The Petty Demon (33 page)

Time was required for measuring the costume, but Sasha could only drop by for short periods and then not every day. Still,
the time was found. Sasha would run off at night through the window after Kokovkina was already asleep. It worked out happily.

Varvara was also getting ready for the masquerade. She bought a mask with a stupid face and there was no problem with the
costume—she got dressed up as a cook. She hung a ladle from her belt, put a black bonnet on her head, bared her arms to above
the elbows and rouged them heavily—a cook straight from the hearth—and thus, her costume was ready. If she won the prize,
fine; if not, she didn’t need it.

Grushina came up with the idea of dressing as Diana. Varvara laughed and asked:

“Really, are you going to put a collar on?”

“What do I need a collar for?” Grushina asked in amazement.

“Sure,” Varvara explained. “You thought of dressing yourself up like the dog Dianka.”

“Well, that’s a good one!” Grushina replied with a laugh. “Not Dianka, but the goddess Diana.”

Varvara and Grushina got dressed for the masquerade together at Grushina’s place. Grushina’s costume turned out to be extremely
flimsy: naked arms and shoulders, a naked back, naked chest, feet in light slippers without any stockings and naked to the
knees, and a light dress out of white linen with a red border and her body naked underneath. It was a short dress but at the
same time wide and with a multitude of pleats. Varvara said with a smirk:

“A bit bare.”

Grushina replied with an insolent wink:

“On the other hand all the men will be especially attracted to me.”

“But why so many pleats?” Varvara asked.

“So I can stuff them with sweets for my little devils,” Grushina explained.

It was attractive to see everything left so courageously bare on Grushina—but what contradictions. There were flea bites on
her skin, her movements were vulgar, her words unbearably uncouth. Once more physical beauty had been profaned.

Peredonov thought that the masquerade had been planned on purpose in order to trap him in something. Nevertheless he went,
not in costume, but in his jacket. In order to see for himself what plots were being hatched.

Sasha was amused for several days by the thought of the masquerade. But then doubts began to assail him. How would he find
the time to sneak
out of the house? And particularly now after all those problems? The trouble was that he would be expelled if they found out
at the gymnasium.

Not long ago the class prefect—a young person who was so liberal that he couldn’t simply call his cat Vaska, but said “Vasily
the cat”—had made a significant remark to Sasha as he passed out the grades:

“Be careful, Pylnikov, you have to pay attention to your work.”

“But I don’t have any two’s,” Sasha said carefreely.

But his spirits sank—what else was he about to say? No, nothing, he was silent. He just gave Sasha a stern look.

On the day of the masquerade it seemed to Sasha that he couldn’t make up his mind to go. He was frightened. The only problem
was that his costume had been finished at the Rutilovs—how could he fail them? Would all those dreams and the labor be in
vain? And Lyudmilochka would cry. No, he had to go.

It was only the habit of being secretive that he had acquired during the past weeks that enabled Sasha to hide his agitation
from Kokovkina. Fortunately, the old woman usually went to bed early. Sasha, too, went to bed early. In order to divert attention
he undressed, laid his outer clothing on a chair by the door and put his shoes outside the door.

All that remained was to get away and that was the most difficult part. The path had already been mentioned earlier—through
the window—as he had done earlier for the fittings. Sasha put on a light-colored summer blouse (it was hanging in the wardrobe
in his room), light house slippers and carefully crawled out the window onto the street after biding his time for when there
was no sound of any voices or steps in the proximity. There was a fine drizzle, it was muddy, cold and dark. But he kept thinking
that he would be recognized. He took off his cap, slippers, threw them back into his room, rolled up his trousers and skipped
barefoot along the rickety boardwalk that was slippery from the rain. In that darkness a face was poorly visible, particularly
that of a person who was running, and whoever met him would take him for an ordinary boy who had been sent to the shop.

Valeriya and Lyudmila had sewn intricate but colorful costumes for themselves: Lyudmila was dressing up as a gypsy, and Valeriya
as a Spaniard. Lyudmila had on brilliant red rags of silk and velvet, whereas Valeriya, delicate and fragile, was wearing
black silk and lace, and carried a black lace fan in her hand. Darya hadn’t sewn herself a new costume—she still had her Turkish
costume from the year before and she put it on, saying determinedly:

“It’s not worth trying to make something up!”

