The Petty Demon (22 page)

“That’s a good one!” Darya said sarcastically.

“The very best age for boys,” Lyudmila said, “is from fourteen to fifteen. He still can’t do anything and doesn’t understand
in a genuine way, but he’s already beginning to have premonitions of everything, definitely of everything. And he hasn’t a
disgusting beard.”

“Some satisfaction that is!” Valeriya said with a disdainful grimace.

She was sad. It seemed to her that she was small, weak, fragile, and she envied her sisters: Darya for her cheerful laughter
and even Lyudmila with her weeping. Lyudmila said once more:

“You don’t understand anything. I don’t love him at all in the way you think I do. It’s better to love a boy than to fall
in love with a vulgar phiz with a moustache. I love him in an innocent way. I don’t want anything from him.”

“If you don’t want anything from him then why do you keep pestering him?” Darya protested coarsely.

Lyudmila blushed and a guilty expression settled heavily over her face. Darya felt sorry, she went up to Lyudmila, put her
arms around her and said:

“Don’t get upset, we’re not trying to be spiteful.”

Lyudmila started to cry again, pressed against Darya’s shoulder and said
bitterly:

“I know there’s nothing to hope for here, but all I want is for him to caress me a little, any old way.”

“There’s
your melancholy for you!” Darya said with annoyance, turned away from Lyudmila, put her hands on her hips and burst into clear
song:

Valeriya dissolved in a fragile ringing laughter. And Lyudmila’s eyes grew cheerful and lascivious. She abruptly went off
into her room, sprayed herself with corylopsis—and the fragrance, spicy, sweet and lascivious, put her in the grip of an insinuating
seductiveness. She went out on to the street all dressed up, excited, and emanating the immodest delight of that seductiveness.

“Maybe I’ll meet him,” she thought.

And she did.

“A fine one!” she cried both joyfully and reproachfully.

Sasha felt both
dismay and joy.

“I didn’t have the time,” he said with embarrassment. “Nothing but lessons, I had to study all the while,
truly, I had no time.”

“You’re lying, my dear, let’s go right now.”

He tried to excuse himself, chuckling, but it was obvious
that he was happy that Lyudmila was taking him. Lyudmila brought him home.

“I brought him!” she cried triumphantly to her
sisters and guided him by the shoulder off to her own room.

“Just you wait, I’m going to get even with you,” she threatened
and bolted the door shut. “Now no one will be able to protect you.”

With his hands stuck in his belt, Sasha stood awkwardly
in the middle of her room. He had a pleasurable but eerie feeling. There was the festive and sweet scent of some new perfume,
but something in the scent affected and set his nerves on edge, like the touch of joyful, spritely, rough-skinned little serpents.

P
EREDONOV WAS RETURNING
home from one of the students’ lodgings. Suddenly he was caught in a fine shower. He started to ponder where he could stop
by so that he wouldn’t spoil his new silk umbrella in the rain. Across the road, on a separate, two-storied stone building,
he saw a sign: “Office of Notary Gudaevsky.” The notary’s son was studying in the second form at the gymnasium. Perdonov decided
to go in. At the same time he could complain about the student.

He found both the mother and father at home. They greeted
him with a fuss. Everything here was done in this fashion.

Nikolai Mikhailovich Gudaevsky was a medium-sized man, solid, dark-haired,
balding and with a long beard. His movements were always impetuous and surprising. It was as though he didn’t walk but fluttered
like a sparrow and it was always impossible to tell from his face and position what he was going to do a moment later. In
the midst of a businesslike conversation he would suddenly shoot his knee out, which, rather than seeming ridiculous, would
seem perplexing because of any lack of motivation. Whether at home or visiting he might just be sitting there when suddenly
he would leap up and without any apparent necessity quickly begin to pace about the room, shouting and banging. On the street
he would be walking along and suddenly he would stop, do a squat or make a lunge or some other gymnastic exercise, and then
continue on his way. On documents which he drew up or witnessed, Gudaevsky loved to make funny remarks. For example, instead
of writing about Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov living on Market Square, in the home of Ermilova, he would write about Ivan Ivanovich
Ivanov living on Market Square in the block where it was impossible to breath because of the stench, and so forth. He would
even make mention at times of the number of chickens and geese owned by the person whose signature he was witnessing.

