The Petty Demon by Fyodor Sologub Page A

elder bushes. Siberian geraniums with their delicate purple-veined pale pink buds blossomed thickly
     along the fence.
    Milk thistle thrust its purple heads out from beneath the bushes. Off to the side stood a small, grayish, single-story dwelling
     with a wide summer kitchen leading into the garden. It seemed nice and comfortable. A portion of the vegetable garden was
     visible behind it. Dry poppy pods swayed back and forth together with the enormous white and yellow caps of camomile. Wilting,
     the yellow heads of sunflower bowed low. Among the herbs towered the white umbrellas of fool’s parsley and the pale purple
     umbrellas of storks-bill, while pale yellow buttercups and low flowering spurge blossomed.
    “Were you at mass?” Vershina asked.
    “I was,” Peredonov replied sullenly.
    “Marta has only just returned,” Vershina said. “She goes to our church regularly. I laugh about it. I say to her: Marta, on
     whose account are you going to our church? She blushes and says nothing. Come, let’s sit a while in the summer house,” she
     said quickly without making any transition from what she had been saying earlier.
    Standing in the midst of the garden in the shade of spreading maples was an old, grayish summer house: three steps up, a moss-covered
     dais, low walls, six pot-bellied, turned columns and a six-cornered roof.
    Marta was sitting in the summer house, still attired for mass. She was wearing a light-colored dress with small bows but it
     didn’t suit her. The short sleeves revealed her angular red elbows and her large strong hands. Incidentally, Marta wasn’t
     really bad looking. The freckles didn’t spoil her looks. Particularly among her own people, the Poles, of whom there were
     a fair number here, she even had the reputation of being good looking.
    Marta was rolling cigarettes for Vershina. She was eager to have Peredonov look at her and be entranced. That desire betrayed
     itself on her simple-hearted face in an expression of nervous amiability. Incidentally, whether or not Marta was in love with
     Peredonov had nothing to do with it. Vershina wished to fix her up with someone (Marta came from a largefamily) and Marta herself wanted to please Vershina with whom she had been living for several months, since the day Vershina’s
     old husband had been buried. She wanted to please Vershina on behalf of herself as well as of her brother, a student at the
     gymnasium, who was also a guest there.
    Vershina and Peredonov went into the summer house. Gloomily, Peredonov exchanged greetings with Marta and sat down. He chose
     a spot where a column would protect his back from the wind and a draught wouldn’t blow in his ears. He glanced at Marta’s
     yellow shoes with pink pompons and had the thought that he was the target of their husband hunting. He always thought that
     when he saw young ladies who were being amiable with him. In Marta he noted only shortcomings: a lot of freckles, large hands
     and coarse skin. He knew that her father, a Polish gentleman, was leasing a small estate about six versts from the town. The
     income was small, the number of children large. Marta had completed the pro-gymnasium, one son was studying at the gymnasium
     and the other children were even younger.
    “May I pour you some beer?” Vershina asked quickly.
    On the table stood glasses, two bottles of beer, fine-grained sugar in a tin box, a silver-plated spoon wet with beer.
    “I’ll have a drink,” Penedonov said abruptly.
    Vershina glanced at Matta. Marta poured a glass, and moved it towards Peredonov all the while a strange smile, more fearful
     than actually happy, played over her face. Vershina said quickly, just as though she were spilling the words:
    “Put some sugar in the beer.”
    Marta moved the tin of sugar towards Peredonov. But Peredonov said with annoyance:
    “No, it’s vile with sugar.”
    “Come now, it tastes good,” Vershina said in a quick, casual monotone.
    “Very tasty,” Marta