‘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.
VI
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.’
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 288