “He’s bashful, he can’t make up his mind to do it himself. He’s a worthy, non-drinking, good man. He does not earn much, but that’s nothing. Everyone needs a different thing⁠—one needs money, another needs a man. Well, why don’t you say something?” He turned to Volodin, “Say something!”

Volodin lowered his head and spoke in a trembling voice, like a bleating ram:

“It’s true I don’t earn high wages. But I shall always have my crumb of bread. It’s true that I didn’t go to a university, but I live as may God grant everyone to do. But I don’t know anything against myself⁠—and besides, let everyone judge for himself. But I, well, I’m satisfied with myself.”

He spread out his arms, lowered his forehead as if he were about to butt and grew silent.

“And so, as you see,” said Peredonov, “he’s a young man. And he shouldn’t live like this. He ought to marry. In any case the married man is always better off.”

“And if his wife suits him, what can be better?” added Volodin.

“And you,” continued Peredonov, “are a girl. You also ought to marry.”

From behind the door there came a slight rustle, abrupt smothered sounds, as though someone were breathing or laughing with a closed mouth. Nadezhda looked sternly in the direction of the door and said coldly:

“You are too concerned about me,” with an annoying emphasis on the word “too.”

“You don’t want a rich husband,” said Peredonov, “you’re rich yourself. You need someone to love you and gratify you in everything. And you know him, you could understand him. He’s not indifferent to you and perhaps you’re not indifferent to him either. So you see I have the merchant and you have the goods. That is, you are the goods yourself.”

Nadezhda blushed and bit her lip to keep from laughing. The same sounds continued behind the door. Volodin bashfully lowered his eyes. It seemed to him that his affair was going well.

“What goods?” asked Nadezhda cautiously. “Pardon me, I don’t understand.”

“What do you mean, ‘you don’t understand’?” asked Peredonov incredulously. “Well, I’ll tell you straight. Pavel Vassilyevitch has come to ask for your hand and heart. I ask on his behalf.”

Behind the door something fell to the floor and rolled and snorted and panted. Nadezhda, growing red with suppressed laughter, looked at her visitors. Volodin’s proposal seemed to her a ridiculous impertinence.

“Yes,” said Volodin, “Nadezhda Vassilyevna, I’ve come to ask for your hand and heart.”

He grew red and rose from his chair⁠—his foot awkwardly rumpled the carpet⁠—bowed and quickly sat down again. Then he got up again, put his hand on his heart and said as he looked tenderly at the girl:

“Nadezhda Vassilyevna, permit me to say a few words! As I have loved you for some time you surely will not say ‘no’ to me?”

He threw himself forward and let himself down on one knee before Nadezhda and kissed her hand.

“Nadezhda Vassilyevna, believe me! I swear to you!” he exclaimed, and lifted his hand high in the air and with a wild swing hit himself full on the chest so that the sound reechoed through the room.

“What’s the matter with you! Please get up,” said Nadezhda in embarrassment. “Why are you doing this?”

Volodin rose and with an injured expression on his face returned to his seat. There he pressed both his hands on his chest and again exclaimed:

“Nadezhda Vassilyevna, do believe me! Until death, from all my soul.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nadezhda, “but I really can’t. I must bring up my brother⁠—even now he’s crying behind the door.”

“Bring up your brother,” said Volodin, protruding an offended lip. “I fail to see why that should prevent it.”

“No, in any case it concerns him,” said Nadezhda, rising hurriedly. “He must be asked. Just wait.”

She quickly ran from the drawing-room, rustling with her bright yellow dress, caught Misha by the shoulder behind the door and ran with him to his room; as she stood there by the door panting with running and suppressed laughter, she said in a breathless voice:

“It’s quite useless to ask you not to listen behind doors. Must I really be very stern with you?”

Misha, catching her by the waist, with his head against her, laughed and shook with his efforts to suppress his laughter. She pushed Misha into his room, sat down on a chair near the door and began to laugh.

“Did you hear what he’s thinking of, your Pavel Vassilyevitch?” she said. “Come with me into the drawing-room and don’t you dare to laugh. I will ask you in their presence and don’t you dare say ‘yes.’ Do you understand?”

“Oo-hoo,” blurted out Misha, and stuck a corner of his handkerchief in his mouth to stop his laughing, but with little success.

“Cover your face with your handkerchief when you want to laugh,” his sister advised him, and led him by his shoulder into the drawing-room.

There she placed him in an armchair and sat down on a chair at his side. Volodin looked offended and lowered his head like a little ram.

“You see,” she said, pointing at her brother, “I’ve barely dried his tears, poor boy! I have to be a mother to him, and he has a sudden idea that I’m going to leave him.”

Misha covered his face with his handkerchief. His whole body shook. In order to hide his laughter he uttered a protracted moan:

“Oo-oo-oo.”

Nadezhda embraced him, pinched his hand secretly and said:

“Well, stop