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.
V
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.