Pyetushkov by Ivan Turgenev
In the year 182- ... there was living in the town of O—— the
lieutenant Ivan Afanasiitch Pyetushkov. He was born of poor parents, was
left an orphan at five years old, and came into the charge of a guardian.
Thanks to this guardian, he found himself with no property whatever; he
had a hard struggle to make both ends meet. He was of medium height, and
stooped a little; he had a thin face, covered with freckles, but rather
pleasing; light brown hair, grey eyes, and a timid expression; his low
forehead was furrowed with fine wrinkles. Pyetushkov's whole life had been
uneventful in the extreme; at close upon forty he was still youthful and
inexperienced as a child. He was shy with acquaintances, and exceedingly
mild in his manner with persons over whose lot he could have exerted
People condemned by fate to a monotonous and cheerless existence often
acquire all sorts of little habits and preferences. Pyetushkov liked to
have a new white roll with his tea every morning. He could not do without
this dainty. But behold one morning his servant, Onisim, handed him, on a
blue-sprigged plate, instead of a roll, three dark red rusks.
Pyetushkov at once asked his servant, with some indignation, what he meant
'The rolls have all been sold out,' answered Onisim, a native of
Petersburg, who had been flung by some queer freak of destiny into the
very wilds of south Russia.
'Impossible!' exclaimed Ivan Afanasiitch.
'Sold out,' repeated Onisim; 'there's a breakfast at the Marshal's, so
they've all gone there, you know.'
Onisim waved his hand in the air, and thrust his right foot forward.
Ivan Afanasiitch walked up and down the room, dressed, and set off himself
to the baker's shop. This establishment, the only one of the kind in the
town of O——, had been opened ten years before by a German
immigrant, had in a short time begun to flourish, and was still
flourishing under the guidance of his widow, a fat woman.
Pyetushkov tapped at the window. The fat woman stuck her unhealthy,
flabby, sleepy countenance out of the pane that opened.
'A roll, if you please,' Pyetushkov said amiably.
'The rolls are all gone,' piped the fat woman.
'Haven't you any rolls?'
'How's that?—really! I take rolls from you every day, and pay for
The woman stared at him in silence. 'Take twists,' she said at last,
yawning; 'or a scone.'
'I don't like them,' said Pyetushkov, and he felt positively hurt.
'As you please,' muttered the fat woman, and she slammed to the
Ivan Afanasiitch was quite unhinged by his intense vexation. In his
perturbation he crossed to the other side of the street, and gave himself
up entirely, like a child, to his displeasure.
'Sir!' ... he heard a rather agreeable female voice; 'sir!'
Ivan Afanasiitch raised his eyes. From the open pane of the bakehouse
window peeped a girl of about seventeen, holding a white roll in her hand.
She had a full round face, rosy cheeks, small hazel eyes, rather a turn-up
nose, fair hair, and magnificent shoulders. Her features suggested
good-nature, laziness, and carelessness.
'Here's a roll for you, sir,' she said, laughing, 'I'd taken for myself;
but take it, please, I'll give it up to you.'
'I thank you most sincerely. Allow me ...'
Pyetushkov began fumbling in his pocket.
'No, no! you are welcome to it.'
She closed the window-pane.
Pyetushkov arrived home in a perfectly agreeable frame of mind.
'You couldn't get any rolls,' he said to his Onisim; 'but here, I've got
one, do you see?'
Onisim gave a bitter laugh.
The same day, in the evening, as Ivan Afanasiitch was undressing, he asked
his servant, 'Tell me, please, my lad, what's the girl like at the
Onisim looked away rather gloomily, and responded, 'What do you want to
'Oh, nothing,' said Pyetushkov, taking off his boots with his own hands.
'Well, she's a fine girl!' Onisim observed condescendingly.
'Yes, ... she's not bad-looking,' said Ivan Afanasiitch, also looking
away. 'And what's her name, do you know?'
'And do you know her?'
Onisim did not answer for a minute or two.
'We know her.'
Pyetushkov was on the point of opening his mouth again, but he turned over
on the other side and fell asleep.
Onisim went out into the passage, took a pinch of snuff, and gave his head
a violent shake.
The next day, early in the morning, Pyetushkov called for his clothes.
Onisim brought him his everyday coat—an old grass-coloured coat,
with huge striped epaulettes. Pyetushkov gazed a long while at Onisim
without speaking, then told him to bring him his new coat. Onisim, with
some surprise, obeyed. Pyetushkov dressed, and carefully drew on his
'You needn't go to the baker's to-day,' said he with some hesitation; 'I'm
going myself, ... it's on my way.'
'Yes, sir,' responded Onisim, as abruptly as if some one had just given
him a shove from behind.
Pyetushkov set off, reached the baker's shop, tapped at the window. The
fat woman opened the pane.
'Give me a roll, please,' Ivan Afanasiitch articulated slowly.
The fat woman stuck out an arm, bare to the shoulder—a huge arm,
more like a leg than an arm—and thrust the hot bread just under his
Ivan Afanasiitch stood some time under the window, walked once or twice up
and down the street, glanced into the courtyard, and at last, ashamed of
his childishness, returned home with the roll in his hand. He felt ill at
ease the whole day, and even in the evening, contrary to his habit, did
not drop into conversation with Onisim.
The next morning it was Onisim who went for the roll.
Some weeks went by. Ivan Afanasiitch had completely forgotten Vassilissa,
and chatted in a friendly way with his servant as before. One fine morning
there came to see him a certain Bublitsyn, an easy-mannered and very
agreeable young man. It is true he sometimes hardly knew himself what he
was talking about, and was always, as they say, a little wild; but all the
same he had the reputation of being an exceedingly agreeable person to
talk to. He smoked a great deal with feverish eagerness, with lifted
eyebrows and contracted chest—smoked with an expression of intense
anxiety, or, one might rather say, with an expression as though, let him
have this one more puff at his pipe, and in a minute he would tell you
some quite unexpected piece of news; at times he would even give a grunt
and a wave of the hand, while himself sucking at his pipe, as though he
had suddenly recollected something extraordinarily amusing or important,
then he would open his mouth, let off a few rings of smoke, and utter the
most commonplace remarks, or even keep silence altogether. After gossiping
a little with Ivan Afanasiitch about the neighbours, about horses, the
daughters of the gentry around, and other such edifying topics, Mr.
Bublitsyn suddenly winked, pulled up his shock of hair, and, with a sly
smile, approached the remarkably dim looking-glass which was the solitary
ornament of Ivan Afanasiitch's room.
'There's no denying the fact,' he pronounced, stroking his light brown
whiskers, 'we've got girls here that beat any of your Venus of Medicis
hollow.... Have you seen Vassilissa, the baker girl, for instance?' ...
Mr. Bublitsyn sucked at his pipe.
'But why do I ask you?' pursued Bublitsyn, disappearing in a cloud of
smoke,—'you're not the man to notice, don't you know, Ivan
Afanasiitch! Goodness knows what you do to occupy yourself, Ivan
'The same as you do,' Pyetushkov replied with some vexation, in a drawling
'Oh no, Ivan Afanasiitch, not a bit of it.... How can you say so?'
'Well, why not?'
'Why so, why so?'
Bublitsyn stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and began
scrutinising his not very handsome boots. Pyetushkov felt embarrassed.
'Ah, Ivan Afanasiitch, Ivan Afanasiitch!' pursued Bublitsyn, as though
sparing his feelings. 'But as to Vassilissa, the baker girl, I can assure
you: a very, ve-ry fine girl, ... ve-ry.'
Mr. Bublitsyn dilated his nostrils, and slowly plunged his hands into his
Strange to relate, Ivan Afanasiitch felt something of the nature of
jealousy. He began moving restlessly in his chair, burst into explosive
laughter at nothing at all, suddenly blushed, yawned, and, as he yawned,
his lower jaw twitched a little. Bublitsyn smoked three more pipes, and
withdrew. Ivan Afanasiitch went to the window, sighed, and called for
something to drink.
Onisim set a glass of kvas on the table, glanced severely at his master,
leaned back against the door, and hung his head dejectedly.
'What are you so thoughtful about?' his master asked him genially, but
with some inward trepidation.
'What am I thinking about?' retorted Onisim; 'what am I thinking about?
... it's always about you.'
'Of course it's about you.'
'Why, what is it you are thinking?'
'Why, this is what I'm thinking.' (Here Onisim took a pinch of snuff.)
'You ought to be ashamed, sir—you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'
'Yes, ashamed.... Look at Mr. Bublitsyn, Ivan Afanasiitch.... Tell me if
he's not a fine fellow, now.'
'I don't understand you.'
'You don't understand me.... Oh yes, you do understand me.'
'Mr. Bublitsyn's a real gentleman—what a gentleman ought to be. But
what are you, Ivan Afanasiitch, what are you? Tell me that.'
'Why, I'm a gentleman too.'
'A gentleman, indeed!' ... retorted Onisim, growing indignant. 'A pretty
gentleman you are! You're no better, sir, than a hen in a shower of rain,
Ivan Afanasiitch, let me tell you. Here you sit sticking at home the whole
blessed day ... much good it does you, sitting at home like that! You
don't play cards, you don't go and see the gentry, and as for ... well
Onisim waved his hand expressively.
'Now, come ... you really go ... too far ...' Ivan Afanasiitch said
hesitatingly, clutching his pipe.
'Too far, indeed, Ivan Afanasiitch, too far, you say! Judge for yourself.
Here again, with Vassilissa ... why couldn't you ...'
'But what are you thinking about, Onisim,' Pyetushkov interrupted
'I know what I'm thinking about. But there—I'd better let you alone!