For
all the dissimilarity in shape, Yuliya Gudaevskaya, a passionate, tall, slender, cruelly sentimental and dry woman, resembled
her husband in her manners: she had the same impetuous movements, the same complete disparity with the movements of others.
She dressed in a gaudy and youthful fashion and because of her quick movements was constantly fluttering
off in all directions with her long variegated ribbons with which she loved to decorate both her dress and hairdo abundantly.

Antosha, a slender, spritely boy, was scraping his feet courteously. Peredonov was seated in the sitting room and he immediately
began to complain about Antosha: he was lazy, inattentive, didn’t listen in class, talked, laughed and played pranks during
recesses. Antosha was amazed—he didn’t know that he had turned out to be that bad. He started to defend himself hotly. Both
parents were upset.

“Please,” the father cried, “tell me precisely what his pranks consist of?”

“Nika, don’t defend him,” the mother cried, “He mustn’t play pranks.”

“Well, what pranks?” the father questioned, running around on his short legs just like he was, rolling.

“Just pranks in general, romping around, fighting,” Peredonov said sullenly. “He’s constantly playing pranks.”

“I don’t fight,”
Antosha exclaimed with a protest. “Ask whom you like, I’ve never fought with anyone.”

“He’s always pestering people,” Peredonov
said.

“Fine, I’ll go to the gymnasium myself and I’ll find out from the inspector” Gudaevsky said with determination.

“Nika,
Nika, why don’t you believe him!” Yuliya cried; “Do you want Antosha to end up as a good-for-nothing? He must be whipped.”

“Rubbish! Rubbish!” the father cried.

“I’ll whip him, I’ll whip him for sure!” the mother cried, seized her son by the shoulder and started to drag him off into
the kitchen, “Antosha,” she cried, “let’s go, sweetheart, I’m going to whip you.”

“I won’t let you!” the father cried, tearing
his son away.

The mother wouldn’t give in, Antosha was crying desperately and the parents were shoving each other.

“Help me,
Ardalyon Borisych,” Yuliya cried. “Hold this monster while I settle things with Antosha.”

Peredonov went to her aid. But Gudaevsky
tore his son free, pushed his wife away, leapt at Peredonov and cried:

“Stay out of it! When two dogs have a bone to pick,
a third one doesn’t try to butt in! I’ll fix you!”

Red, dishevelled, perspiring, he shook his fist in the air. Peredonov retreated,
muttering something indistinctly. Yuliya was running around her husband, trying to snatch Antosha away. The father hid him
behind his back, dragging him by the hand first to the right and then to the left. Yuliya’s eyes were flashing and she cried:

“He’s raising a brigand! He’ll get a prison term! He’ll end up doing penal servitude!”

“A plague on you for saying such things!”
Gudaevsky cried. “Shut up, you wicked fool!”

“Ah, you tyrant!” Yuliya screeched, leapt at her husband, struck him in the back
with her fist and dashed impetuously out of the sitting room. Gudaevsky clenched his fists and leapt at Peredonov.

“You came to stir things up!” he cried. “Antosha is playing pranks? You’re lying, he’s not playing any pranks. If he had been,
I would have known about it without you coming and I don’t wish to talk to you. You’re going around the town, deceiving fools,
whipping young boys. You want to get a diploma as a master of the whipping trade. Well, you’ve come to the wrong place. My
gracious sir, I request you to remove yourself!”

Saying that he leapt at Peredonov and forced him into a corner. Peredonov was frightened and was happy to flee, but Gudaevsky
hadn’t noticed, in the heat of his exasperation, that he was blocking off the exit. Antosha grabbed his father from behind
by his coattails and pulled him towards himself. The father angrily tried to hush him and kicked out at him. Antosha adroitly
jumped to the side, but wouldn’t release his father’s coat.

