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

strongly to her: confused, burning feelings of shame and attraction agitated him and vaguely passionate visions filled his imagination. XXI

On Sunday when Peredonov and Varvara were lunching, someone entered the hall. Varvara went up to the door stealthily, as was her habit, and looked out. With the same stealthiness she returned to the table and whispered:

“The postman. We’d better give him a vodka⁠—he’s brought another letter.”

Peredonov silently nodded⁠—he didn’t grudge anyone a glass of vodka. Varvara shouted:

“Postman! Come in here.”

The postman entered the room. He rummaged in his bag and pretended to be searching for the letter. Varvara filled a large vodka-glass and cut off a piece of pie. The postman watched her greedily. In the meantime Peredonov was trying to think whom the postman resembled. At last he recalled⁠—he was the same red-pimpled knave who had made him lose so heavily at cards.

“He’ll trick me again,” thought Peredonov dejectedly, and made a Koukish31 in his pocket.

The red-haired knave gave the letter to Varvara.

“It’s for you,” he said respectfully, thanked them for the vodka, drank it, grunted with satisfaction, picked up the piece of pie and walked out.

Varvara turned the letter and without opening it held it out to Peredonov.

“There, read it⁠—I think it’s from the Princess,” she said with a smile. “What’s the good of her writing? It would be much better if she gave you the job instead.”

Peredonov’s hands trembled. He tore open the envelope and quickly read the letter. Then he jumped up from his place, waved the letter and cried out:

“Hurrah! Three inspector’s jobs, and I can have which one I want. Hurrah, Varvara, we’ve got it at last!”

He began to dance and twirl round the room. With his immovably red face and dull eyes he seemed like a monstrously large mechanical dancing doll. Varvara smiled and looked at him happily. He shouted:

“Now it’s decided, Varvara⁠—we’ll get married.”

He caught Varvara by the shoulders and began to whirl her around the table, stamping with his feet.

“A Russian dance, Varvara!” he shouted.

Varvara put her arms akimbo and glided off into a dance, Peredonov danced before her in the Russian squat.

Volodin entered and bleated joyously:

“The future inspector is hopping the trepak!”32

“Dance, Pavloushka!” cried Peredonov.

Klavdia looked in at the door. Volodin shouted at her, laughing and grimacing:

“Dance, Klavdiusha, you too! All together! We’ll make merry with the future inspector.”

Klavdia gave a hoot and glided into the dance, moving her shoulders. Volodin adroitly whirled round in front of her⁠—now he squatted, now he whirled round, now he jumped forward, clapping his hands together. He was especially adroit when he lifted his knee and clapped his hands underneath the knee. The floor vibrated under their heels. Klavdia was overjoyed to have such a clever partner.

When they got tired they sat down at the table and Klavdia ran off into the kitchen laughing gaily. They drank vodka and they drank beer. They jingled bottles and glasses, they shouted, laughed, waved their arms, embraced and kissed each other. Afterwards Peredonov and Volodin went off to the Summer-garden⁠—Peredonov was in a hurry to boast about the letter.

In the billiard-room they found the usual company. Peredonov showed his letter to his friends. It created a great impression. Everyone examined it trustfully. Routilov went pale, muttered something and spat.

“The postman brought it when I was there!” exclaimed Peredonov. “I unsealed the letter myself. That means that there’s no mistake.”

His friends looked at him with respect. A letter from a Princess!

Peredonov went impetuously from the Summer-garden to Vershina’s. He walked quickly and evenly, swinging his arms measuredly and mumbling to himself; his face had no apparent expression of any kind⁠—it was motionless like that of a wound-up doll⁠—and a sort of avid fire gleamed dully in his eyes.

The day turned out clear and warm. Marta was knitting a sock. Her thoughts were confused and devout. At first she thought about sins, but later she turned her thoughts to something more pleasant and began to reflect about virtues. Her thoughts became overclouded with drowsiness and assumed the forms of definite images, and proportionately at their comprehensibility ceased to be expressible in words, their chimerical contours increased in clearness. The virtues stood up before her like big pretty dolls in white dresses, all shining and fragrant. They promised her rewards, and keys jingled in their hands, and bridal veils fluttered on their heads.

One among them was curious and different from the others. She promised nothing but looked reproachfully, and her lips moved with a noiseless threat; it seemed that if she spoke a word one would feel terrible. Marta guessed that this was Conscience. She was in black, this strange painful visitor, with black eyes, and black hair⁠—and she suddenly began to talk about something very quickly and glibly. She began to resemble Vershina. Marta started, answered something to her question, answered almost unconsciously and then drowsiness again overcame her.

Whether it was Conscience, or whether it was Vershina sitting opposite her, talking quickly and glibly but incomprehensibly, smoking something exotic, this person was assertive, quiet and determined that everything should be as she wanted it. Marta tried to look this tedious visitor straight in the eyes but somehow she couldn’t⁠—the visitor smiled strangely, grumbled, and her eyes wandered off somewhere and rested on distant, unknown objects, which Marta found fearful to look at.⁠ ⁠…

Loud talk awakened Marta. Peredonov stood in the summerhouse and greeted Vershina in a loud voice. Marta looked around in fear. Her heart beat, her eyes were still half-shut, and her thoughts were still wandering, where was Conscience? Or had she not been there at all? And ought she to have been there?

“Ah, you’ve been snoozing there,” said Peredonov to her. “You were snoring in all sorts of ways. Now you’re a pine.”33

Marta did not understand his pun, but smiled, guessing from the smile on Vershina’s lips that something had been said which had to be accepted as amusing.

“You ought