Demons

He started up in fright and looked around: 'And what if this Fedka is sitting here somewhere behind a bush? They say he has a whole band of highway robbers someplace around here. Oh, God, then I... then I'll tell him the whole truth, that I am to blame... and that I suffered for ten years over him, longer than he was there as a soldier, and... and I'll give him my purse. Hm, j'ai en tout quarante roubles; il prendra les roubles et il me tuera tout de meme. ' ^[clxiv]

In fear he closed his umbrella, who knows why, and laid it down beside him. Far away, on the road from town, some cart appeared; he began peering anxiously:

'Grace a Dieu it's a cart, and it's moving slowly; that can't be dangerous. These broken-down local nags ... I always talked about breeding ... It was Pyotr Ilych, however, who talked about breeding in the club, and then I finessed him, et puis, but what's that behind, and ... it seems there's a woman in the cart. A woman and a peasant— cela commence a etre rassurant. The woman behind and the peasant in front—c'est tres rassurant. They have a cow tied behind by the horns, c'est rassurant au plus haut degre. '^[clxv]

The cart came abreast of him, a rather sturdy and roomy peasant cart. The woman was sitting on a tightly stuffed sack, the peasant on the driver's seat, his legs hanging over on Stepan Trofimovich's side. Behind there indeed plodded a red cow tied by the horns. The peasant and the woman stared wide-eyed at Stepan Trofimovich, and Stepan Trofimovich stared in the same way at them, but after letting them go on about twenty paces, he suddenly got up in haste and went after them. Naturally, it felt more trustworthy in the vicinity of the cart, but when he caught up with it he at once forgot about everything again and again became immersed in his scraps of thoughts and imaginings. He was striding along and certainly did not suspect that for the peasant and the woman he constituted at that moment the most mysterious and curious object one could meet on the high road.

'You, I mean, what sorts are you from, if it's not impolite my asking?' the wench finally could not help herself, when Stepan Trofimovich suddenly glanced at her distractedly. She was a wench of about twenty-seven, sturdy, black-browed, and ruddy, with kindly smiling red lips, behind which her even, white teeth flashed.

'You... you are addressing me?' Stepan Trofimovich muttered in doleful surprise.

'Must be from merchants,' the peasant said self-confidently. He was a strapping man of about forty, with a broad, sensible face and a full, reddish beard.

'No, I'm not actually a merchant, I. . . I. . . moi c'est autre chose,'^[clxvi] Stepan Trofimovich parried anyhow, and, just in case, dropped behind a little to the rear of the cart, so that he was now walking next to the cow.

'Must be from gentlefolk,' the peasant decided, hearing non-Russian words, and pulled up on the nag.

'So here, to look at you, it's as if you're out for a walk?' the wench began to pry again.

'Is it ... is it me you're asking?'

'There's visiting foreigners come by rail sometimes, you're not from these parts with boots like that...'

'Military-type,' the peasant put in, complacently and significantly.

'No, I'm not actually from the military, I...'

'What a curious wench,' Stepan Trofimovich thought vexedly, 'and how they're studying me... mais, enfin... Strange, in a word, just as if I were guilty before them, yet I'm not guilty of anything before them.'

The wench whispered with the peasant.

'No offense, but we could maybe give you a lift, if only it's agreeable.'

Stepan Trofimovich suddenly recollected himself.

'Yes, yes, my friends, with great pleasure, because I'm very tired, only how am I to get in?'

'How amazing,' he thought to himself, 'I've been walking next to this cow for such a long time, and it never occurred to me to ask if I could ride with them ... This 'real life' has something rather characteristic about it...'

The peasant, however, still did not stop his horse.

'And where are you headed for?' he inquired, with some mistrust.

Stepan Trofimovich did not understand at once.

'Khatovo, must be?'

'Khatov? No, not actually to Khatov... And I'm not quite acquainted; I've heard of him, though.'

'It's a village, Khatovo, a village, five miles from here.'

'A village? C'est charmant, I do believe I've heard...'

Stepan Trofimovich was still walking, and they still did not let him get in. A brilliant surmise flashed in his head.

'You think, perhaps, that I ... I have a passport, and I am a professor, that is, a teacher, if you wish... but a head one. I am a head teacher. Oui, c'est comme ca qu'on peut traduire.^[clxvii] I would very much like to get in, and I'll buy you... I'll buy you a pint for it.'

'It'll be fifty kopecks, sir, it's a rough road.'

'Or else we'd be getting the bad end,' the wench put in.

'Fifty kopecks? Very well, then, fifty kopecks. C'est encore mieux, j'ai en tout quarante roubles, mais . . .'^[clxviii]

The peasant stopped, and by general effort Stepan Trofimovich was pulled into the cart and seated next to the