“Hush!” Gudaevsky shouted. “Antosha, mind yourself.”

“Papa,” Antosha cried, continuing to pull his father back. “You’re preventing Ardalyon Borisych from getting by.”

Gudaevsky quickly leapt back. Antosha barely had a chance to get out of the way.

“Excuse me,” Gudaevsky said and showed him the door. “Here’s the way out, I wouldn’t presume to detain you.”

Peredonov left the sitting room hastily. Gudaevsky cocked a snook with his long fingers and then he jerked his knee up in
the air as though he were kicking his guest out. Antosha started to giggle. Gudaevsky cried angrily at him:

“Antosha, mind yourself! Beware, tomorrow I’m going to the gymnasium and if it turns out to be true, I’ll hand you over to
your mother to be disciplined.”

“I didn’t play any pranks, he’s lying,” Antosha said in a plaintive and squeaking voice.

“Antosha, mind yourself!” the father cried, “You mustn’t say he’s lying, but that he’s mistaken. Only young people lie, whereas
adults are mistaken.”

Meanwhile, Peredonov had made his way into the semi-darkness of the entry way, somehow found his coat and started to put it
on. He couldn’t get his arms into the sleeves from fear and excitement. No one came to help him. Suddenly Yuliya came running
from somewhere out of a side door, rustling her fluttering ribbons, and she heatedly whispered something, waving her hands
and jumping up and down on her toes. Peredonov couldn’t understand right away.

“I’m so grateful to you,” he finally made out. “It was so noble on your part, so noble, such concern. Everyone is so indifferent,
but you understand the role of a poor mother. It’s so difficult to raise children, so difficult, you can’t imagine. I have
two and it Makes my head spin. My husband is a tyrant, he’s a terrible, terrible man, isn’t he? You saw for yourself.”

“Yes,” Peredonov muttered. “Your husband … how could he, he shouldn’t do that, I am concerned, whereas he …”

“Ah, don’t say it,” Yuliya whispered, “He’s a terrible man. He’ll drive me to my grave and be glad of it, and he’ll pervert
my children, my little
Antosha. But I am a mother, I won’t let him, I’ll give him a whipping in any case.”

“He won’t let you,” Peredonov said and nodded his head in the direction of the other rooms.

“When he goes off to the club.
He won’t take Antosha with him! He’ll go off and until then I’ll keep silent as though I agreed with him. But as soon as he
goes, I’ll give him a whipping and you’ll help me. You will help me, won’t you?”

Peredonov thought for a moment and then said:

“Fine, only how will I know?”

“I’ll send for you, I will,” Yuliya whispered joyfully. “You be waiting. As soon as he goes
off to the club, then I’ll send for you.”

In the evening Peredonov received a note from Gudaevskaya. He read:

“Most Esteemed
Ardalyon Borisych! My husband went off to the club and now I am free of his barbarity until one a.m. Be so kind as to come
as quickly as possible to render me assistance in dealing with my criminal son. I realize that he must be rid of his vices
while he’s still young, whereas afterwards it will be too late.

With sincere respect, Yuliya Gudaevskaya. P.S. Please come
quickly, otherwise Antosha will go to bed and he’ll have to be awakened.”

Peredonov dressed in haste, wrapped his neck up with his scarf and set out.

“Ardalyon Borisych, where are you off to for the night?” Varvara asked.

“On business,” Peredonov replied sullenly, hurrying off.

Varvara had the melancholy thought that once again she wouldn’t get much sleep. If only she could get him to marry her as
soon as possible! Then she could sleep day and night—now that would be bliss!

Out on the street Peredonov was overcome with
doubt. What if it were a trap? And suddenly it turns out that Gudaevsky is at home and they grab him and start to beat him?
Wasn’t it better to turn back?