When Sasha arrived, all three sisters started to put his costume on. Sasha was disturbed most of all by the wig.

“But what if it falls off?” he kept repeating fearfully.

Finally they fastened the wig on with ribbons tied under his chin.

T
HE MASQUERADE WAS
being held in the town hall, a two-storied, stone building resembling an army barracks, painted a brilliant red color, located
in the market square. Gromov-Chistopolsky, an entrepreneur and actor in the local town theatre, was organizing it.

Glass lamps were burning at the entrance which was covered over with a canvas curtain. Out on the street a crowd was greeting
the arrivals at the masquerade with critical remarks that for the most part expressed disapproval. This was mainly because
the costumes were almost invisible beneath the outerwear on the street and the crowd was judging primarily on intuition. Policemen
were keeping order on the street with sufficient diligence, while the chief of police and the district superintendent of police
were inside the hall in the capacity of guests.

Upon entering, every visitor received two tickets: a pink one for the best female costume; the other one green, for the best
male costume. They were to be given to the most worthy participants. Some people inquired:

“Can people keep them for themselves?”

At first the cashier asked in puzzlement:

“Why for themselves?”

“If, in my opinion, my costume is the very best,” the guest replied.

Afterwards the cashier was no longer surprised by such questions and said with a sarcastic smile (he was a young man who liked
to make fun):

“As you wish. Keep the two of them if you like.”

It was rather filthy in the rooms and right from the beginning a significant portion of the crowd seemed to be drunk. Crooked
chandeliers were burning in the cramped rooms with sooty walls and ceilings. The chandeliers seemed enormous, heavy and consumed
a great deal of air. The discolored curtains by the doors looked as though they would be repulsive to the touch. Crowds gathered
first in one spot, then another. Sounds of laughter and exclamations could be heard—these came from the people who were following
the costumed guests attracting the general interest.

The notary, Gudaevsky, was depicting an American savage: rooster feathers in his hair, a copper-red mask with grotesque green
designs, a leather jacket, a checked plaid over his shoulder and high leather boots with green
tassels. He was waving his arms, leaping up and down, and walking with a gymnastic step, energetically pumping his bent, naked
knee out in front of himself. His wife was dressed as a wheat sheaf. She had on a gaudy dress of green and yellow rags; sheaves
of wheat that had been stuck in everywhere projected out in all directions. They brushed against everyone and pricked them.
People tugged and plucked at her. She was cursing spitefully:

“I’ll scratch you!” she shrieked.

People laughed all around. Someone asked:

“Where did she collect so many wheat sheaves?”

“She saved them up from summer,” came the reply. “She used to go out into the fields every day to steal them.”

Several officials without moustaches, who were in love with Gudaevskaya, and therefore informed by her beforehand as to what
she would be wearing, accompanied her. They were collecting tickets for her—practically by force and rudeness. They simply
took them away from some people who were not particularly brave.

There were other costumed ladies as well who were zealously collecting tickets through their admirers. Some gazed hungrily
at tickets that hadn’t been given away yet and asked for them. They were greeted with insolent remarks.

One despondent lady, dressed up as night—a blue costume with a glass star and a paper moon on her forehead—said timidly to
Murin:

“Give me your ticket.”

Murin’s response was rude:

“Are you kidding? Give my ticket to you! Beat it!”

Night grumbled something angrily and went away. She only wanted to show two or three tickets at home so that she could say
she won them here. Modest dreams can be in vain.

The schoolteacher, Skobochkina, was dressed up as a bear, that is, she had simply thrown a bearskin over her shoulders and
put the bear’s head on her own like a helmet above the customary demi-mask. In general it was grotesque, but nevertheless
it suited her solid build and stentorian voice. The bear walked around with heavy steps and roared through the entire hall
so that the flames in the chandeliers fluttered. Many people liked the bear. She received a fair number of tickets. But she
didn’t know how to hang on to them herself and she didn’t have any shrewd partner like the others. More than half he tickets
were stolen from her when the shop owners bought her drinks. They sympathized with the ability she displayed for depicting
the movements of a bear. People in the crowd would cry:

“Take a look here, the bear is belting back vodka!”

