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.’