“No, I have to go to their house and I’ll see how things are there.”

Night, quiet, cool and
dark, had set in from all sides and forced him to slow his steps. A fresh breeze was blowing from the distant fields. Gentle
rustling sounds and noises came from the grass along the fences and all around everything seemed suspicious and strange. Perhaps
someone was lurking behind him on his trail. All things were strangely and surprisingly concealed behind the darkness as though
a different nocturnal life, that was incomprehensible and hostile to man, had awakened in them. Peredonov walked softly along
the streets and muttered:

“You’re wasting your time following me. I’m not going to do anything bad. Brother, I’m only concerned
about the good of my work. Really.”

Finally he arrived at the dwelling of the Gudaevskys. There was only light to be seen
in one window facing the street, the other four were dark. Peredonov went up on the porch just as quietly as he could, stood
for a while, pressed his ear to the door and listened—everything was quiet. He
gently tugged the bronze handle of the bell. A weak reverberating sound echoed somewhere far off. But however weak it was,
it frightened Peredonov as though all the hostile forces ought to be awakened after the bell and hasten to these doors. Peredonov
quickly ran off the porch and cowered against the wall, hiding behind a column.

A few brief moments passed. Peredonov’s heart went faint and then started to pound heavily.

Light steps were heard, the sound of a door being opened—and Yuliya peered out on the street, her black passionate eyes flashing.

“Who’s there?” she asked in a loud whisper.

Peredonov moved slightly away from the wall and peering up into the narrow opening of the door where it was dark and quiet,
he asked in a whisper as well—and his voice was trembling:

“Has Nikolai Mikhailovich gone?”

“He’s gone, he’s gone,” Yuliya whispered joyfully and nodded.

Looking timidly around, Peredonpv followed her into the dark entry way.

“Excuse me,” Yuliya said. “I don’t have a light, otherwise someone might see and gossip.”

She proceeded Peredonov up the staircase and into a corridor where a small lamp hung, casting a murky light on the top steps.
Yuliya was laughing softly and joyfully and her ribbons were trembling convulsively from the laughter.

“He’s gone,” she whispered joyfully, looking around and giving Peredonov the once-over with her passionately burning eyes.
“I was almost afraid that he would stay at home today because he had put up such a fierce struggle. But he couldn’t get by
without playing cards. I sent the servant away. Only Liza’s nurse is left. We don’t want to be disturbed. You know the kind
of people there are today.”

Heat emanated from Yuliya and she was all hot and dry like a piece of kindling. At times she would grab Peredonov by the sleeve
and it was as though these quick dry touches made quick dry fires run up and down his entire body. As quietly as could be,
on tip-toe, they walked along the corridor past several closed doors and stopped by the last one—the door into the nursery
…
¹⁰

Peredonov left Yuliya at midnight when she was beginning to expect her husband to return soon. He walked along the dark streets,
sullen and gloomy. It seemed to him that someone was still standing near the house and was following him now. He muttered:

“I went on official business. I’m not guilty. She wanted to do it herself. You won’t pull one on me, you’ve got the wrong
person.”

Varvara still wasn’t asleep when he returned. The cards were spread out in front of her.

It seemed to Peredonov that someone might have snuck in when he entered. Perhaps Varvara herself had let the enemy in. Peredonov
said:

“I want to go to bed and you’re casting spells conjuring with your cards. Give me the cards here, otherwise you’ll be casting
a spell on me.”

He took the cards away and hid them under his pillow. Varvara smirked and said:

“You and your tomfoolery.
I don’t know how to cast spells. As though I needed it.”

It annoyed him and frightened him that she was smirking: he thought
it meant that she could do it without cards. Then the cat squeezed under the bed and flashed its green eyes—one could cast
spells on its fur by rubbing it the wrong way to make sparks leap up. And there was the gray
nedotykomka
flitting under the commode again—maybe it was Varvara summoning it at nights with a soft whistle resembling a snore? Peredonov
had a foul and terrible dream.