The next day my friend arrived.... I mentioned the brigadier, and my visits to him....
‘Oh yes! of course! I know his story,’ answered my friend; ‘I know Madame Lomov very well, the privy councillor’s widow, by whose favour he obtained a home here. Oh, wait a minute; I believe there must be preserved here his letter to the privy councillor’s widow; it was on the strength of that letter that she assigned him his little cot.’ My friend rummaged among his papers and actually found the brigadier’s letter. Here it is word for word, with the omission of the mistakes in spelling. The brigadier, like every one of his epoch, was a little hazy in that respect. But to preserve these errors seemed unnecessary; his letter bears the stamp of his age without them.
‘HONOURED MADAM, RAÏSSA PAVLOVNA!—On the decease of my friend, and your aunt, I had the happiness of addressing to you two letters, the first on the first of June, the second on the sixth of July of the year 1815, while she expired on the sixth of May in that year; in them I discovered to you the feelings of my soul and of my heart, which were crushed under deadly wrongs, and they reflected in full my bitter despair, in truth deserving of commiseration; both letters were despatched by the imperial mail registered, and hence I cannot conceive that they have not been perused by your eye. By the genuine candour of my letters, I had counted upon winning your benevolent attention; but the compassionate feelings of your heart were far removed from me in my woe! Left on the loss of my one only friend, Agrippina Ivanovna, in the most distressed and poverty-stricken circumstances, I rested, by her instructions, all my hopes on your bounty; she, aware of her end approaching, said to me in these words, as it were from the grave, and never can I forget them: “My friend, I have been your serpent, and am guilty of all your unhappiness. I feel how much you have sacrificed for me, and in return I leave you in a disastrous and truly destitute situation; on my death have recourse to Raïssa Pavlovna”—that is, to you—“and implore her aid, invite her succour! She has a feeling heart, and I have confidence in her, that she will not leave you forlorn.” Honoured madam, let me call to witness the all-high Creator of the world that those were her words, and I am speaking with her tongue; and, therefore, trusting firmly in your goodness, to you first of all I addressed myself with my open-hearted and candid letters; but after protracted expectation, receiving no reply to them, I could not conceive otherwise than that your benevolent heart had left me without attention! Such your unfavourable disposition towards me, reduced me to the depths of despair—whither, and to whom, was I to turn in my misfortune I knew not; my soul was troubled, my intellect went astray; at last, for the completion of my ruin, it pleased Providence to chastise me in a still more cruel manner, and to turn my thoughts to your deceased aunt, Fedulia Ivanovna, sister of Agrippina Ivanovna, one in blood, but not one in heart! Having present to myself, before my mind’s eye, that I had been for twenty years devoted to the whole family of your kindred, the Lomovs, especially to Fedulia Ivanovna, who never called Agrippina Ivanovna otherwise than “my heart’s precious treasure,” and me “the most honoured and zealous friend of our family”; picturing all the above, among abundant tears and sighs in the stillness of sorrowful night watches, I thought: “Come, brigadier! so, it seems, it is to be!” and, addressing myself by letter to the said Fedulia Ivanovna, I received a positive assurance that she would share her last crumb with me! The presents sent on by me, more than five hundred roubles’ worth in value, were accepted with supreme satisfaction; and afterwards the money too which I brought with me for my maintenance, Fedulia Ivanovna was pleased, on the pretext of guarding it, to take into her care, to the which, to gratify her, I offered no opposition.
If you ask me whence, and on what ground I conceived such confidence—to the above, madam, there is but one reply: she was sister of Agrippina Ivanovna, and a member of the Lomov family! But alas and alas! all the money aforesaid I was very soon deprived of, and the hopes which I had rested on Fedulia Ivanovna—that she would share her last crumb with me—turned out to be empty and vain; on the contrary, the said Fedulia Ivanovna enriched herself with my property. To wit, on her saint’s day, the fifth of February, I brought her fifty roubles’ worth of green French material, at five roubles the yard; I myself received of all that was promised five roubles’ worth of white piqué for a waistcoat and a muslin handkerchief for my neck, which gifts were purchased in my presence, as I was aware, with my own money—and that was all that I profited by Fedulia Ivanovna’s bounty! So much for the last crumb! And I could further, in all sincerity, disclose the malignant doings of Fedulia Ivanovna to me; and also my expenses, exceeding all reason, as, among the rest, for sweetmeats and fruits, of which Fedulia Ivanovna was exceedingly fond;—but upon all this I am silent, that you may not take such disclosures against the dead in bad part; and also, seeing that God has called her before His judgment seat—and all that I suffered at her hands is blotted out from my heart—and I, as a Christian, forgave her long ago, and pray to God to forgive her!