What can you do? Only fancy ... there you ...'
Ivan Afanasiitch got up.
'There, there, if you please, you hold your tongue,' he said quickly,
seeming to be searching for Onisim with his eyes; 'I shall really, you
know ... I ... what do you mean by it, really? You'd better help me
Onisim slowly drew off Ivan Afanasiitch's greasy Tartar dressing-gown,
gazed with fatherly commiseration at his master, shook his head, put him
on his coat, and fell to beating him about the back with a brush.
Pyetushkov went out, and after a not very protracted stroll about the
crooked streets of the town, found himself facing the baker's shop. A
queer smile was playing about his lips.
He had hardly time to look twice at the too well-known 'establishment,'
when suddenly the little gate opened, and Vassilissa ran out with a yellow
kerchief on her head and a jacket flung after the Russian fashion on her
shoulders. Ivan Afanasiitch at once overtook her.
'Where are you going, my dear?'
Vassilissa glanced swiftly at him, laughed, turned away, and put her hand
over her lips.
'Going shopping, I suppose?' queried Ivan Afanasiitch, fidgeting with his
'How inquisitive we are!' retorted Vassilissa.
'Why inquisitive?' said Pyetushkov, hurriedly gesticulating with his
hands. 'Quite the contrary.... Oh yes, you know,' he added hastily, as
though these last words completely conveyed his meaning.
'Did you eat my roll?'
'To be sure I did,' replied Pyetushkov: 'with special enjoyment.'
Vassilissa continued to walk on and to laugh.
'It's pleasant weather to-day,' pursued Ivan Afanasiitch: 'do you often go
'Ah, how I should like....'
The girls in our district utter those words in a very queer way, with a
peculiar sharpness and rapidity.... Partridges call at sunset with just
'To go out walking, don't you know, with you ... into the country, or ...'
'How can you?'
'Ah, upon my word, how you do go on!'
'But allow me....'
At this point they were overtaken by a dapper little shopman, with a
little goat's beard, and with his fingers held apart like antlers, so as
to keep his sleeves from slipping over his hands, in a long-skirted bluish
coat, and a warm cap that resembled a bloated water-melon. Pyetushkov, for
propriety's sake, fell back a little behind Vassilissa, but quickly came
up with her again.
'Well, then, what about our walk?'
Vassilissa looked slily at him and giggled again.
'Do you belong to these parts?'
Vassilissa passed her hand over her hair and walked a little more slowly.
Ivan Afanasiitch smiled, and, his heart inwardly sinking with timidity, he
stooped a little on one side and put a trembling arm about the beauty's
Vassilissa uttered a shriek.
'Give over, do, for shame, in the street.'
'Come now, there, there,' muttered Ivan Afanasiitch.
'Give over, I tell you, in the street.... Don't be rude.'
'A ... a ... ah, what a girl you are!' said Pyetushkov reproachfully,
while he blushed up to his ears.
Vassilissa stood still.
'Now go along with you, sir—go along, do.'
Pyetushkov obeyed. He got home, and sat for a whole hour without moving
from his chair, without even smoking his pipe. At last he took out a sheet
of greyish paper, mended a pen, and after long deliberation wrote the
'DEAR MADAM, VASSILISSA TIMOFYEVNA!—Being naturally a most
inoffensive person, how could I have occasioned you annoyance? If I have
really been to blame in my conduct to you, then I must tell you: the hints
of Mr. Bublitsyn were responsible for this, which was what I never
expected. Anyway, I must humbly beg you not to be angry with me. I am a
sensitive man, and any kindness I am most sensible of and grateful for. Do
not be angry with me, Vassilissa Timofyevna, I beg you most humbly.—I
remain respectfully your obedient servant,
Onisim carried this letter to its address.
A fortnight passed. Onisim went every morning as usual to the baker's
shop. One day Vassilissa ran out to meet him.
'Good morning, Onisim Sergeitch.'
Onisim put on a gloomy expression, and responded crossly, ''Morning.'
'How is it you never come to see us, Onisim Sergeitch?'
Onisim glanced morosely at her.
'What should I come for? you wouldn't give me a cup of tea, no fear.'
'Yes, I would, Onisim Sergeitch, I would. You come and see. Rum in it,
Onisim slowly relaxed into a smile.
'Well, I don't mind if I do, then.'
'When ... well, you are ...'
'To-day—this evening, if you like. Drop in.
'All right, I'll come along,' replied Onisim, and he sauntered home with
his slow, rolling step.
The same evening in a little room, beside a bed covered with a striped
eider-down, Onisim was sitting at a clumsy little table, facing
Vassilissa. A huge, dingy yellow samovar was hissing and bubbling on the
table; a pot of geranium stood in the window; in the other corner near the
door there stood aslant an ugly chest with a tiny hanging lock; on the
chest lay a shapeless heap of all sorts of old rags; on the walls were
black, greasy prints. Onisim and Vassilissa drank their tea in silence,
looking straight at each other, turning the lumps of sugar over and over
in their hands, as it were reluctantly nibbling them, blinking, screwing
up their eyes, and with a hissing sound sucking in the yellowish boiling
liquid through their teeth. At last they had emptied the whole samovar,
turned upside down the round cups—one with the inscription, 'Take
your fill'; the other with the words, 'Cupid's dart hath pierced my heart'—then
they cleared their throats, wiped their perspiring brows, and gradually
dropped into conversation.
'Onisim Sergeitch, how about your master ...' began Vassilissa, and did
not finish her sentence.
'What about my master?' replied Onisim, and he leaned on his hand. 'He's
all right. But why do you ask?'
'Oh, I only asked,' answered Vassilissa.
'But I say'—(here Onisim grinned)—'I say, he wrote you a
letter, didn't he?'
'Yes, he did.'
Onisim shook his head with an extraordinarily self-satisfied air.
'So he did, did he?' he said huskily, with a smile. 'Well, and what did he
say in his letter to you?'
'Oh, all sorts of things. "I didn't mean anything, Madam, Vassilissa
Timofyevna," says he, "don't you think anything of it; don't you be
offended, madam," and a lot more like that he wrote.... But I say,' she
added after a brief silence: 'what's he like?'
'He's all right,' Onisim responded indifferently.
'Does he get angry?'
'He get angry! Not he. Why, do you like him?'
Vassilissa looked down and giggled in her sleeve.
'Come,' grumbled Onisim.
'Oh, what's that to you, Onisim Sergeitch?'
'Oh, come, I tell you.'
'Well,' Vassilissa brought out at last, 'he's ... a gentleman. Of course
... I ... and besides; he ... you know yourself ...'
'Of course I do,' Onisim observed solemnly.
'Of course you're aware, to be sure, Onisim Sergeitch.' ... Vassilissa was
obviously becoming agitated.
'You tell him, your master, that I'm ...; say, not angry with him, but
'We understand,' responded Onisim, and he got up from his seat. 'We
understand. Thanks for the entertainment.'
'Come in again some day.'
'All right, all right.'
Onisim approached the door. The fat woman came into the room.
'Good evening to you, Onisim Sergeitch,' she said in a peculiar chant.
'Good evening to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,' he said in the same sing-song.
Both stood still for a little while facing each other.
'Well, good day to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,' Onisim chanted out again.
'Well, good day to you, Onisim Sergeitch,' she responded in the same
Onisim arrived home. His master was lying on his bed, gazing at the
'Where have you been?'
'Where have I been?' ... (Onisim had the habit of repeating reproachfully
the last words of every question.) 'I've been about your business.'
'Why, don't you know? ... I've been to see Vassilissa.'
Pyetushkov blinked and turned over on his bed.
'So that's how it is,' observed Onisim, and he coolly took a pinch of
snuff. 'So that's how it is. You're always like that. Vassilissa sends you
'Really? So that's all about it. Really! ... She told me to say, Why is
it, says she, one never sees him? Why is it, says she, he never comes?'
'Well, and what did you say?'
'What did I say? I told her: You're a silly girl—I told her—as
if folks like that are coming to see you! No, you come yourself, I told
'Well, and what did she say?'
'What did she say? ... She said nothing.'
'That is, how do you mean, nothing?'
'Why, nothing, to be sure.'
Pyetushkov said nothing for a little while.
'Well, and is she coming?'
Onisim shook his head.
'She coming! You're in too great a hurry, sir. She coming, indeed! No, you
go too fast.' ...
'But you said yourself that ...'
'Oh, well, it's easy to talk.'
Pyetushkov was silent again.
'Well, but how's it to be, then, my lad?'
'How? ... You ought to know best; you 're a gentleman.'
'Oh, nonsense! come now!'
Onisim swayed complacently backwards and forwards.
'Do you know Praskovia Ivanovna?' he asked at last.
'No. What Praskovia Ivanovna?'
'Why, the baker woman!'
'Oh yes, the baker woman. I've seen her; she's very fat.'
'She's a worthy woman. She's own aunt to the other, to your girl.'
'Why, didn't you know?'
'No, I didn't know.'
Onisim was restrained by respect for his master from giving full
expression to his feelings.
'That's whom it is you should make friends with.'
'Well, I've no objection.'
Onisim looked approvingly at Ivan Afanasiitch.
'But with what object precisely am I to make friends with her?' inquired
'What for, indeed!' answered Onisim serenely.
Ivan Afanasiitch got up, paced up and down the room, stood still before
the window, and without turning his head, with some hesitation he
'Won't it be, you know, a little awkward for me with the old woman, eh?'
'Oh, that's as you like.'
'Oh, well, I only thought it might, perhaps. My comrades might notice it;
it's a little ... But I'll think it over. Give me my pipe.... So she,' he
went on after a short silence—Vassilissa, I mean, says then ...'
