I
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.