Skobochkina couldn’t bring herself to refuse the vodka. It seemed to her that a bear ought to drink vodka once it was offered.

One person, dressed as an ancient German, stood out because of his size and full limbs. A lot of people liked the fact that
he was so hefty and that his arms were visible—powerful arms with excellently developed muscles. For the most part, women
were following him around and he was surrounded by an affectionate and laudatory whispering. People recognized the actor
Bengalsky in the ancient German. Bengalsky was very popular in our town. For that reason many people gave him their tickets.

The reasoning of many went as follows:

“If I can’t get the prize then better an actor (or actress) get it. Otherwise, if one of our people wins it, then we’ll be
tortured with the boasting.”

Grushina’s costume also enjoyed success—a scandalous success. Men followed her around in a dense crowd, roared with laughter,
made immodest remarks. The ladies turned their heads away with indignation. Finally, the chief of police went up to Grushina
and, licking his lips sweetly, declared:

“Madame, you must cover yourself up.”

“What do you mean? You can’t see anything indecent on me,” Grushina replied pertly.

“Madame, the ladies are offended,” Minchukov said.

“To hell with your ladies!” Grushina cried.

“I’m afraid not, Madame,” Minchukov requested. “You must take pains to at least cover your breast and back with a handkerchief.”

“And what if I’ve blown my nose in it?” Grushina protested with an insolent laugh.

But Minchukov was insistent:

“As you wish, Madame, only if you don’t cover yourself, we will be obliged to make you leave.”

Cursing and spitting, Grushina went off into the toilet and there, with the help of a maid, fixed the pleats of her dress
over her breast and back. Returning to the hall, she continued with the same zeal to look for admirers, although now displaying
a more modest appearance. She flirted rudely with all the men. Afterwards, when their attention was drawn off in another direction,
she went off to the buffet to steal sweets. She soon returned to the hall, showed Volodin a pair of peaches, and said with
an insolent smirk:

“I worked for them myself.”

And she immediately hid the peaches in the pleats of her costume. Volodin happily bared his teeth.

“Well!” he said. “I’ll go too, if that’s how it is.”

Soon Grushina had gotten tipsy and was acting recklessly—she was shouting, waving her arms and spitting.

“A cheerful lady, that Dianka!” people said of her.

This was the kind of masquerade to which those extravagant girls had dragged the frivolous student from the gymnasium. Climbing
into two cabs, the three sisters set out rather late with Sasha. They were late because of him. Their arrival at the hall
was noted. A lot of people liked the geisha girl in particular. A rumor had it that Kashtanova, an actress and a favorite
of the male contingent of the present public, was dressed up as the geisha girl. Therefore, Sasha was given many tickets.
But Kashtanova wasn’t even at the masquerade. Her small son had fallen seriously ill the eve before.

Sasha, intoxicated with his new situation, became the complete coquette. The more tickets that were thrust into the geisha’s
hand, the more cheerfully and provocatively glittered the eyes through the narrow slits in the mask of the coquettish Japanese.
The geisha would curtsey, raise her delicate little fingers, titter in a suppressed voice, wave her fan, tap one man or the
other on the shoulder and then hide behind her fan. Every minute she was opening and closing her pink umbrella. They might
not have been clever devices, but in any event they were sufficient for seducing all those who were devotees of the actress
Kashtanova.

“For the lady I have voted to whom I am devoted,” Tishkov said, and handed over his ticket to the geisha with a youthful bow.

He had already drunk a great deal and was flushed. His passive, smiling face and his torpid body made him resemble a doll.
And he was still making his rhymes.

Valeriya watched Sasha’s success and felt an annoying jealousy. Now she wanted people to recognize her so that the crowd would
like her costume and her slender, shapely figure, and she would be given the prize. But she immediately recalled with annoyance
that it was not in the least possible: all three sisters had agreed to get tickets just for the geisha. Any that they received
would still be handed over to their Japanese girl.

People were dancing in the hall. Volodin, who had quickly become intoxicated, started to do Russian dances. The police stopped
him. He said in a cheerfully obediant voice:

“Well, if it’s not allowed, then I won’t do it.”