But Onisim had no desire to continue the conversation, and he assumed his
habitual morose expression.
Ivan Afanasiitch's acquaintance with Praskovia Ivanovna began in the
following manner. Five days after his conversation with Onisim, Pyetushkov
set off in the evening to the baker's shop. 'Well,' thought he, as he
unlatched the creaking gate, 'I don't know how it's to be.' ...
He mounted the steps, opened the door. A huge, crested hen rushed, with a
deafening cackle, straight under his feet, and long after was still
running about the yard in wild excitement. From a room close by peeped the
astonished countenance of the fat woman. Ivan Afanasiitch smiled and
nodded. The fat woman bowed to him. Tightly grasping his hat, Pyetushkov
approached her. Praskovia Ivanovna was apparently anticipating an honoured
guest; her dress was fastened up at every hook. Pyetushkov sat down on a
chair; Praskovia Ivanovna seated herself opposite him.
'I have come to you, Praskovia Ivanovna, more on account of....' Ivan
Afanasiitch began at last—and then ceased. His lips were twitching
'You are kindly welcome, sir,' responded Praskovia Ivanovna in the proper
sing-song, and with a bow. 'Always delighted to see a guest.'
Pyetushkov took courage a little.
'I have long wished, you know, to have the pleasure of making your
acquaintance, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
'Much obliged to you, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
Followed a silence. Praskovia Ivanovna wiped her face with a
parti-coloured handkerchief; Ivan Afanasiitch continued with intense
attention to gaze away to one side. Both were rather uncomfortable. But in
merchant and petty shopkeeper society, where even old friends never step
outside special angular forms of etiquette, a certain constraint in the
behaviour of guests and host to one another not only strikes no one as
strange, but, on the contrary, is regarded as perfectly correct and
indispensable, particularly on a first visit. Praskovia Ivanovna was
agreeably impressed by Pyetushkov. He was formal and decorous in his
manners, and moreover, wasn't he a man of some rank, too?
'Praskovia Ivanovna, ma'am, I like your rolls very much,' he said to her.
'Really now, really now.'
'Very good they are, you know, very, indeed.'
'May they do you good, sir, may they do you good. Delighted, to be sure.'
'I've never eaten any like them in Moscow.'
'You don't say so now, you don't say so.'
Again a silence followed.
'Tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna,' began Ivan Afanasiitch; 'that's your niece,
I fancy, isn't it, living with you?'
'My own niece, sir.'
'How comes it ... she's with you?'....
'She's an orphan, so I keep her.'
'And is she a good worker?'
'Such a girl to work ... such a girl, sir ... ay ... ay ... to be sure she
Ivan Afanasiitch thought it discreet not to pursue the subject of the
'What bird is that you have in the cage, Praskovia Ivanovna?'
'God knows. A bird of some sort.'
'H'm! Well, so, good day to you, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
'A very good day to your honour. Pray walk in another time, and take a cup
'With the greatest pleasure, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
Pyetushkov walked out. On the steps he met Vassilissa. She giggled.
'Where are you going, my darling?' said Pyetushkov with reckless daring.
'Come, give over, do, you are a one for joking.'
'He, he! And did you get my letter?'
Vassilissa hid the lower part of her face in her sleeve and made no
'And you're not angry with me?'
'Vassilissa!' came the jarring voice of the aunt; 'hey, Vassilissa!'
Vassilissa ran into the house. Pyetushkov returned home. But from that day
he began going often to the baker's shop, and his visits were not for
nothing. Ivan Afanasiitch's hopes, to use the lofty phraseology suitable,
were crowned with success. Usually, the attainment of the goal has a
cooling effect on people, but Pyetushkov, on the contrary, grew every day
more and more ardent. Love is a thing of accident, it exists in itself,
like art, and, like nature, needs no reasons to justify it, as some clever
man has said who never loved, himself, but made excellent observations
Pyetushkov became passionately attached to Vassilissa. He was completely
happy. His soul was aglow with bliss. Little by little he carried all his
belongings, at any rate all his pipes, to Praskovia Ivanovna's, and for
whole days together he sat in her back room. Praskovia Ivanovna charged
him something for his dinner and drank his tea, consequently she did not
complain of his presence. Vassilissa had grown used to him. She would
work, sing, or spin before him, sometimes exchanging a couple of words
with him; Pyetushkov watched her, smoked his pipe, swayed to and fro in
his chair, laughed, and in leisure hours played 'Fools' with her and
Praskovia Ivanovna. Ivan Afanasiitch was happy....
But in this world nothing is perfect, and, small as a man's requirements
may be, destiny never quite fulfils them, and positively spoils the whole
thing, if possible.... The spoonful of pitch is sure to find its way into
the barrel of honey! Ivan Afanasiitch experienced this in his case.
In the first place, from the time of his establishing himself at
Vassilissa's, Pyetushkov dropped more than ever out of all intercourse
with his comrades. He saw them only when absolutely necessary, and then,
to avoid allusions and jeers (in which, however, he was not always
successful), he put on the desperately sullen and intensely scared look of
a hare in a display of fireworks.
Secondly, Onisim gave him no peace; he had lost every trace of respect for
him, he mercilessly persecuted him, put him to shame.
And ... thirdly.... Alas! read further, kindly reader.
One day Pyetushkov (who for the reasons given above found little comfort
outside Praskovia Ivanovna's doors) was sitting in Vassilissa's room at
the back, and was busying himself over some home-brewed concoction,
something in the way of jam or syrup. The mistress of the house was not at
home. Vassilissa was sitting in the shop singing.
There came a knock at the little pane. Vassilissa got up, went to the
window, uttered a little shriek, giggled, and began whispering with some
one. On going back to her place, she sighed, and then fell to singing
louder than ever.
'Who was that you were talking to?' Pyetushkov asked her.
Vassilissa went on singing carelessly.
'Vassilissa, do you hear? Vassilissa!'
'What do you want?'
'Whom were you talking to?'
'What's that to you?'
'I only asked.'
Pyetushkov came out of the back room in a parti-coloured smoking-jacket
with tucked-up sleeves, and a strainer in his hand.
'Oh, a friend of mine,' answered Vassilissa.
'Oh, Piotr Petrovitch.'
'Piotr Petrovitch? ... what Piotr Petrovitch?'
'He's one of your lot. He's got such a difficult name.'
'Yes, yes ... Piotr Petrovitch.'
'And do you know him?'
'Rather!' responded Vassilissa, with a wag of her head.
Pyetushkov, without a word, paced ten times up and down the room.
'I say, Vassilissa,' he said at last, 'that is, how do you know him?'
'How do I know him? ... I know him ... He's such a nice gentleman.'
'How do you mean nice, though? how nice? how nice?'
Vassilissa gazed at Ivan Afanasiitch.
'Nice,' she said slowly and in perplexity. 'You know what I mean.'
Pyetushkov bit his lips and began again pacing the room.
'What were you talking about with him, eh?'
Vassilissa smiled and looked down.
'Speak, speak, speak, I tell you, speak!'
'How cross you are to-day!' observed Vassilissa.
Pyetushkov was silent.
'Come now, Vassilissa,' he began at last; 'no, I won't be cross.... Come,
tell me, what were you talking about?'
'He is a one to joke, really, that Piotr Petrovitch!'
'Well, what did he say?'
'He is a fellow!'
Pyetushkov was silent again for a little.
'Vassilissa, you love me, don't you?' he asked her.
'Oh, so that's what you're after, too!'
Poor Pyetushkov felt a pang at his heart. Praskovia Ivanovna came in. They
sat down to dinner. After dinner Praskovia Ivanovna betook herself to the
shelf bed. Ivan Afanasiitch himself lay down on the stove, turned over and
dropped asleep. A cautious creak waked him. Ivan Afanasiitch sat up,
leaned on his elbow, looked: the door was open. He jumped up—no
Vassilissa. He ran into the yard—she was not in the yard; into the
street, looked up and down—Vassilissa was nowhere to be seen. He ran
without his cap as far as the market—no, Vassilissa was not in
sight. Slowly he returned to the baker's shop, clambered on to the stove,
and turned with his face to the wall. He felt miserable. Bublitsyn ...
Bublitsyn ... the name was positively ringing in his ears.
'What's the matter, my good sir?' Praskovia Ivanovna asked him in a drowsy
voice. 'Why are you groaning?'
'Oh, nothing, ma'am. Nothing. I feel a weight oppressing me.'
'It's the mushrooms,' murmured Praskovia Ivanovna—'it's all those
O Lord, have mercy on us sinners!
An hour passed, a second—still no Vassilissa. Twenty times
Pyetushkov was on the point of getting up, and twenty times he huddled
miserably under the sheepskin.... At last he really did get down from the
stove and determined to go home, and positively went out into the yard,
but came back. Praskovia Ivanovna got up. The hired man, Luka, black as a
beetle, though he was a baker, put the bread into the oven. Pyetushkov
went again out on to the steps and pondered. The goat that lived in the
yard went up to him, and gave him a little friendly poke with his horns.
Pyetushkov looked at him, and for some unknown reason said 'Kss, Kss.'
Suddenly the low wicket-gate slowly opened and Vassilissa appeared. Ivan
Afanasiitch went straight to meet her, took her by the hand, and rather
coolly, but resolutely, said to her:
'Come along with me.'
'But, excuse me, Ivan Afanasiitch ... I ...'
'Come with me,' he repeated.
Pyetushkov led her to his lodgings. Onisim, as usual, was lying at full
length asleep. Ivan Afanasiitch waked him, told him to light a candle.
