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

yielded again to her witching call. The two of them walked towards the summerhouse, over the moist footpaths which were covered by the dark, rotting fallen leaves. The summerhouse felt unpleasantly damp. The house with its windows closed was visible through the bare trees.

“I want you to know the truth,” mumbled Vershina, as she looked quickly at Peredonov, and then turned away her black eyes.

She was wrapped in a black jacket, her head was tied round with a black kerchief, and her lips, grown blue with the cold, were clenched on a black cigarette holder, and sent out thick clouds of black smoke.

“I want to spit on your truth,” replied Peredonov. “Nothing would please me better.”

Vershina smiled wryly and said:

“Don’t say that! I am terribly sorry for you⁠—you have been fooled.”

There was a malicious joy in her voice. Malevolent words flowed from her tongue. She said:

“You were hoping to get patronage, but you were too trustful. You have been fooled, and you believed so easily. Anyone can write a letter. You should have known with whom you were dealing. Your wife is not a very particular person.”

Peredonov understood Vershina’s mumbling speech with some difficulty; her meaning peered out through all her circumlocutions. Vershina was afraid to speak loudly and clearly. Someone might hear if she spoke loudly, and tell Varvara, who would not hesitate to make a scene. And Peredonov himself might get into a rage if she spoke clearly, and even beat her. It was better to hint, so that he might guess the truth. But Peredonov did not rise to the occasion. It had happened before that he had been told to his face of the deception practised on him; yet he never grasped the fact that the letters had been forged, and kept on thinking that it was the Princess who was fooling him, leading him by the nose.

At last Vershina said bluntly:

“You think the Princess wrote those letters? Why, all the town knows that they were fabricated by Grushina at your wife’s request; the Princess knows nothing about it. Ask anyone you like; everyone knows⁠—they gave the thing away themselves. And then Varvara Dmitrievna stole the letters from you and burnt them so as to leave no traces.”

Dark, oppressive thoughts stirred in Peredonov’s brain. He understood only one thing⁠—that he had been fooled. But that the Princess knew nothing of it could not enter his head⁠—yes, she knew. No wonder she had come out of the fire alive.

“It’s a lie about the Princess,” he said. “I tried to burn the Princess, but did not succeed in burning her up; she spat out an exorcism.”

Suddenly a furious rage seized Peredonov. Fooled! He struck the table savagely with his fist, tore himself from his place, and without saying goodbye to Vershina walked home quickly. Vershina looked after him with malignant joy, and the black clouds of smoke flew quickly from her dark mouth, and swirled away in the wind.

Rage consumed Peredonov. But when he saw Varvara, he was seized with a painful dread, which prevented him from uttering a word.

On the next morning Peredonov got ready a small garden knife, which he carefully kept in a leather sheath in his pocket. He spent the whole morning until luncheon at Volodin’s. He looked at Volodin working, and made absurd remarks. Volodin was glad, as usual, that Peredonov fussed about him, and he accepted Peredonov’s silly talk as wit.

That whole day the nedotikomka wheeled around Peredonov. It would not let him go to sleep after lunch. It completely tired him out. When, towards evening, he had almost fallen asleep, he was awakened by a mischievous woman who appeared from some place unknown to him. She was pug-nosed, amorphous, and as she walked up to his bed she muttered:

“The Kvass must be crushed out, the tarts must be taken out of the oven, the meat must be roasted.”

Her cheeks were dark, but her teeth gleamed.

“Go to the devil!” shouted Peredonov.

The pug-nosed woman disappeared as if she had not been there at all.

The evening came. A melancholy wind blew in the chimney. A slow rain tapped on the window quietly and persistently. It was quite black outside. Volodin was at the Peredonovs’⁠—Peredonov had invited him early that morning to the supper.

“Don’t let anyone in. Do you hear, Klavdiushka?” shouted Peredonov.

Varvara smiled. Peredonov muttered:

“All sorts of women are prowling around here. A watch should be kept. One got into my bedroom; she asked to be taken on as cook. But why should I have a pug-nosed cook?”

Volodin laughed bleatingly and said:

“There are women walking about in the street, but they have nothing to do with us, and we shan’t let them join us at our table.”

The three of them sat down at the table. They began to drink vodka, and to eat tarts. They drank more than they ate. Peredonov was gloomy. Everything had already become a senseless and incoherent delirium for him. He had a painful headache. One picture repeated itself persistently⁠—that of Volodin as an enemy. One idea importuned and assailed him ceaselessly: it was that he must kill Pavloushka before it was too late. And then all the inimical cunning would become revealed. As for Volodin, he was rapidly becoming drunk, and he kept up an incoherent jabber, much to Varvara’s amusement.

Peredonov seemed restless. He mumbled:

“Someone is coming. Don’t let anyone in. Tell them that I have gone away to pray at the Tarakani46 monastery.”

He was afraid that visitors might hinder him. Volodin and Varvara were amused⁠—they thought that he was only drunk. They exchanged winks, and walked out separately and knocked on the door, and said in different voices:

“Is General Peredonov at home?”

“I’ve brought General Peredonov a diamond star.”

But the star did not tempt Peredonov that evening. He shouted:

“Don’t let them in! Chuck them out! Let them bring it in the morning. Now is not the time.”

“No,” he thought, “I need all my strength tonight. Everything will be revealed tonight⁠—but until then my enemies