The Petty Demon by Fyodor Sologub

a racket were coming from the entry way as though a struggle was underway there. Varvara
     whispered:
    “It’s that bag, Ershova, drunk as drunk can be. Natashka isn’t letting her in but she’s still trying to barge her way into
     the living room.”
    “What are we supposed to do?” Peredonov asked fearfully.
    “We have to move into the living room,” Varvara decided, “so that she doesn’t sneak in here.”
    They went into the living room and shut the doors firmly behind them. Varvara went out into the front hall with the faint
     hope of detaining the landlady there or seating her in the kitchen. But the insolent woman forced her way into the living
     room anyway. With hands on hips she stopped at the doorway and spouted words of abuse by way of a general greeting. Peredonov
     and Varvara fussed around her and tried to sit her down on a chair closer to the front hall and as far as possible from the
     dining room. Varvara brought her out a tray of vodka, beer and pastries from the kitchen. But the landlady wouldn’t sit down,
     ate nothing and strained to get into the dining room but just couldn’t identify where the door was. She was flushed, bedraggled
     and filthy, and she smelled of vodka from a long way off. She was screaming:
    “No, you seat me at your table. What do you mean by serving me on a tray! I want it on a table cloth. I’m the landlady, so
     you give me some respect. Don’t look at me like I’m drunk. I’m still a decent woman, I’m still my husband’s wife.”
    Varvara, with a cowardly and impudent smirk, said:
    “Don’t we know it.”
    Ershova winked at Varvara, burst into a hoarse laughter and snapped her fingers jauntily. She was becoming increasingly impudent.
    “Cousin!” she shouted, “we know what kind of cousin you are. And why doesn’t the headmaster’s wife come to visit you? Eh?
     Well?”
    “Stop shouting,” Varvara said.
    But Ershova started to shout even more loudly:
    “How dare you give me orders! I’m in my own house and I’ll do what I want. If I feel like it I’ll kick you out of here right
     this minute so there won’t be hide nor hair of you. Only I’m being very gracious towards you. Live as you will, I don’t mind,
     just don’t go causing a nuisance.”
    Meanwhile, Volodin and Prepolovenskaya were huddling meekly by the window and keeping as quiet as can be. Prepolovenskaya
     had the trace of a grin as she kept glancing sideways at the rowdy woman, pretending to look outside. Volodin sat with an
     expression of offended importance on his face.
    For the moment Ershova had become good-humored and said to Varvara in an amicable fashion while smiling drunkenly and cheerfully
     and clapping her on the back:
    “No, you just listen to what I’m going to say to you. You sit me down at your table and serve me something grand to drink.
     And serve me some real spice cakes. Have some respect for your landlady, really, you dear girl of mine.”
    “Here are some pastries for you,” Varvara said.
    “I don’t want pastries, I want some really grand spice cakes,” Ershova started to shout, waving her arms about and smiling
     blissfully. “The ladiesand gents are stuffing themselves with nice tasty spice cakes, real tasty ones!”
    “I don’t have any cakes for you,” Varvara replied, growing bolder from the fact that the landlady was getting more cheerful.
     “Here, you’re getting pastries, so stuff yourself.”
    Suddenly, Ershova figured out where the door into the dining room was. They were too late to stop her. Bowing her head, her
     fists clenched, she burst into the dining room after flinging the door open with a crash. There she stopped at the threshold,
     caught sight of the spattered wallpaper and gave a shrill whistle. She put her hands on her hips, planted one foot ostentatiously
     and screamed furiously:
    “So, in actual fact, you want to leave town!”
    “Come now, Irina Stepanovna,” Varvara said in a trembling voice. “We weren’t