Vassilissa went to the window and sat down in silence. While Onisim was
busy getting a light in the anteroom, Pyetushkov stood motionless at the
other window, staring into the street. Onisim came in, with the candle in
his hands, was beginning to grumble ... Ivan Afanasiitch turned quickly
round: 'Go along,' he said to him.
Onisim stood still in the middle of the room.
'Go away at once,' Pyetushkov repeated threateningly.
Onisim looked at his master and went out.
Ivan Afanasiitch shouted after him:
'Away, quite away. Out of the house. You can come back in two hours'
Onisim slouched off.
Pyetushkov waited till he heard the gate bang, and at once went up to
'Where have you been?'
Vassilissa was confused.
'Where have you been? I tell you,' he repeated.
Vassilissa looked round ...
'I am speaking to you ... where have you been?' And Pyetushkov raised his
'Don't beat me, Ivan Afanasiitch, don't beat me,' Vassilissa whispered in
Pyetushkov turned away.
'Beat you ... No! I'm not going to beat you. Beat you? I beg your pardon,
my darling. God bless you! While I supposed you loved me, while I ... I
Ivan Afanasiitch broke off. He gasped for breath.
'Listen, Vassilissa,' he said at last. 'You know I'm a kind-hearted man,
you know it, don't you, Vassilissa, don't you?'
'Yes, I do,' she said faltering.
'I do nobody any harm, nobody, nobody in the world. And I deceive nobody.
Why are you deceiving me?'
'But I'm not deceiving you, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'You aren't deceiving me? Oh, very well! Oh, very well! Then tell me where
'I went to see Matrona.'
'That's a lie!'
'Really, I've been at Matrona's. You ask her, if you don't believe me.'
'And Bub—what's his name ... have you seen that devil?'
'Yes, I did see him.'
'You did see him! you did see him! Oh! you did see him!'
Pyetushkov turned pale.
'So you were making an appointment with him in the morning at the window—eh?
'He asked me to come.'
'And so you went.... Thanks very much, my girl, thanks very much!'
Pyetushkov made Vassilissa a low bow.
'But, Ivan Afanasiitch, you're maybe fancying ...'
'You'd better not talk to me! And a pretty fool I am! There's nothing to
make an outcry for! You may make friends with any one you like. I've
nothing to do with you. So there! I don't want to know you even.'
Vassilissa got up.
'That's for you to say, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'Where are you going?'
'Why, you yourself ...'
'I'm not sending you away,' Pyetushkov interrupted her.
'Oh no, Ivan Afanasiitch.... What's the use of my stopping here?'
Pyetushkov let her get as far as the door.
'So you're going, Vassilissa?'
'You keep on abusing me.'
'I abuse you! You've no fear of God, Vassilissa! When have I abused you?
Come, come, say when?'
'Why! Just this minute weren't you all but beating me?'
'Vassilissa, it's wicked of you. Really, it's downright wicked.'
'And then you threw it in my face, that you don't want to know me. "I'm a
gentleman," say you.'
Ivan Afanasiitch began wringing his hands speechlessly. Vassilissa got
back as far as the middle of the room.
'Well, God be with you, Ivan Afanasiitch. I'll keep myself to myself, and
you keep yourself to yourself.'
'Nonsense, Vassilissa, nonsense,' Pyetushkov cut her short. 'You think
again; look at me. You see I'm not myself. You see I don't know what I'm
saying.... You might have some feeling for me.'
'You keep on abusing me, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'Ah, Vassilissa! Let bygones be bygones. Isn't that right? Come, you're
not angry with me, are you?'
'You keep abusing me,' Vassilissa repeated.
'I won't, my love, I won't. Forgive an old man like me. I'll never do it
in future. Come, you've forgiven me, eh?'
'God be with you, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'Come, laugh then, laugh.'
Vassilissa turned away.
'You laughed, you laughed, my love!' cried Pyetushkov, and he capered
about like a child.
The next day Pyetushkov went to the baker's shop as usual. Everything went
on as before. But there was a settled ache at his heart. He did not laugh
now as often, and sometimes he fell to musing. Sunday came. Praskovia
Ivanovna had an attack of lumbago; she did not get down from the shelf
bed, except with much difficulty to go to mass. After mass Pyetushkov
called Vassilissa into the back room. She had been complaining all the
morning of feeling dull. To judge by the expression of Ivan Afanasiitch's
countenance, he was revolving in his brain some extraordinary idea,
unforeseen even by him.
'You sit down here, Vassilissa,' he said to her, 'and I'll sit here. I
want to have a little talk with you.'
Vassilissa sat down.
'Tell me, Vassilissa, can you write?'
'No, I can't.'
'What about reading?'
'I can't read either.'
'Then who read you my letter?'
'But would you like to learn to read and write?'
'Why, what use would reading and writing be to us, Ivan Afanasiitch?'
'What use? You could read books.'
'But what good is there in books?'
'All sorts of good ... I tell you what, if you like, I'll bring you a
'But I can't read, you see, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'I'll read to you.'
'But, I say, won't it be dull?'
'Nonsense! dull! On the contrary, it's the best thing to get rid of
'Maybe you'll read stories, then.'
'You shall see to-morrow.'
In the evening Pyetushkov returned home, and began rummaging in his boxes.
He found several odd numbers of the Library of Good Reading, five grey
Moscow novels, Nazarov's arithmetic, a child's geography with a globe on
the title-page, the second part of Keydanov's history, two dream-books, an
almanack for the year 1819, two numbers of Galatea, Kozlov's Natalia
Dolgorukaia, and the first part of Roslavlev. He pondered a
long while which to choose, and finally made up his mind to take Kozlov's
poem, and Roslavlev.
Next day Pyetushkov dressed in haste, put both the books under the lapel
of his coat, went to the baker's shop, and began reading aloud Zagoskin's
novel. Vassilissa sat without moving; at first she smiled, then seemed to
become absorbed in thought ... then she bent a little forward; her eyes
closed, her mouth slightly opened, her hands fell on her knees; she was
dozing. Pyetushkov read quickly, inarticulately, in a thick voice; he
raised his eyes ...
'Vassilissa, are you asleep?'
She started, rubbed her face, and stretched. Pyetushkov felt angry with
her and with himself....
'It's dull,' said Vassilissa lazily.
'I tell you what, would you like me to read you poetry?'
'Poetry ... good poetry.'
'No, that's enough, really.'
Pyetushkov hurriedly picked up Kozlov's poem, jumped up, crossed the room,
ran impulsively up to Vassilissa, and began reading. Vassilissa let her
head drop backwards, spread out her hands, stared into Ivan Afanasiitch's
face, and suddenly went off into a loud harsh guffaw ... she fairly rolled
about with laughing.
Ivan Afanasiitch flung the book on the floor in his annoyance. Vassilissa
went on laughing.
'Why, what are you laughing at, silly?'
Vassilissa roared more than ever.
'Laugh away, laugh away,' Pyetushkov muttered between his teeth.
Vassilissa held her sides, gasping.
'But what is it, idiot?' But Vassilissa could only wave her hands.
Ivan Afanasiitch snatched up his cap, and ran out of the house. With
rapid, unsteady steps, he walked about the town, walked on and on, and
found himself at the city gates. Suddenly there was the rattle of wheels,
the tramp of horses along the street.... Some one called him by name. He
raised his head and saw a big, old-fashioned wagonette. In the wagonette
facing him sat Mr. Bublitsyn between two young ladies, the daughters of
Mr. Tiutiurov. Both the girls were dressed exactly alike, as though in
outward sign of their immutable affection; both smiled pensively, and
carried their heads on one side with a languid grace. On the other side of
the carriage appeared the wide straw hat of their excellent papa; and from
time to time his round, plump neck presented itself to the gaze of
spectators. Beside his straw hat rose the mob-cap of his spouse. The very
attitude of both the parents was a sufficient proof of their sincere
goodwill towards the young man and their confidence in him. And Bublitsyn
obviously was aware of their flattering confidence and appreciated it. He
was, of course, sitting in an unconstrained position, and talking and
laughing without constraint; but in the very freedom of his manner there
could be discerned a shade of tender, touching respectfulness. And the
Tiutiurov girls? It is hard to convey in words all that an attentive
observer could trace in the faces of the two sisters. Goodwill and
gentleness, and discreet gaiety, a melancholy comprehension of life, and a
faith, not to be shaken, in themselves, in the lofty and noble destiny of
man on earth, courteous attention to their young companion, in
intellectual endowments perhaps not fully their equal, but still by the
qualities of his heart quite deserving of their indulgence ... such were
the characteristics and the feelings reflected at that moment on the faces
of the young ladies. Bublitsyn called to Ivan Afanasiitch for no special
reason, simply in the fulness of his inner satisfaction; he bowed to him
with excessive friendliness and cordiality. The young ladies even looked
at him with gentle amiability, as at a man whose acquaintance they would
not object to.... The good, sleek, quiet horses went by Ivan Afanasiitch
at a gentle trot; the carriage rolled smoothly along the broad road,
carrying with it good-humoured, girlish laughter; he caught a final
glimpse of Mr. Tiutiurov's hat; the two outer horses turned their heads on
each side, jauntily stepping over the short, green grass ... the coachman
gave a whistle of approbation and warning, the carriage disappeared behind
A long while poor Pyetushkov remained standing still.
'I'm a poor lonely creature,' he whispered at last ... 'alone in the
A little boy in tatters stopped before him, looked timidly at him, held
out his hand ...
'For Christ's sake, good gentleman.'
Pyetushkov pulled out a copper.
