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

of a serious character,” said Khripatch sarcastically. “And another thing⁠—”

Khripatch showed Peredonov two exercise-books and said:

“Here are two exercise-books from two students of one class on your subject: Adamenko’s and my son’s. I have compared them and I am compelled to make the inference that you are not giving your full attention to your work. Adamenko’s last work which was done very satisfactorily was marked one, while my son’s work, written much worse, was marked four. It is evident that you have made a mistake, that you have given one pupil’s marks to another and vice versa. Though it is natural for a man to make mistakes, still I must ask you to avoid such errors in future. It quite properly arouses dissatisfaction in the parents and in the pupils themselves.”

Peredonov mumbled something inaudible.

From spite he began to tease the smaller boys who had been recently punished at his instigation. He was especially severe on Kramarenko. The boy kept silent and went pale under his dark tan; his eyes gleamed.

As Kramarenko left the gymnasia that day, he did not hasten home. He stood at the gates and watched the entrance. When Peredonov went out Kramarenko followed him at some distance, waiting till a few passersby had got between him and Peredonov.

Peredonov walked slowly. The cloudy weather depressed him. During the last few days his face had assumed a duller expression. His glance was either fixed on something in the distance or wandered strangely. It seemed as if he were constantly looking into an object. To his eyes objects appeared vague or doubled or meaningless.

Who was he scrutinising so closely? Informers. They concealed themselves behind every object, they whispered and laughed. Peredonov’s enemies had sent against him a whole army of informers. Sometimes Peredonov tried quickly to surprise them. But they always managed to escape in time⁠—as if they sank through the earth.⁠ ⁠… Peredonov suddenly heard quick, bold footsteps on the pavement behind him, and looked around him in fright⁠—Kramarenko paused near him and looked at him decidedly, resolutely and malignantly, with burning eyes; pale, thin, like a savage ready to throw himself at an enemy. This look frightened Peredonov.

“Suppose he should suddenly bite me?” he thought.

He walked quicker, but Kramarenko did not leave him; he walked slowly and Kramarenko kept pace with him. Peredonov paused and said angrily:

“Why are you following me, you little dark wretch? I’ll take you to your father at once.”

Kramarenko also paused and continued to look at Peredonov. They stood facing one another on the loose pavement of the deserted street, beside the grey, depressing fence. Kramarenko trembled and said in a hissing voice:

“Scoundrel!”

He smiled and turned to go away.

He made three steps, paused, looked around and repeated louder:

“What a scoundrel! Vermin!”

He spat and walked away. Peredonov looked after him and then turned homewards. Confused and timorous thoughts crowded through his head. Vershina called to him. She stood smoking behind the bars of her garden-gate, wrapped up in a large black shawl. Peredonov did not at once recognise her. Something malignant in her figure seemed to threaten him. She stood like a black sorceress and blew out smoke, as if she were casting a spell. He spat and pronounced an exorcism. Vershina laughed and asked:

“What’s the matter with you, Ardalyon Borisitch?”

Peredonov looked vaguely at her and said at last:

“Ah, it’s you! I didn’t recognise you.”

“That’s a good sign. It means I’ll soon be rich,” said Vershina.

This did not please Peredonov, he wanted to be rich himself.

“Get away!” he exclaimed angrily. “Why should you be rich⁠—you’ll always be what you are now.”

“Never mind, I shall win twenty thousand,” said Vershina with a wry smile.

“No, I shall win the twenty thousand,” argued Peredonov.

“I shall be in one drawing and you’ll be in another,” said Vershina.

“You’re lying,” said Peredonov angrily. “Who ever heard of two people winning at once in the same town. I tell you I’m going to win it.”

Vershina noticed that he was angry. She ceased to argue. She opened the gate to entice him in and said:

“There’s no reason for you to stand there. Come in, Mourin’s here.”

Mourin’s name recalled something pleasant to Peredonov⁠—drink and zakouska. He entered.

In the drawing-room, darkened by the trees outside, sat Marta, looking very happy, with a red sash on and with a kerchief round her neck, Mourin, more unkempt than usual, and very cheerful for some reason or other, and a grownup schoolboy, Vitkevitch. He paid attentions to Vershina, and imagined that she was in love with him: he thought of leaving the school, marrying Vershina and managing her estate.

Mourin met Peredonov with exaggeratedly cordial exclamations, his expression became even gayer and his little eyes looked fat⁠—all this did not go with his stout figure and untidy hair in which even some whisps of straw could be seen.

“I’m attending to business,” he said loudly and hoarsely. “I’ve business everywhere, and here these charming ladies are spoiling me with tea.”

“Business?” replied Peredonov gruffly. “What sort of business have you got? You are not in Government Service and you’ve got money coming in. Now I have business.”

“Well, what if you have, it’s only getting other people’s money,” said Mourin with a loud laugh.

Vershina smiled wryly and seated Peredonov near the table. On a round table near the sofa glasses and cups of tea, rum and cranberry jam were crowded together with a filigree silver dish, covered with a knitted doyley, a small cake-basket of teacake and homemade gingerbread stuck with almonds.

A strong odour of rum came from Mourin’s glass of tea, while Vitkevitch put a good deal of jam into a small glass plate, shaped like a shell. Marta was eating little slices of teacake with visible satisfaction. Vershina offered Peredonov refreshments⁠—he refused to take tea.

“I might be poisoned,” he thought. “It’s very easy to poison you⁠—you simply drink and don’t notice anything⁠—there are sweet poisons⁠—and then you go home and turn up your toes.”

And he felt vexed because they put jam before Mourin, and when he came they didn’t