‘But, honoured madam, Raïssa Pavlovna! Surely you will not blame me for that I was a true and loyal friend of your family, and that I loved Agrippina Ivanovna with a love so great and so insurmountable that I sacrificed to her my life, my honour, and all my fortune! that I was utterly in her hands, and hence could not dispose of myself nor of my property, and she disposed at her will of me and also of my estate! It is known to you also that, owing to her action with her servant, I suffer, though innocent, a deadly wrong—this affair I brought after her death before the senate, before the sixth department—it is still unsettled now—in consequence of which I was made accomplice with her, my estate put under guardianship, and I am still lying under a criminal charge! In my position, at my age, such disgrace is intolerable to me; and it is only left me to console my heart with the mournful reflection that thus, even after Agrippina Ivanovna’s death, I suffer for her sake, and so prove my immutable love and loyal gratitude to her!
‘In my letters, above mentioned, to you, I gave you an account with every detail of Agrippina Ivanovna’s funeral, and what masses were read for her—my affection and love for her spared no outlay! For all the aforesaid, and for the forty days’ requiems, and the reading of the psalter six weeks after for her (in addition to above, fifty roubles of mine were lost, which were given as security for payment for the stone, of which I sent you a description)—on all the aforesaid was spent of my money seven hundred and fifty roubles, in which is included, by way of donation to the church, a hundred and fifty roubles.
‘In the goodness of your heart, hear the cry of a desperate man, crushed beneath a load of the crudest calamities! Only your commiseration and humanity can restore the life of a ruined man! Though living—in the suffering of my heart and soul I am as one dead; dead when I think what I was, and what I am; I was a soldier, and served my country in all fidelity and uprightness, as is the bounden duty of a loyal Russian and faithful subject, and was rewarded with the highest honours, and had a fortune befitting my birth and station; and now I must cringe and beg for a morsel of dry bread; dead above all I am when I think what a friend I have lost ... and what is life to me after that? But there is no hastening one’s end, and the earth will not open, but rather seems turned to stone! And so I call upon you, in the benevolence of your heart, hush the talk of the people, do not expose yourself to universal censure, that for all my unbounded devotion I have not where to lay my head; confound them by your bounty to me, turn the tongues of the evil speakers and slanderers to glorifying your good works—and I make bold in all humility to add, comfort in the grave your most precious aunt, Agrippina Ivanovna, who can never be forgotten, and who for your speedy succour, in answer to my sinful prayers, will spread her protecting wings about your head, and comfort in his declining days a lonely old man, who had every reason to expect a different fate! ... And, with the most profound respect, I have the honour to be, dear madam, your most devoted servant,
Brigadier and cavalier.’
Several years later I paid another visit to my friend’s little place.... Vassily Fomitch had long been dead; he died soon after I made his acquaintance. Cucumber was still flourishing. He conducted me to the tomb of Agrafena Ivanovna. An iron railing enclosed a large slab with a detailed and enthusiastically laudatory epitaph on the deceased woman; and there, beside it, as it were at her feet, could be seen a little mound with a slanting cross on it; the servant of God, the brigadier and cavalier, Vassily Guskov, lay under this mound.... His ashes found rest at last beside the ashes of the creature he had loved with such unbounded, almost undying, love.
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 control....
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 by it.
‘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?’
‘No.’
‘How’s that?—really! I take rolls from you every day, and pay for them regularly.’
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 window-pane.
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 baker’s, hey?’
Onisim looked away rather gloomily, and responded, ‘What do you want to know for?’
‘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?’
‘Vassilissa.’
‘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 chamois-leather gloves.
‘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 nose.
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.
Pyetushkov started.
‘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 Afanasiitch!’
‘The same as you do,’ Pyetushkov replied with some vexation, in a drawling voice.
‘Oh no, Ivan Afanasiitch, not a bit of it.... How can you say so?’
‘Well, why not?’
‘Nonsense, nonsense.’
‘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 pockets.
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.’
‘About me!’
‘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.’
‘Ashamed?’
‘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.’
Onisim paused.
‘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 miserably.
‘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 dress.’
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 feet.
‘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 out walking?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, how I should like....’
‘What say?’
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 that sound.
‘To go out walking, don’t you know, with you ... into the country, or ...’
‘How can you?’
‘Why not?’
‘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?’
‘Yes.’
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 waist.
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 following letter.
‘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, too.’
Onisim slowly relaxed into a smile.
‘Well, I don’t mind if I do, then.’
‘When, then—when?’
‘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 that ...’
She stammered.
‘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 sing-song.
Onisim arrived home. His master was lying on his bed, gazing at the ceiling.
‘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.’
‘What 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 her duty.’
‘Really?’
‘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 her.’
‘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.’
‘Aunt?’
‘Why, didn’t you know?’
‘No, I didn’t know.’
‘Well ...’
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 Pyetushkov.
‘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 articulated:
‘Onisim!’
‘What say?’
‘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 spasmodically.
‘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 is.’
Ivan Afanasiitch thought it discreet not to pursue the subject of the niece further.
‘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 of tea.’
‘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 answer.
‘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 upon love.
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.