'For your loneliness, poor orphan,' he said with effort, and he walked
back to the baker's shop. On the threshold of Vassilissa's room Ivan
'Yes,' he thought, 'these are my friends. Here is my family, this is
it.... And here Bublitsyn and there Bublitsyn.'
Vassilissa was sitting with her back to him, winding worsted, and
carelessly singing to herself; she was wearing a striped cotton gown; her
hair was done up anyhow.... The room, insufferably hot, smelt of feather
beds and old rags; jaunty, reddish-brown 'Prussians' scurried rapidly here
and there across the walls; on the decrepit chest of drawers, with holes
in it where the locks should have been, beside a broken jar, lay a woman's
shabby slipper.... Kozlov's poem was still where it had fallen on the
floor.... Pyetushkov shook his head, folded his arms, and went away. He
At home he called for his things to dress. Onisim slouched off after his
better coat. Pyetushkov had a great desire to draw Onisim into
conversation, but Onisim preserved a sullen silence. At last Ivan
Afanasiitch could hold out no longer.
'Why don't you ask me where I'm going?'
'Why, what do I want to know where you're going for?'
'What for? Why, suppose some one comes on urgent business, and asks,
"Where's Ivan Afanasiitch?" And then you can tell him, "Ivan Afanasiitch
has gone here or there."'
'Urgent business.... But who ever does come to you on urgent business?'
'Why, are you beginning to be rude again? Again, hey?'
Onisim turned away, and fell to brushing the coat.
'Really, Onisim, you are a most disagreeable person.'
Onisim looked up from under his brows at his master.
'And you 're always like this. Yes, positively always.'
'But what's the good of my asking you where you're going, Ivan
Afanasiitch? As though I didn't know! To the girl at the baker's shop!'
'There, that's just where you're wrong! that's just where you're mistaken!
Not to her at all. I don't intend going to see the girl at the baker's
shop any more.'
Onisim dropped his eyelids and brandished the brush. Pyetushkov waited for
his approbation; but his servant remained speechless.
'It's not the proper thing,' Pyetushkov went on in a severe voice—'it's
unseemly.... Come, tell me what you think?'
'What am I to think? It's for you to say. What business have I to think?'
Pyetushkov put on his coat. 'He doesn't believe me, the beast,' he thought
He went out of the house, but he did not go to see any one. He walked
about the streets. He directed his attention to the sunset. At last a
little after eight o'clock he returned home. He wore a smile; he
repeatedly shrugged his shoulders, as though marvelling at his own folly.
'Yes,' thought he, 'this is what comes of a strong will....'
Next day Pyetushkov got up rather late. He had not passed a very good
night, did not go out all day, and was fearfully bored. Pyetushkov read
through all his poor books, and praised aloud one story in the Library of
Good Reading. As he went to bed, he told Onisim to give him his pipe.
Onisim handed him a wretched pipe. Pyetushkov began smoking; the pipe
wheezed like a broken-winded horse.
'How disgusting!' cried Ivan Afanasiitch; 'where's my cherry wood pipe?'
'At the baker's shop,' Onisim responded tranquilly.
Pyetushkov blinked spasmodically.
'Well, you wish me to go for it?'
'No, you needn't; don't go ... no need, don't go, do you hear?'
The night passed somehow. In the morning Onisim, as usual, gave Pyetushkov
on the blue sprigged plate a new white roll. Ivan Afanasiitch looked out
of window and asked Onisim:
'You've been to the baker's shop?'
'Who's to go, if I don't?'
Pyetushkov became plunged in meditation.
'Tell me, please, did you see any one there?'
'Of course I did.'
'Whom did you see there, now, for instance?'
'Why, of course, Vassilissa.'
Ivan Afanasiitch was silent. Onisim cleared the table, and was just going
out of the room....
'Onisim,' Pyetushkov cried faintly.
'What is it?'
'Er ... did she ask after me?'
'Of course she didn't.'
Pyetushkov set his teeth. 'Yes,' he thought, 'that's all it's worth, her
love, indeed....' His head dropped. 'Absurd I was, to be sure,' he thought
again. 'A fine idea to read her poetry. A girl like that! Why, she's a
fool! Why, she's good for nothing but to lie on the stove and eat
pancakes. Why, she's a post, a perfect post; an uneducated workgirl.'
'She's never come,' he whispered, two hours later, still sitting in the
same place, 'she's never come. To think of it; why, she could see that I
left her out of temper; why, she might know that I was hurt. There's love
for you! And she did not even ask if I were well. Never even said, "Is
Ivan Afanasiitch quite well?" She hasn't seen me for two whole days—and
not a sign.... She's even again, maybe, thought fit to meet that Bub—Lucky
fellow. Ouf, devil take it, what a fool I am!'
Pyetushkov got up, paced up and down the room in silence, stood still,
knitted his brows slightly and scratched his neck. 'However,' he said
aloud, 'I'll go to see her. I must see what she's about there. I must make
her feel ashamed. Most certainly ... I'll go. Onisim! my clothes.'
'Well,' he mused as he dressed, 'we shall see what comes of it. She may, I
dare say, be angry with me. And after all, a man keeps coming and coming,
and all of a sudden, for no rhyme or reason, goes and gives up coming.
Well, we shall see.'
Ivan Afanasiitch went out of the house, and made his way to the baker's
shop. He stopped at the little gate, he wanted to straighten himself out
and set himself to rights.... Pyetushkov clutched at the folds of his coat
with both hands, and almost pulled them out altogether.... Convulsively he
twisted his tightly compressed neck, fastened the top hook of his collar,
drew a deep breath....
'Why are you standing there?' Praskovia Ivanovna bawled to him from the
little window. 'Come in.'
Pyetushkov started, and went in. Praskovia Ivanovna met him in the
'Why didn't you come to see us yesterday, my good sir? Was it, maybe, some
ailment prevented you?'
'Yes, I had something of a headache yesterday....'
'Ah, you should have put cucumber on your temples, my good sir. It would
have taken it away in a twinkling. Is your head aching now?'
'No, it's not.'
'Ah well, and thank Thee, O Lord, for it.'
Ivan Afanasiitch went off into the back room. Vassilissa saw him.
'Ah! good day, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'Good day, Vassilissa Ivanovna.'
'Where have you put the tap, Ivan Afanasiitch?'
'Tap? what tap?'
'The wine-tap ... our tap. You must have taken it home with you. You are
such a one ... Lord, forgive us....'
Pyetushkov put on a dignified and chilly air.
'I will direct my man to look. Seeing that I was not here yesterday,' he
'Ah, why, to be sure, you weren't here yesterday.' Vassilissa squatted
down on her heels, and began rummaging in the chest....
'Aunt, hi! aunt!'
'Have you taken my neckerchief?'
'Why, the yellow one.'
'The yellow one?'
'Yes, the yellow, figured one.'
'No, I've not taken it.'
Pyetushkov bent down to Vassilissa.
'Listen to me, Vassilissa; listen to what I am saying to you. It is not a
matter of taps or of neckerchiefs just now; you can attend to such trifles
Vassilissa did not budge from her position; she only lifted her head.
'You just tell me, on your conscience, do you love me or not? That's what
I want to know, once for all.'
'Ah, what a one you are, Ivan Afanasiitch.... Well, then, of course.'
'If you love me, how was it you didn't come to see me yesterday? Had you
no time? Well, you might have sent to find out if I were ill, as I didn't
turn up. But it's little you cared. I might die, I dare say, you wouldn't
'Ah, Ivan Afanasiitch, one can't be always thinking of one thing, one's
got one's work to do.'
'To be sure,' responded Pyetushkov; 'but all the same ... And it's
improper to laugh at your elders.... It's not right. Moreover, it's as
well in certain cases ... But where's my pipe?'
'Here's your pipe.'
Pyetushkov began smoking.
Several days slipped by again, apparently rather tranquilly. But a storm
was getting nearer. Pyetushkov suffered tortures, was jealous, never took
his eyes off Vassilissa, kept an alarmed watch over her, annoyed her
horribly. Behold, one evening, Vassilissa dressed herself with more care
than usual, and, seizing a favourable instant, sallied off to make a visit
somewhere. Night came on, she had not returned. Pyetushkov at sunset went
home to his lodgings, and at eight o'clock in the morning ran to the
baker's shop.... Vassilissa had not come in. With an inexpressible sinking
at his heart, he waited for her right up to dinner-time.... They sat down
to the table without her....
'Whatever can have become of her?' Praskovia Ivanovna observed
'You spoil her, you simply spoil her utterly!' Pyetushkov repeated, in
'Eh! my good sir, there's no looking after a girl!' responded Praskovia
Ivanovna. 'Let her go her way! So long as she does her work.... Why
shouldn't folks enjoy themselves? ...'
A cold shudder ran over Pyetushkov. At last, towards evening, Vassilissa
made her appearance. This was all he was waiting for. Majestically
Pyetushkov rose from his seat, folded his arms, scowled menacingly.... But
Vassilissa looked him boldly in the face, laughed impudently, and before
he could utter a single word she went quickly into her own room, and
locked herself in. Ivan Afanasiitch opened his mouth, looked in amazement
at Praskovia Ivanovna.... Praskovia Ivanovna cast down her eyes. Ivan
Afanasiitch stood still a moment, groped after his cap, put it on askew,
and went out without closing his mouth.
He reached home, took up a leather cushion, and with it flung himself on
the sofa, with his face to the wall. Onisim looked in out of the passage,
went into the room, leaned his back against the door, took a pinch of
snuff, and crossed his legs.
'Are you unwell, Ivan Afanasiitch?' he asked Pyetushkov.
Pyetushkov made no answer.
'Shall I go for the doctor?' Onisim continued, after a brief pause.
