note we were signalled — (transcribers' note).

I once thought that Peredonov's career was finished, and that he was not to leave the psychiatric hospital where he was placed after cutting Volodin's throat. But latterly rumours have begun to reach me to the effect that Peredonov's mental derangement has proved to be only temporary, and that after a brief confinement he was restored to freedom. These rumours sound hardly plausible. I only mention them because even in our days the unplausible happens. Indeed, I have read in a newspaper that I am preparing to write a sequel to "The Little Demon."

I have heard that Varvara has apparently succeeded in convincing someone that Peredonov had cause for behaving as he did—that Volodin uttered more than once objectionable words, and had betrayed objectionable intentions—and that before his death he said something amazingly insolent which led to the fatal catastrophe. I am told that Varvara has interested the Princess Volchanskaya in this story, and the Princess, who earlier had neglected to put in a word for Peredonov, is now taking a keen interest in his fate.

As to what happened to Peredonov after he had left the hospital, my information is rather vague and contradictory. Some people have told me that Peredonov has entered the police department, as he had been advised to do by Skouchayev, and has served as a councillor in the District Government. He has distinguished himself in some way or other, and is making a fine career.

I have heard from others, however, that it was not Ardalyon Borisitch who served in the police, but another Peredonov, a relative of our Peredonov. Ardalyon Borisitch himself did not succeed in entering the service, or else he did not wish to; instead, he has taken up with literary criticism. His articles reveal those qualities which distinguished him before.

This rumour strikes me as being even more unlikely than the first.

In any case, if I should succeed in receiving precise information about the latest doings of Peredonov, I will try to relate it in all its adequate detail.

DIALOGUE
TO THE SEVENTH RUSSIAN EDITION, MAY 1913

"My soul, why are you thus dismayed?"

"Because of the hate that surrounds the name of the author of 'The Little Demon.' Many people who disagree upon other things are agreed on this."

"Accept the malice and the abuse submissively."

"But is not our labour worthy of gratitude? Why then this hate?"

"This hate is rather like fear. You waken the conscience too loudly, you are too frank."

"But isn't there some use in my truth?"

"You want compliments! But this is not Paris."

"Oh, no, it is not Paris!"

"My soul, you are a true Parisienne, a child of European civilisation. You have come in a charming dress and in light sandals to a place where they wear smocks and greased boots. Do not be astonished if the greased boot sometimes steps rudely on your tender foot. Its possessor is an honest fellow."

"But what a morose, what an awkward fellow!"

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION
TO THE ENGLISH EDITION

It is quite natural for the author of a novel to experience pleasure and pride upon learning that his work is about to become accessible to a new circle of readers. Upon learning, however, that Mr. John Cournos was translating my novel, "The Little Demon," into English I experienced not a little apprehension. In days of Anglo-Russian rapprochement, in days of great stress, when a common danger unites the two great nations, it seemed to me perhaps unseasonable to acquaint England with this sombre picture. It occurred to me that there was a danger of my new readers accepting this novel as a precise and characteristic portrayal of Russian life. But my friends told me that Mr. John Cournos was fulfilling his task with great love and care, and this gives me the hope that the true meaning of my work will be also understood in the translation, reproducing so accurately the original.

In any case, I should like to warn my readers against the temptation of seeing only Russian traits in this novel. The portrait of Peredonov is an expression of the all-human inclination towards evil, of the almost disinterested tendency of a perverse human soul to depart from the common course of universal life directed by one omnipotent Will; and, taking vengeance upon the world for its own grievous loneliness, to bring into the world evil and abomination, to mutilate the given reality and to defile the beautiful dreams of humanity.

This inclination towards evil, raging in the hearts of mankind in all latitudes and longitudes, invests itself only outwardly with an appearance of selfish expedience. A soul marred by this tragic affliction, that of a morose separation from the world, is borne along by a sovereign justice, which rules worlds and hearts, upon disastrous paths, towards madness and towards death.

The afflicted soul does not rejoice at its gains, to such a degree visionary, to such a degree worthless. A foreboding of ultimate destruction torments it with a gnawing sadness.

Where then, in what blessed land, is not man tormented with this agonising sadness, these true tokens of the same morose and sombre affliction? The Russian "khandra" and the English spleen are the expression of one and the same malady of the spirit. Even in more noble souls, these harsh visitors, so familiar to both Englishmen and Russians, have been created by the omnipotent Will not without a beneficent design. They incessantly remind the soul, succumbing in the life struggle, that the enemy is near, cunning and strong.

I would be glad if my new readers should appraise not only the detestable sinfulness and perversity of a soul warped by the force of evil, but also the great yearning of this soul—the evil evil atones to a certain degree in this truly human feeling; and in this feeling the afflicted man also communes with each one of us.

This novel will not be accepted by you in condemnation of my country—my country has not a few enchantments, which make her beloved not only by her own, but also by the observant stranger. Perhaps the attentive reader will find even in this sombre novel certain reflections of enchanting Russian nature, and of the live Russian soul.

FEODOR SOLOGUB

January 1916

CHAPTER I

After Mass the members of the congregation scattered to their homes. A few stopped to talk under the old maples and lindens near the white stone walls, within the enclosure. All were in holiday dress and looked at one another cheerily. It appeared as if the inhabitants of this town lived peacefully and amicably—even happily. But it was only in appearance.

Peredonov, a schoolmaster in the gymnasia, stood among his friends, and as he looked at them gravely out of his small, stealthy eyes, across the golden rims of his spectacles, he remarked:

"Princess Volchanskaya herself made the promise to Vara. 'As soon,' she said, 'as you marry him, I'll hunt up an inspector's job for him.'"

"But how can you think of marrying Varvara Dmitrievna?" asked the red-faced Falastov. "She's your first cousin."

Everyone laughed. Peredonov's usually rosy, unconcerned, somnolent face showed anger.

"Second cousin," he said gruffly, as he looked angrily past his companions.

"Did the Princess give you the promise herself?" asked Routilov, a tall, pale, smartly dressed man.

"She didn't give it to me, but to Vara," answered Peredonov.

"Of course, you are ready to believe all she tells you," said Routilov with animation. "It's easy enough to