The Little Demon

inkwell shaped like a horseshoe; and an ashpan that resembled a peasant’s shoe. Several corn measures containing samples of corn were lying about in the parlour⁠—on the windowsills, on the tables, on the floor, while here and there were pieces of “hungry” bread 19⁠—dirty lumps that resembled peat. In the drawing-room were designs and models of agricultural machines. Several cases of books on rural economy and school matters encumbered the study. The table was covered with papers, printed forms, pasteboard boxes containing cards of various sizes. There was much dust, and not a single picture.
The master of the house, Ivan Stepanovitch Kirillov, was very anxious, on the one hand, to be amiable⁠—in the European fashion⁠—on the other not to detract from his own dignity as a district landowner. He was a strange contradiction, as if welded from two halves. It was evident from all his surroundings that he did a great deal of work with intelligence. But to look at him you might imagine that his work in the district was only a temporary distraction and that his real cares were somewhere before him. This was evident in his eyes, which now and then stared into the distance⁠—eyes alert yet inanimate in their tinny gleam. It was as if someone had taken out his live soul and put it into a long box, and had replaced it with a skilful, bustling machine.
He was of low stature, thin, youngish⁠—so youngish and ruddy that now and then he looked like a boy who had glued on a false beard and had assumed grownup manners with complete success. His movements were quick but precise; when he greeted anyone he bowed elaborately, and he seemed to glide on the soles of his fancy boots. One’s impulse was to call his clothes a “small costume”: he wore a grey jacket, a shirt of unstarched batiste with turned-down collar, a blue cord tie, narrow trousers and grey socks. And his always courteous conversation was also ambiguous: he would speak quite gravely and then suddenly an ingenuous smile, like a child’s, would appear, and then next moment he would be grave again.
His wife, a quiet, sedate woman, who seemed older than her husband, came into the study a number of times while Peredonov was there, and each time she asked her husband for some detailed information about the affairs of the district.
Their household in town was always confused⁠—there were always visitors on business and constant teas. Hardly had Peredonov seated himself when they brought him a glass of lukewarm tea and some rolls on a plate.
Before Peredonov arrived there was already a visitor there. Peredonov knew him⁠—but then who is not known to everyone in our town? Everyone knows everyone else, but some have quarrelled and broken off the acquaintance.
This was the District physician, Georgiy Semenovitch Trepetov, a little man⁠—even smaller than Kirillov⁠—with a pimply, insignificant, sharp-featured face. He wore blue spectacles, and he always looked under or to the side of them, as if it were an effort to look at his companion. He was unusually upright, and never gave a single kopeck for anyone else’s benefit. He detested deeply everyone who was a government official: he would go so far as to shake hands at meeting but stubbornly refrained from conversation. For this he was reputed a shining light⁠—like Kirillov⁠—although he knew very little and was a poor physician. He was all the time getting ready to lead the simple life, and with this intention he looked on at the muzhiks when they blew their noses and scratched the back of their heads and wiped their mouths with the back of their hands; when he was alone he sometimes imitated them, but he always put off his simplification till next summer.
Peredonov here also repeated his usual complaints against the town gossip, such as he had made during the last few days, and against the envious people who wanted to hinder his obtaining an inspector’s position. At the beginning Kirillov felt rather flattered by this attention. He exclaimed:
“Now you can see what goes on in provincial towns. I always said that the one deliverance for thinking people is to join hands⁠—and I’m glad that you’ve come to the same conclusion.”
Trepetov snorted angrily, as if affronted. Kirillov looked at him timorously. Trepetov said with contempt:
“Thinking people!” and then he snorted again.
After a short silence he began again in his thin, indignant voice:
“I don’t know how thinking people can serve a musty classicism.”
Kirillov said irresolutely:
“But, Georgiy Semenovitch, you never realise that a man does not always choose his own profession.”
Trepetov snorted contemptuously, which finally settled the amiable Kirillov, and became immersed in a deep silence.
Kirillov turned to Peredonov when he heard that he was talking of an inspector’s position. Kirillov looked worried. He imagined that Peredonov wanted to be an inspector in our district.
In the District Council there had matured a project to establish the position of their Inspector of schools, who was to be chosen by the Council, the appointment to be approved by the Educational Commission.
Then, the Inspector Bogdanov, who had charge of the schools of three districts, would be transferred to one of the neighbouring towns, and the schools of our district would be turned over to the new Inspector. For this position the members of the Council had in view an instructor in a pedagogical seminary in the neighbouring town, Safata.
“I have patrons,” said Peredonov, “but I’m afraid that the Headmaster here will harm my chances⁠—yes, and other people too. All sorts of nonsense is being spread about me. So that in case of any inquiries concerning me, I want to say now that all this talk is rubbish. Don’t you believe any of it.”
Kirillov replied alertly:
“I have no time, Ardalyon Borisitch, to give attention to all the town rumours and gossip; I’m up to my neck in work. If my wife didn’t help me, I don’t know what I should do. But I am fully convinced that all that is being