'I'm quite well.... Go away,' Ivan Afanasiitch articulated huskily.
'Well? ... no, you're not well, Ivan Afanasiitch.... Is this what you call
Pyetushkov did not speak.
'Just look at yourself. You've grown so thin, that you're simply not like
yourself. And what's it all about? It's enough to turn one's brain to
think of it. And you a gentleman born, too!'
Onisim paused. Pyetushkov did not stir.
'Is that the way gentlemen go on? They'd amuse themselves a bit, to be
sure ... why shouldn't they ... they'd amuse themselves, and then drop
it.... They may well say, Fall in love with Old Nick, and you'll think him
Ivan Afanasiitch merely writhed.
'Well, it's really like this, Ivan Afanasiitch. If any one had said this
and that of you, and your goings on, why, I would have said, "Get along
with you, you fool, what do you take me for?" Do you suppose I'd have
believed it? Why, as it is, I see it with my own eyes, and I can't believe
it. Worse than this nothing can be. Has she put some spell over you or
what? Why, what is there in her? If you come to consider, she's below
contempt, really. She can't even speak as she ought.... She's simply a
baggage! Worse, even!'
'Go away,' Ivan Afanasiitch moaned into the cushion.
'No, I'm not going away, Ivan Afanasiitch. Who's to speak, if I don't?
Why, upon my word! Here, you 're breaking your heart now ... and over
what? Eh, over what? tell me that!'
'Oh, go away, Onisim,' Pyetushkov moaned again. Onisim, for propriety's
sake, was silent for a little while.
'And another thing,' he began again, 'she's no feeling of gratitude
whatever. Any other girl wouldn't know how to do enough to please you;
while she! ... she doesn't even think of you. Why, it's simply a disgrace.
Why, the things people are saying about you, one cannot repeat them, they
positively cry shame on me. If I could have known beforehand, I'd
'Oh, go away, do, devil!' shrieked Pyetushkov, not stirring from his
place, however, nor raising his head.
'Ivan Afanasiitch, for mercy's sake,' pursued the ruthless Onisim. 'I'm
speaking for your good. Despise her, Ivan Afanasiitch; you simply break it
off. Listen to me, or else I'll fetch a wise woman; she'll break the spell
in no time. You'll laugh at it yourself, later on; you'll say to me,
"Onisim, why, it's marvellous how such things happen sometimes!" You just
consider yourself: girls like her, they're like dogs ... you've only to
whistle to them....'
Like one frantic, Pyetushkov jumped up from the sofa ... but, to the
amazement of Onisim, who was already lifting both hands to the level of
his cheeks, he sat down again, as though some one had cut away his legs
from under him.... Tears were rolling down his pale face, a tuft of hair
stood up straight on the top of his head, his eyes looked dimmed ... his
drawn lips were quivering ... his head sank on his breast.
Onisim looked at Pyetushkov and plumped heavily down on his knees.
'Dear master, Ivan Afanasiitch,' he cried, 'your honour! Be pleased to
punish me. I'm a fool. I've troubled you, Ivan Afanasiitch.... How did I
dare! Be pleased to punish me, your honour.... It's not worth your while
to weep over my silly words ... dear master. Ivan Afanasiitch....'
But Pyetushkov did not even look at his servant; he turned away and buried
himself in the corner of the sofa again.
Onisim got up, went up to his master, stood over him, and twice he tugged
at his own hair.
'Wouldn't you like to undress, sir ... you should go to bed ... you should
take some raspberry tea ... don't grieve, please your honour.... It's only
half a trouble, it's all nothing ... it'll be all right in the end,' he
said to him every two minutes....
But Pyetushkov did not get up from the sofa, and only twitched his
shoulders now and then, and drew up his knees to his stomach....
Onisim did not leave his side all night. Towards morning Pyetushkov fell
asleep, but he did not sleep long. At seven o'clock he got up from the
sofa, pale, dishevelled, and exhausted, and asked for tea.
Onisim with amazing eagerness and speed brought the samovar.
'Ivan Afanasiitch,' he began at last, in a timid voice, 'your honour is
not angry with me?'
'Why should I be angry with you, Onisim?' answered poor Pyetushkov. 'You
were perfectly right yesterday, and I quite agreed with you in
'I only spoke through my devotion to you, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'I know that.'
Pyetushkov was silent and hung his head.
Onisim saw that things were in a bad way.
'Ivan Afanasiitch,' he said suddenly.
'Would you like me to fetch Vassilissa here?'
Pyetushkov flushed red.
'No, Onisim, I don't wish it. ('Yes, indeed! as if she would come!' he
thought to himself.) One must be firm. It is all nonsense. Yesterday, I
... It's a disgrace. You are right. One must cut it all short, once for
all, as they say. Isn't that true?'
'It's the gospel truth your honour speaks, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
Pyetushkov sank again into reverie. He wondered at himself, he did not
seem to know himself. He sat without stirring and stared at the floor.
Thoughts whirled round within him, like smoke or fog, while his heart felt
empty and heavy at once.
'But what's the meaning of it, after all,' he thought sometimes, and again
he grew calmer. 'It's nonsense, silliness!' he said aloud, and passed his
hand over his face, shook himself, and his hand dropped again on his knee,
his eyes again rested on the floor.
Intently and mournfully Onisim kept watch on his master.
Pyetushkov lifted his head.
'Tell me, Onisim,' he began, 'is it true, are there really such witches'
'There are, to be sure there are,' answered Onisim, as he thrust one foot
forward. 'Does your honour know the non-commissioned officer, Krupovaty?
... His brother was ruined by witchcraft. He was bewitched to love an old
woman, a cook, if your honour only can explain that! They gave him nothing
but a morsel of rye bread, with a muttered spell, of course. And
Krupovaty's brother simply lost his heart to the cook, he fairly ran after
the cook, he positively adored her—couldn't keep his eyes off her.
She might tell him to do anything, he'd obey her on the spot. She'd even
make a joke of him before other people, before strangers. Well, she drove
him into a decline, at last. And so it was Krupovaty's brother died. And
you know, she was a cook, and an old woman too, very old. (Onisim took a
pinch of snuff.) Confound the lot of them, these girls and women-folk!'
'She doesn't care for me a bit, that's clear, at last; that's beyond all
doubt, at last,' Pyetushkov muttered in an undertone, gesticulating with
his head and hands as though he were explaining to a perfectly extraneous
person some perfectly extraneous fact.
'Yes,' Onisim resumed, 'there are women like that.'
'There are,' listlessly repeated Pyetushkov, in a tone half questioning,
Onisim looked intently at his master.
'Ivan Afanasiitch,' he began, 'wouldn't you have a snack of something?'
'Wouldn't I have a snack of something?' repeated Pyetushkov.
'Or may be you'd like to have a pipe?'
'To have a pipe?' repeated Pyetushkov.
'So this is what it's coming to,' muttered Onisim. 'It's gone deep, it
The creak of boots resounded in the passage, and then there was heard the
usual suppressed cough which announces the presence of a person of
subordinate position. Onisim went out and promptly came back, accompanied
by a diminutive soldier with a little, old woman's face, in a patched
cloak yellow with age, and wearing neither breeches nor cravat. Pyetushkov
was startled; while the soldier drew himself up, wished him good day, and
handed him a large envelope bearing the government seal. In this envelope
was a note from the major in command of the garrison: he called upon
Pyetushkov to come to him without fail or delay.
Pyetushkov turned the note over in his hands, and could not refrain from
asking the messenger, did he know why the major desired his presence,
though he was very well aware of the utter futility of his question.
'We cannot tell!' the soldier cried, with great effort, yet hardly
audibly, as though he were half asleep.
'Isn't he summoning the other officers?' Pyetushkov pursued.
'We cannot tell,' the soldier cried a second time, in just the same voice.
'All right, you can go,' pronounced Pyetushkov.
The soldier wheeled round to the left, scraping his foot as he did so, and
slapping himself below the spine (this was considered smart in the
Pyetushkov exchanged glances with Onisim, who at once assumed a look of
anxiety. Without a word Ivan Afanasiitch set off to the major's.
The major was a man of sixty, corpulent and clumsily built, with a red and
bloated face, a short neck, and a continual trembling in his fingers,
resulting from excessive indulgence in strong drink. He belonged to the
class of so-called 'bourbons,' that's to say, soldiers risen from the
ranks; had learned to read at thirty, and spoke with difficulty, partly
from shortness of breath, partly from inability to follow his own thought.
His temperament exhibited all the varieties known to science: in the
morning, before drinking, he was melancholy; in the middle of the day,
choleric; and in the evening, phlegmatic, that is to say, he did nothing
at that time but snore and grunt till he was put to bed. Ivan Afanasiitch
appeared before him during the choleric period. He found him sitting on a
sofa, in an open dressing-gown, with a pipe between his teeth. A fat,
crop-eared cat had taken up her position beside him.
'Aha! he's come!' growled the major, casting a sidelong glance out of his
pewtery eyes upon Pyetushkov, and not stirring from his place. 'Sit down.
Well, I'm going to give you a talking to. I've wanted to get hold of you
this long while.'
Pyetushkov sank into a chair.
'For,' the major began, with an unexpected lurch of his whole body,
'you're an officer, d'ye see, and so you've got to behave yourself
according to rule. If you'd been a soldier, I'd have flogged you, and
that's all about it, but, as 'tis, you're an officer. Did any one ever see
the like of it? Disgracing yourself—is that a nice thing?'
'Allow me to know to what these remarks may refer?' Pyetushkov was
'I'll have no arguing! I dislike that beyond everything. I've said: I
dislike it; and that's all about it! Ugh—why, your hooks are not in
good form even;—what a disgrace! He sits, day in and day out, at the
baker's shop; and he a gentleman born! There's a petticoat to be found
there—and so there he sits. Let her go to the devil, the petticoat!