But two landowners, who, following his example, had started to stamp out a
trepak
folk dance, didn’t want to comply.

“What right have you got? We paid our fifty kopecks!” they exclaimed and were ushered out.

Volodin accompanied them, pulling faces, grinning and dancing.

The Rutilov girls hurried to search out Peredonov so that they could make fun of him. He was sitting alone, by a window, and
looking at the crowd with aimless eyes. All people and objects appeared senseless to him, but hostile at the same time. Lyudmila,
as the gypsy, went up to him and said in an altered husky voice:

“My dear
barin
, let me tell your fortune.”

“Go to hell!” Peredonov cried.

The gypsy’s sudden appearance had frightened him.

“My
barin
, so fine, so golden, o,
barin
mine, give me your hand. I see from your face that you will be rich, you will be a big official,” Lyudmila kept pestering
him and took Peredonov’s hand anyway.

“Well, just mind that you tell my fortune well,” Peredonov grumbled.

“Ai,
barin
, my precious
barin,”
Lyudmila predicted his fortune, “you have many enemies, they will denounce you, you’ll weep and die under a fence.”

“Ach, you bitch!” Peredonov cried and tore his hand away.

Lyudmila darted nimbly into the crowd. Valeriya came to replace her, sat down beside Peredonov and softly whispered to him:

I’m a girl who’s young and Spanish,

Men like you I adore.

Skinny wives like yours I’d banish,

You can’t hope, dear sir, for more.

“You’re lying, you fool!” Peredonov grumbled. Valeriya whispered:

Sweeter than the night my kisses,

Hotter than the day my embrace.

Lay your eyes upon your missus

Spit right in her stupid face.

Your Varvara made you marry,

You are handsome, Ardalyón.

As a pair you look contrary,

You are wise as Solomón.

“You’re right in what you say,” Peredonov said. “Only how am I going to spit in her face? She’d complain to the Princess and
I wouldn’t get the post.”

“What do you need a post for? You’re nice even without a post,” Valeriya said.

“Sure, but how am I supposed to live if I’m not given a post,” Peredonov said despondently.

Darya slipped a letter sealed in a pink envelope into Volodin’s hand. Volodin unsealed it with a joyful bleating, read it
through, became pensive—then suddenly grew proud. But then was seemingly dismayed. The note was brief and clear:

“My dearest, come to a rendez-vous with me tomorrow at eleven o’clock in the evening at Soldier’s Bath. Your completely unknown
Zh.”

Volodin believed the letter. But this was the question: was it worthwhile going? And who was this “Zh.”? Some Zhenya or other?
Or did the surname begin with the letter Zh.?

Volodin showed the letter to Rutilov.

“Go, by all means, go!” Rutilov incited him. “See what comes of it. Perhaps it’s a rich bride who’s fallen in love with you,
but her parents are standing in the way, so she wants to declare herself to you like this.”

But Volodin thought and thought, and then decided that it wasn’t worth going. He said gravely:

“They’re all running after me, but I don’t want such depraved ones.”

He was afraid that he would get beaten up there: Soldier’s Bath was situated in a desolate area on the outskirts of the town.

By now a dense, raucous and exaggeratedly cheerful crowd was crammed into all the rooms of the club, while in the main hall,
by the entrance, one could hear a din, laughter and exclamations of approval.

Everyone pressed in that direction. It was passed on from one to another that a terribly original costume had arrived. It
was a skinny, tall person in a patched, soiled robe, with a besom under his arm, a wash basin in his hand, and he was picking
his way through the crowd. He was wearing a cardboard mask—a stupid face with a narrow little beard and side-whiskers—and
a cap with a round civil cockade on it. He kept repeating in a surprised voice:

“I was told there was a masquerade here, but no one’s washing themselves here.
^*

And he waved his wash basin despondently. The crowd followed him, oohing and aahing, and naively ecstatic over his complicated
improvisation.

“He’ll get the prize, I expect,” Volodin said enviously.

He was envious, like many of the people, even though he himself wasn’t even in costume. So what did he have to be envious
of? And here was Machigin. He was extraordinarily ecstatic. The cockade had particularly delighted him. He laughed happily,
clapped his hands and said to acquaintances and strangers alike: