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

village they kick with their feet. And even then it is not people but, if I may say so, ponies.”

“You’ll butt me yet,” growled Peredonov.

Volodin was offended and said in a trembling voice:

“I haven’t grown any horns yet, Ardalyon Borisitch, but it’s very likely you’ll grow them before I do.”

“You’ve got a long tongue that babbles nonsense,” said Peredonov angrily.

“If that’s your idea of me, Ardalyon Borisitch,” said Volodin quickly, “then I’ll be silent.”

And his face bore an injured expression and his lips protruded; nevertheless he walked at Peredonov’s side; he had not yet dined and he counted on having dinner with Peredonov: luckily they had invited him that morning.

An important piece of news awaited Peredonov at home. While still in the hall it was easy to guess that something unusual had happened⁠—a bustling could be heard in the rooms mingled with frightful exclamations. Peredonov at once thought that the dinner was not ready, and that when they saw him coming they had been frightened and were now hurrying. It was pleasant to him to know that they were afraid of him! But it turned out to be quite another matter. Varvara ran out into the hall and shouted:

“The cat’s been sent back!”

In her excitement she did not notice Volodin at first. As usual, her dress was untidy⁠—a greasy blouse over a grey dirty skirt and worn-out house slippers. Her hair was uncombed and tousled. She said to Peredonov excitedly:

“It’s Irishka again! She’s played us a new trick out of spite. She sent a boy here again to throw the cat in here⁠—and the cat has rattles on its tail and they keep on rattling. The cat has got under the sofa and won’t come out.”

Peredonov felt terribly alarmed.

“What’s to be done now?” he asked.

“Pavel Vassilyevitch,” said Varvara, “you’re younger, fetch the cat out from under the sofa.”

“We’ll fetch him out, we’ll fetch him out,” said Volodin with a snigger, and went into the parlour.

Somehow they managed to drag out the cat from under the sofa and took the rattles off his tail. Peredonov found some thistle heads and began to stick them into the cat’s fur. The cat spat violently and ran into the kitchen. Peredonov, tired of his messing about with the cat, sat down in his usual position⁠—his elbows on the arms of the chair, his fingers interlaced, his legs crossed, his face motionless and morose.

Peredonov kept the Princess’s second letter more zealously than the first: he always carried it about with him in his wallet and showed it to everyone, looking mysterious as he did so. He looked vigilantly to see that no one took the letter away from him. He did not give it into anyone’s hands, and after each showing he put it away in his wallet, which he put into the side-pocket of his frock-coat, buttoned up his coat and looked gravely and significantly at his companions.

“Why do you hide it away like that?” Routilov once asked him laughingly.

“As a precaution,” said Peredonov morosely, “who can tell? You might take it from me.”

“It’d be a case for Siberia,” said Routilov with a contemptuous laugh, slapping Peredonov on the back.

But Peredonov preserved an imperturbable dignity. In general he had lately been assuming an air of greater importance. He often boasted:

“I’ll be an inspector. You will go sour here, but I shall have two districts to begin with. And then perhaps three, Oh⁠—ho⁠—ho!”

He was quite convinced that he would receive his inspector’s position very soon. More than once he said to the schoolmaster, Falastov:

“I’ll get you too out of here, old chap.”

And the schoolmaster, Falastov, was more respectful in his bearing to Peredonov.

XXII

Peredonov began to attend church frequently. He always stood in a conspicuous place. At one time he crossed himself more often than was necessary, at another he stood like a person in a trance and looked stupidly before him. It seemed to him that spies were hiding behind the columns, and were peeping out from there, trying to make him laugh. But he did not yield. Laughter, the quiet, faint laughter, the giggling and the whispering of the Routilov girls, sounded in Peredonov’s ears, and grew at times to an extraordinary pitch⁠—as if the cunning girls were laughing straight into his ears, to make him laugh and to disgrace him. But Peredonov did not yield.

At times a smoke-like, bluish nedotikomka appeared among the clouds of incense smoke; its eyes gleamed like little fires; with a slight rustle it lifted itself into the air, though not for long, but for the most part it rolled itself at the feet of members of the congregation, it jeered at Peredonov and tormented him obtrusively. Of course, it wanted to frighten him so that he would leave the church before Mass was over. But he understood its cunning design⁠—and he did not yield.

The church service⁠—so dear to many people not in its words and ceremonies but in its innermost appeal⁠—was incomprehensible to Peredonov. That is why it frightened him. The swinging of the censers frightened him as if it had been a mysterious incantation.

“What’s he swinging it so hard for?” he thought.

The vestments of those serving the Mass seemed to him coarse, varicoloured rags⁠—and when he looked at the array of priests he felt malignant, and he wanted to tear the vestments and break the sacred vessels. The church ceremonies and mysteries seemed to him an evil witchcraft, intended to subject the common people.

“He’s crumbled the wafer into the communion cup,” he thought angrily of the priest. “It’s cheap wine. They deceive the people to get more money for their church celebrations.”

The mystery of the eternal transformation of inert matter into a force breaking the fetters of death was forever hidden from him. A walking corpse! The absurd mingling of unbelief in a living God and His Messiah, with his absurd belief in sorcery!

The people were leaving the church. The village schoolmaster, Machigin, a simple young man, was standing near the