Why, they do say he puts the bread in the oven. It's a stain on the
uniform ... so it is!'
'Allow me to submit,' articulated Pyetushkov with a cold chill at his
heart, 'that all this, as far as I can make out, refers to my private
life, so to say....'
'No arguing with me, I tell you! Private life, he protests, too! If it had
been a matter of the service I'd have sent you straight to the guard-room!
Alley, marsheer! Because of the oath. Why, there was a whole birch copse,
maybe, used upon my back, so I should think I know the service; every rule
of discipline I'm very well up in. And I'd have you to understand, I say
this just for the honour of the uniform. You're disgracing the uniform ...
so you are. I say this like a father ... yes. Because all that's put in my
charge. I've to answer for it. And you dare to argue too!' the major
shrieked with sudden fury, and his face turned purple, and he foamed at
the mouth, while the cat put its tail in the air and jumped down to the
ground. 'Why, do you know ... why, do you know what I can do? ... I can do
anything, anything, anything! Why, do you know whom you're talking to?
Your superior officer gives you orders and you argue! Your superior
officer ... your superior officer....'
Here the major positively choked and spluttered, while poor Pyetushkov
could only draw himself up and turn pale, sitting on the very edge of his
'I must have' ... the major continued, with an imperious wave of his
trembling hand, 'I must have everything ... up to the mark! Conduct
first-class! I'm not going to put up with any irregularities! You can make
friends with whom you like, that makes no odds to me! But if you are a
gentleman, why, act as such ... behave like one! No putting bread in the
oven for me! No calling a draggletail old woman auntie! No disgracing the
uniform! Silence! No arguing!'
The major's voice broke. He took breath, and turning towards the door into
the passage, bawled, 'Frolka, you scoundrel! The herrings!'
Pyetushkov rose hurriedly and darted away, almost upsetting the page-boy,
who ran to meet him, carrying some sliced herring and a stout decanter of
spirits on an iron tray.
'Silence! No arguing!' sounded after Pyetushkov the disjointed
exclamations of his exasperated superior officer.
A queer sensation overmastered Ivan Afanasiitch when, at last, he found
himself in the street.
'Why am I walking as it were in a dream?' he thought to himself. 'Am I out
of my mind, or what? Why, it passes all belief, at last. Come, damn it,
she's tired of me, come, and I've grown tired of her, come, and ... What
is there out of the way in that?
'I must put an end to it, once for all,' he said almost aloud. 'I'll go
and speak out decisively for the last time, so that it may never come up
Pyetushkov made his way with rapid step to the baker's shop. The nephew of
the hired man, Luka, a little boy, friend and confidant of the goat that
lived in the yard, darted swiftly to the little gate, directly he caught
sight of Ivan Afanasiitch in the distance.
Praskovia Ivanovna came out to meet Pyetushkov.
'Is your niece at home?' asked Pyetushkov.
Pyetushkov was inwardly relieved at Vassilissa's absence.
'I came to have a few words with you, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
'What about, my good sir?'
'I'll tell you. You comprehend that after all ... that has passed ...
after such, so to say, behaviour (Pyetushkov was a little confused) ... in
a word ... But, pray, don't be angry with me, though.'
'Certainly not, sir.'
'On the contrary, enter into my position, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
'You're a reasonable woman, you'll understand of yourself, that ... that I
can't go on coming to see you any more.'
'Certainly, sir,' Praskovia Ivanovna repeated slowly.
'I assure you I greatly regret it; I confess it is positively painful to
me, genuinely painful ...'
'You know best, sir,' Praskovia Ivanovna rejoined serenely. 'It's for you
to decide, sir. And, oh, if you'll allow me, I'll give you your little
Pyetushkov had not at all anticipated such a prompt acquiescence. He had
not desired acquiescence at all; he had only wanted to frighten Praskovia
Ivanovna, and above all Vassilissa. He felt wretched.
'I know,' he began, 'this will not be disagreeable to Vassilissa; on the
contrary, I believe she will be glad.'
Praskovia Ivanovna got out her reckoning beads, and began rattling the
'On the other hand,' continued Pyetushkov, growing more and more agitated,
'if Vassilissa were, for instance, to give an explanation of her behaviour
... possibly.... Though, of course ... I don't know, possibly, I might
perceive that after all there was no great matter for blame in it.'
'There's thirty-seven roubles and forty kopecks in notes to your account,
sir,' observed Praskovia Ivanovna. 'Here, would you be pleased to go
Ivan Afanasiitch made no reply.
'Eighteen dinners at seventy kopecks each; twelve roubles sixty kopecks.'
'And so we are to part, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
'If so it must be, sir. Things do turn out so. Twelve samovars at ten
kopecks each ...'
'But you might just tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna, where it was Vassilissa
went, and what it was she ...'
'Oh, I never asked her, sir.... One rouble twenty kopecks in silver.'
Ivan Afanasiitch sank into meditation.
'Kvas and effervescing drinks,' pursued Praskovia Ivanovna, holding the
counters apart on the frame not with her first, but her third finger,
'half a rouble in silver. Sugar and rolls for tea, half a rouble. Four
packets of tobacco bought by your orders, eighty kopecks in silver. To the
tailor Kuprian Apollonov ...'
Ivan Afanasiitch suddenly raised his head, put out his hand and mixed up
'What are you about, my good man?' cried Praskovia Ivanovna. 'Don't you
'Praskovia Ivanovna,' replied Pyetushkov, with a hurried smile, 'I've
thought better of it. I was only, you know ... joking. We'd better remain
friends and go on in the old way. What nonsense it is! How can we separate—tell
me that, please?'
Praskovia Ivanovna looked down and made him no reply.
'Come, we've been talking nonsense, and there's an end of it,' pursued
Ivan Afanasiitch, walking up and down the room, rubbing his hands, and, as
it were, resuming his ancient rights. 'Amen! and now I'd better have a
Praskovia Ivanovna still did not move from her place....
'I see you are angry with me,' said Pyetushkov.
'I've offended you, perhaps. Well! well! forgive me generously.'
'How could you offend me, my good sir? No offence about it.... Only,
please, sir,' added Praskovia Ivanovna, bowing, 'be so good as not to go
on coming to us.'
'It's not for you, sir, to be friends with us, your honour. So, please, do
us the favour ...'
Praskovia Ivanovna went on bowing.
'What ever for?' muttered the astounded Pyetushkov.
'Oh, nothing, sir. For mercy's sake ...'
'No, Praskovia Ivanovna, you must explain this! ...'
'Vassilissa asks you. She says, "I thank you, thank you very much, and
from my heart; only for the future, your honour, give us up."'
Praskovia Ivanovna bowed down almost to Pyetushkov's feet.
'Vassilissa, you say, begs me not to come?'
'Just so, your honour. When your honour came in to-day, and said what you
did, that you didn't wish, you said, to visit us any more, I felt
relieved, sir, that I did; thinks I, Well, thank God, how nicely it's all
come about! But for that, I should have had hard work to bring my tongue
to say it.... Be so good, sir.'
Pyetushkov turned red and pale almost at the same instant. Praskovia
Ivanovna still went on bowing....
'Very good,' Ivan Afanasiitch cried sharply. 'Good-bye.'
He turned abruptly and put on his cap.
'But the little bill, sir....'
'Send it ... my orderly shall pay you.'
Pyetushkov went with resolute steps out of the baker's shop, and did not
even look round.
A fortnight passed. At first Pyetushkov bore up in an extraordinary way.
He went out, and visited his comrades, with the exception, of course, of
Bublitsyn; but in spite of the exaggerated approbation of Onisim, he
almost went out of his mind at last from wretchedness, jealousy, and
ennui. Conversations with Onisim about Vassilissa were the only thing that
afforded him some consolation. The conversation was always begun,
'scratched up,' by Pyetushkov; Onisim responded unwillingly.
'It's a strange thing, you know,' Ivan Afanasiitch would say, for
instance, as he lay on the sofa, while Onisim stood in his usual attitude,
leaning against the door, with his hands folded behind his back, 'when you
come to think of it, what it was I saw in that girl. One would say that
there was nothing unusual in her. It's true she has a good heart. That one
can't deny her.'
'Good heart, indeed!' Onisim would answer with displeasure.
'Come, now, Onisim,' Pyetushkov went on, 'one must tell the truth. It's a
thing of the past now; it's no matter to me now, but justice is justice.
You don't know her. She's very good-hearted. Not a single beggar does she
let pass by; she'll always give, if it's only a crust of bread. Oh! And
she's of a cheerful temper, that one must allow, too.'
'What a notion! I don't know where you see the cheerful temper!'
'I tell you ... you don't know her. And she's not mercenary either ...
that's another thing. She's not grasping, there's no doubt of it. Why I
never gave her anything, as you know.'
'That's why she's flung you over.'
'No, that's not why!' responded Pyetushkov with a sigh.
'Why, you're in love with her to this day,' Onisim retorted malignantly.
'You'd be glad to go back there as before.'
'That's nonsense you're talking. No, my lad, you don't know me either, I
can see. Be sent away, and then go dancing attendance—no, thank you,
I'd rather be excused. No, I tell you. You may believe me, it's all a
thing of the past now.'
'Pray God it be so!'
'But why ever shouldn't I be fair to her, now after all? If now I say
she's not good-looking—why, who'd believe me?'
'A queer sort of good looks!'
'Well, find me,—well, mention anybody better-looking ...'
'Oh, you'd better go back to her, then! ...'
