The Little Demon by Fyodor Sologub (reading e books .TXT) 📕

And he scurried hastily towards the cart. Vershina looked after him, still smoking, with her wry smile, and said quietly to Peredonov:

“They’re all afraid of their father. He’s very stern with them.”

Marta flushed.

Vladya wanted to take with him to the village his new English fishing-rod, bought with his saved-up money. And he wanted to take something else. But this would have occupied room in the cart and so Vladya carried all his goods back into the house.

The weather was moderate, the sun was beginning to decline. The road, wet with the morning rain, was free of dust. The cart rolled evenly over the fine stones, carrying its four passengers from the town; the well-fed grey cob trotted along as if their weight were nothing, and the lazy, taciturn driver, Ignaty, drove the cob on a light rein.

Peredonov was seated beside Marta. They had made him a wide seat, so that Marta’s was very uncomfortable. But he did not notice this. And even if he had noticed it, he would have thought it quite proper, since he was the guest.

Peredonov felt on very good terms with himself. He decided to talk very amiably to Marta, to joke with her and to entertain her. This is how he began:

“Well, are you going to rebel soon?”

“Why rebel?” asked Marta.

“You Poles are always getting ready to rebel⁠—but it’s useless.”

“I’m not thinking about it at all,” said Marta, “and there’s no one among us who wants to rebel.”

“Oh, you only say that⁠—you really hate the Russians.”

“We haven’t any such idea,” said Vladya, turning to Peredonov from the front seat.

“Yes, we know what sort of an idea you have about it,” answered Peredonov. “But we’re not going to give Poland back to you. We have conquered you. We have conferred many benefits on you and yet it’s true that however well you feed a wolf he always looks towards the wood.”

Marta said nothing.

After a short silence Peredonov said abruptly:

“The Poles have no brains.”

Marta flushed.

“There are all kinds of people among both Russians and Poles,” she said.

“No, what I say is true,” persisted Peredonov, “the Poles are stupid. They only submit to force. Take the Jews⁠—they’re clever.”

“The Jews are cheats⁠—they’re not clever at all,” said Vladya.

“No, the Jews are a very clever people. The Jew always gets the best of a Russian, but a Russian never gets the best of a Jew.”

“It isn’t a great thing to get the best of other people,” said Vladya. “Is mind only to be used for cheating?”

Peredonov looked angrily at Vladya.

“The mind is for learning, and you don’t learn,” he said.

Vladya sighed and turned away and began to watch the cob’s even trotting. But Peredonov continued:

“The Jews are clever in everything. Clever in learning and in everything. If the Jews were allowed to become professors, all professors would be Jews. But the Polish women are all sluts.”

He looked at Marta and noted with satisfaction that she blushed violently. He became amiable:

“Now, don’t think that I’m talking about you. I know that you would be a good housekeeper.”

“All Polish women are good housekeepers,” replied Marta.

“Well, yes,” said Peredonov, “they’re good housekeepers. They’re clean on top, but their petticoats are dirty. But then you had Mickiewicz.13 He’s better than our Pushkin. He hangs on my wall⁠—Pushkin used to hang there, but I took him down and hung him in the privy. He was a lackey.”

“But you’re a Russian,” said Vladya. “What’s our Mickiewicz to you? Pushkin’s a good poet and Mickiewicz’s a good poet.”

“Mickiewicz is better,” asseverated Peredonov. “The Russians are fools. They’ve invented only the samovar⁠—nothing else.”

Peredonov looked at Marta, screwed up one eye and said:

“You’ve got a lot of freckles. That’s not pretty.”

“What can one do?” asked Marta, smiling.

“I’ve got freckles too,” said Vladya, turning round on his narrow seat and brushing against the silent Ignaty.

“You’re a boy,” said Peredonov, “and so it doesn’t matter. A man needn’t be handsome; but it doesn’t become a girl,” he went on, turning to Marta. “No one will want to marry you. You ought to bathe your face in cucumber-brine.”

Marta thanked him for his advice.

Vladya looked smilingly at Peredonov.

“What are you grinning at?” said Peredonov. “Just wait till we’re there⁠—then you’ll get what’s waiting for you.”

Vladya, shifting in his seat, looked attentively at Peredonov and tried to find out if he were joking or speaking seriously. But Peredonov could not bear to have anyone stare at him.

“What are you eyeing me for?” he asked harshly. “There are no patterns on me. Are you trying to cast a spell on me?”

Vladya was frightened and turned away his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he added timidly, “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“And do you believe in the evil eye?” asked Marta.

“Of course the evil eye is a superstition,” said Peredonov angrily. “But it’s so awfully rude to stare at people.”

There was an awkward silence for the next few minutes.

“You’re very poor, aren’t you?” said Peredonov suddenly.

“Well, we’re not rich,” said Marta, “but still we’re not so poor. Each one of us has a little something put aside.”

Peredonov looked at her incredulously and said:

“I’m sure you’re poor. You go barefoot at home every day.”

“We don’t do it from poverty,” exclaimed Vladya.

“What then? From wealth?” asked Peredonov, and burst into a laugh.

“Not at all from poverty,” said Vladya flushing. “It’s very good for the health. It hardens one, and it’s very pleasant in summer.”

“You’re lying,” said Peredonov coarsely, “rich people don’t go barefoot. Your father has a lot of children and hasn’t got tuppence to keep them on. You can’t afford to buy so many boots.”

Varvara had no knowledge of Peredonov’s trip. She passed an extremely distressing night.

When Peredonov returned to town in the morning he did not go home, but asked to be driven to church⁠—it was time for Mass. It seemed dangerous to him now not to go to church often⁠—they might inform against him if he did not.

At the church gate he met a pleasant-looking