The Little Demon - Fyodor Sologub (reading the story of the TXT) 📗

to have nothing but worries.”

Volodin’s face once more assumed a comprehending and sympathetic expression.

On the way Peredonov pulled off some thistle-heads and put them in his pocket.

“What do you want those thistle-heads for?” asked Volodin with a grin.

“For the cat,” answered Peredonov gruffly.

“Are you going to stick them in its fur?” asked Volodin.

“Yes.”

Volodin sniggered.

“Don’t begin without me,” he cried.

Peredonov asked him to come in at once, but Volodin declared that he had an appointment: he suddenly felt that it wasn’t the right thing not to have appointments; Peredonov’s words about his affairs had inspired him with the idea that it would be well for him to visit the Adamenko girl on his own, and to tell her that he had some new, splendid drawings which needed framing⁠—perhaps she would like to look at them. “In any case,” thought Volodin, “Nadezhda Vassilyevna will ask me to have a cup of coffee.”

And so that was what Volodin did. He suddenly invented another scheme: he proposed to Nadezhda Vassilyevna that her brother should take up carpentry. Nadezhda Vassilyevna imagined that Volodin was in need of money, and she immediately consented. They agreed to work for two hours three times a week, for which Volodin was to get thirty roubles a month. Volodin was in raptures⁠—here was some cash and the possibility of frequent meetings with Nadezhda Vassilyevna.

Peredonov returned home gloomy as usual. Varvara, pale from her sleepless night, grumbled:

“You might have told me yesterday that you weren’t coming home.”

Peredonov provoked her by saying maliciously that he had been on a trip with Marta. Varvara was silent. She held the Princess’s letter in her hand. It was a forged letter, but still⁠—.

She said to him at luncheon, with a meaning smile:

“While you were gadding about with Marfushka, I received an answer from the Princess.”

“I didn’t know you wrote to her.” Peredonov’s face lighted up with a gleam of dull expectation.

“Well, that’s good! Didn’t you yourself tell me to write?”

“Well, what did she say?” asked Peredonov with some agitation.

“Here’s the letter⁠—read it for yourself.”

Varvara fumbled for a long time in her pockets and finally found the letter and gave it to Peredonov. He stopped eating and grabbed the letter eagerly. He read it and was overjoyed. Here at last was a clear and definite promise. At the moment no doubts entered his mind. He quickly finished his luncheon and went out to show the letter to his acquaintances and friends.

With a grim animation he entered Vershina’s garden. Vershina, as nearly always, was standing at the gate smoking. She was very pleased: formerly, she had to lure him in, now he came in himself. Vershina thought:

“That comes of his going on a trip with Marta; he spent some time with her and now he’s come again. I wonder if he means to propose to her?”

Peredonov disillusioned her immediately by showing her the letter.

“You kept disbelieving it,” he said, “and here the Princess has written. Read that and see for yourself.”

Vershina looked incredulously at the letter, quickly blew tobacco smoke on it several times running, made a wry smile and asked quietly and quickly:

“But where’s the envelope?”

Peredonov suddenly felt alarmed. He suspected that Varvara was trying to deceive him and had written the letter herself. He must get the envelope from her at once.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I must ask.”

He said goodbye to Vershina and went quickly back to his own house. It was absolutely necessary for him to assure himself as soon as possible of the source of the letter⁠—the sudden doubt tormented him. Vershina, standing at the gate, looked after him with her wry smile, rapidly puffing out cigarette smoke, as if she were trying to finish the cigarette like a tiresome lesson.

Peredonov came running home with a frightened and tormented face, and while yet in the passage he shouted in a voice hoarse with agitation:

“Varvara! Where’s the envelope?”

“What envelope?” asked Varvara in a trembling voice.

She looked at Peredonov insolently and would have flushed had she not been already rouged.

“The envelope, from the Princess, of the letter you gave me today,” explained Peredonov, with a look half-frightened, half-malignant.

Varvara gave a forced laugh.

“I burnt it. What good was it to me?” she said. “Why should I keep it? I’m not making a collection of envelopes. You can’t get any money for envelopes. You can only get money for empty bottles at a pub.”

Peredonov walked gloomily about the rooms and growled:

“There are all sorts of Princesses⁠—we know that. Perhaps this Princess lives here.”

Varvara pretended not to understand his suspicions, but yet trembled violently.

When, towards evening, Peredonov strolled past Vershina’s cottage, she stopped him.

“Have you found the envelope?” she asked.

“Vara tells me she burnt it.”

Vershina laughed, and the white, thin clouds of tobacco smoke wavered before her in the quiet, cool air.

“It’s strange,” she said, “that your cousin is so careless. Here’s an important letter⁠—and no envelope! You might have been able to tell from the postmark when it was sent and where from.”

Peredonov was extremely irritated. In vain Vershina invited him into the garden; in vain she promised to look in the cards for him⁠—Peredonov left.

Nevertheless, he showed the letter to his friends and boasted. And his friends believed him.

But Peredonov did not know whether to believe or not. At all events, he decided to begin on Tuesday his round of visits to important personages in the town to strengthen his position. He decided not to begin on Monday, as it was an unlucky day.

VIII

As soon as Peredonov left to play billiards Varvara went off to see Grushina. They argued for a long time, and at last decided to mend the matter with another letter. Varvara knew that Grushina had friends in Peterburg. With their assistance it would be easy to get the letter posted in Peterburg.

Just as on the first occasion, Grushina for a long time pretended to have scruples.

“Oh, Varvara Dmitrievna darling!” she said. “Even the first letter makes me tremble. I’m always afraid. Whenever I see a