'Stupid! Do you suppose that's why I say so? Understand me ...'
'Oh! I understand you,' Onisim answered with a heavy sigh.
Another week passed by. Pyetushkov had positively given up talking with
his Onisim, and had given up going out. From morning till night he lay on
the sofa, his hands behind his head. He began to get thin and pale, eat
unwillingly and hurriedly, and did not smoke at all. Onisim could only
shake his head, as he looked at him.
'You're not well, Ivan Afanasiitch,' he said to him more than once.
'No, I'm all right,' replied Pyetushkov.
At last, one fine day (Onisim was not at home) Pyetushkov got up, rummaged
in his chest of drawers, put on his cloak, though the sun was rather hot,
went stealthily out into the street, and came back a quarter of an hour
later.... He carried something under his cloak....
Onisim was not at home. The whole morning he had been sitting in his
little room, deliberating with himself, grumbling and swearing between his
teeth, and, at last, he sallied off to Vassilissa. He found her in the
shop. Praskovia Ivanovna was asleep on the stove, rhythmically and
'Ah, how d'ye do, Onisim Sergeitch,' began Vassilissa, with a smile; 'why
haven't we seen anything of you for so long?'
'Why are you so depressed? Would you like a cup of tea?'
'It's not me we're talking about now,' rejoined Onisim, in a tone of
'Why, what then?'
'What! Don't you understand me? What! What have you done to my master,
come, you tell me that.'
'What I've done to him?'
'What have you done to him? ... You go and look at him. Why, before we can
look round, he'll be in a decline, or dying outright, maybe.'
'It's not my fault, Onisim Sergeitch.'
'Not your fault! God knows. Why, he's lost his heart to you. And you, God
forgive you, treated him as if he were one of yourselves. Don't come, says
you, I'm sick of you. Why, though he's not much to boast of, he's a
gentleman anyway. He's a gentleman born, you know.... Do you realise
'But he's such a dull person, Onisim Sergeitch....'
'Dull! So you must have merry fellows about you!'
'And it's not so much that he's dull: he's so cross, so jealous.'
'Ah, you, you're as haughty as a princess! He was in your way, I dare
'But you yourself, Onisim Sergeitch, if you remember, were put out with
him about it; "Why is he such friends?" you said; "what's he always coming
'Well, was I to be pleased with him for it, do you suppose?'
'Well, then, why are you angry with me now? Here, he's given up coming.'
Onisim positively stamped.
'But what am I to do with him, if he's such a madman?' he added, dropping
'But how am I in fault? What can I do?'
'I'll tell you what: come with me to him.'
'Why won't you come?'
'But why should I go to see him? Upon my word!'
'Why? Why, because he says you've a good heart; let me see if you've a
'But what good can I do him?'
'Oh, that's my business. You may be sure things are in a bad way, since
I've come to you. It's certain I could think of nothing else to do.'
Onisim paused for a while.
'Well, come along, Vassilissa, please, come along.'
'Oh, Onisim Sergeitch, I don't want to be friendly with him again ...'
'Well, and you needn't—who's talking of it? You've only to say a
couple of words; to say, Why does your honour grieve? ... give over....
'Really, Onisim Sergeitch ...'
'Why, am I to go down on my knees to you, eh? All right—there, I'm
on my knees ...'
'But really ...'
'Why, what a girl it is! Even that doesn't touch her! ...'
Vassilissa at last consented, put a kerchief on her head, and went out
'You wait here a little, in the passage,' he said to her, when they
reached Pyetushkov's abode, 'and I'll go and let the master know ...'
He went in to Ivan Afanasiitch. Pyetushkov was standing in the middle of
the room, both hands in his pockets, his legs excessively wide apart; he
was slightly swaying backwards and forwards. His face was hot, and his
eyes were sparkling.
'Hullo, Onisim,' he faltered amiably, articulating the consonants very
indistinctly and thickly: 'hullo, my lad. Ah, my lad, when you weren't
here ... he, he, he ...' Pyetushkov laughed and made a sudden duck forward
with his nose. 'Yes, it's an accomplished fact, he, he, he.... However,'
he added, trying to assume a dignified air, 'I'm all right.' He tried to
lift his foot, but almost fell over, and to preserve his dignity
pronounced in a deep bass, 'Boy, bring my pipe!'
Onisim gazed in astonishment at his master, glanced round.... In the
window stood an empty dark-green bottle, with the inscription: 'Best
'I've been drinking, my lad, that's all,' Pyetushkov went on. 'I've been
and taken it. I've been drinking, and that's all about it. And where've
you been? Tell us ... don't be shy ... tell us. You're a good hand at a
'Ivan Afanasiitch, mercy on us!' wailed Onisim.
'To be sure. To be sure I will,' replied Pyetushkov with a vague wave of
his hand. 'I'll have mercy on you, and forgive you. I forgive every one, I
forgive you, and Vassilissa I forgive, and every one, every one. Yes, my
lad, I've been drinking.... Dri-ink-ing, lad.... Who's that?' he cried
suddenly, pointing to the door into the passage; 'who's there?'
'Nobody's there,' Onisim answered hastily: 'who should be there? ... where
are you going?'
'No, no,' repeated Pyetushkov, breaking away from Onisim, 'let me go, I
saw—don't you talk to me,—I saw there, let me go....
Vassilissa!' he shrieked all at once.
Pyetushkov turned pale.
'Well ... well, why don't you come in?' he said at last. 'Come in,
Vassilissa, come in. I'm very glad to see you, Vassilissa.'
Vassilissa glanced at Onisim and came into the room. Pyetushkov went
nearer to her.... He heaved deep, irregular breaths. Onisim watched him.
Vassilissa stole timid glances at both of them.
'Sit down, Vassilissa,' Ivan Afanasiitch began again: 'thanks for coming.
Excuse my being ... what shall I say? ... not quite fit to be seen. I
couldn't foresee, couldn't really, you'll own that yourself. Come, sit
down, see here, on the sofa ... So ... I'm expressing myself all right, I
Vassilissa sat down.
'Well, good day to you,' Ivan Afanasiitch pursued. 'Come, how are you?
what have you been doing?'
'I'm well, thank God, Ivan Afanasiitch. And you?'
'I? as you see! A ruined man. And ruined by whom? By you, Vassilissa. But
I'm not angry with you. Only I'm a ruined man. You ask him. (He pointed to
Onisim.) Don't you mind my being drunk. I'm drunk, certainly; only I'm a
ruined man. That's why I'm drunk, because I'm a ruined man.'
'Lord have mercy on us, Ivan Afanasiitch!'
'A ruined man, Vassilissa, I tell you. You may believe me. I've never
deceived you. Oh, and how's your aunt?'
'Very well, Ivan Afanasiitch. Thank you.'
Pyetushkov began swaying violently.
'But you're not quite well to-day, Ivan Afanasiitch. You ought to lie
'No, I'm quite well, Vassilissa. No, don't say I'm not well; you'd better
say I've fallen into evil ways, lost my morals. That's what would be just.
I won't dispute that.'
Ivan Afanasiitch gave a lurch backwards. Onisim ran forward and held his
'And who's to blame for it? I'll tell you, if you like, who's to blame.
I'm to blame, in the first place. What ought I to have said? I ought to
have said to you: Vassilissa, I love you. Good—well, will you marry
me? Will you? It's true you're a working girl, granted; but that's all
right. It's done sometimes. Why, there, I knew a fellow, he got married
like that. Married a Finnish servant-girl. Took and married her. And you'd
have been happy with me. I'm a good-natured chap, I am! Never you mind my
being drunk, you look at my heart. There, you ask this ... fellow. So, you
see, I turn out to be in fault. And now, of course, I'm a ruined man.'
Ivan Afanasiitch was more and more in need of Onisim's support.
'All the same, you did wrong, very wrong. I loved you, I respected you ...
what's more, I'm ready to go to church with you this minute. Will you?
You've only to say the word, and we'll start at once. Only you wounded me
cruelly ... cruelly. You might at least have turned me away yourself—but
through your aunt, through that fat female! Why, the only joy I had in
life was you. I'm a homeless man, you know, a poor lonely creature! Who is
there now to be kind to me? who says a kind word to me? I'm utterly alone.
Stript bare as a crow. You ask this ...' Ivan Afanasiitch began to cry.
'Vassilissa, listen what I say to you,' he went on: 'let me come and see
you as before. Don't be afraid.... I'll be ... quiet as a mouse. You can
go and see whom you like, I'll—be all right: not a word, no
protests, you know. Eh? do you agree? If you like, I'll go down on my
knees.' (And Ivan Afanasiitch bent his knees, but Onisim held him up under
the arms.) 'Let me go! It's not your business! It's a matter of the
happiness of a whole life, don't you understand, and you hinder....'
Vassilissa did not know what to say.
'You won't ... Well, as you will! God be with you. In that case, good-bye!
Good-bye, Vassilissa. I wish you all happiness and prosperity ... but I
... but I ...'
And Pyetushkov sobbed violently. Onisim with all his might held him up
from behind ... first his face worked, then he burst out crying. And
Vassilissa cried too.
Ten years later, one might have met in the streets of the little town of O——
a thinnish man with a reddish nose, dressed in an old green coat with a
greasy plush collar. He occupied a small garret in the baker's shop, with
which we are familiar. Praskovia Ivanovna was no longer of this world. The
business was carried on by her niece, Vassilissa, and her husband, the
red-haired, dim-eyed baker, Demofont. The man in the green coat had one
weakness: he was over fond of drink. He was, however, always quiet when he
was tipsy. The reader has probably recognised him as Ivan Afanasiitch.