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.
‘What friend?’
‘Oh, Piotr Petrovitch.’
‘Piotr Petrovitch? ... what Piotr Petrovitch?’
‘He’s one of your lot. He’s got such a difficult name.’
‘Bublitsyn?’
‘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?’
Vassilissa laughed.
‘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 mushrooms.’
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.
She obeyed.
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’ time.’
Onisim slouched off.
Pyetushkov waited till he heard the gate bang, and at once went up to Vassilissa.
‘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 arm ...
‘Don’t beat me, Ivan Afanasiitch, don’t beat me,’ Vassilissa whispered in terror.
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 you’ve been.’
‘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? 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?’
‘Write?’
‘Yes, write?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘What about reading?’
‘I can’t read either.’
‘Then who read you my letter?’
‘The deacon.’
Pyetushkov paused.
‘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 book.’
‘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 dulness.’
‘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’sNatalia Dolgorukaia, and the first part ofRoslavlev. He pondered a long while which to choose, and finally made up his mind to take Kozlov’s poem, andRoslavlev.
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?’
‘What say?’
‘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 some willows.
A long while poor Pyetushkov remained standing still.
‘I’m a poor lonely creature,’ he whispered at last ... ‘alone in the world.’
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 Afanasiitch stopped.
‘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 was hurt.
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.’
Onisim smiled.
‘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 to himself.
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?’
‘Yes, sir.’
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?’
‘Ah!’
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 doorway.
‘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 pronounced significantly....
‘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!’
‘What sa-ay?’
‘Have you taken my neckerchief?’
‘What 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 another time.’
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 grieve.’
‘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 serenely....
‘You spoil her, you simply spoil her utterly!’ Pyetushkov repeated, in despair.
‘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 being well?’
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 a beauty.’
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 have....’
‘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 everything.’
‘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.
‘Well?’
‘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’ spells?’
‘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, half perplexed.
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 seems.’