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’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?’
‘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.