A Desperate Character and Other Stories Read online

  1867.

  PYETUSHKOV

  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.

  II

  Some weeks went by. Ivan Afanasiitch had completely forgotten Vassilissa, and chatted in a friendly way with his servant as before. One fine morning there came to see him a certain Bublitsyn, an easy-mannered and very agreeable young man. It is true he sometimes hardly knew himself what he was talking about, and was always, as they say, a little wild; but all the same he had the reputation of being an exceedingly agreeable person to talk to. He smoked a great deal with feverish eagerness, with lifted eyebrows and contracted chest—smoked with an expression of intense anxiety, or, one might rather say, with an expression as though, let him have this one more puff at his pipe, and in a minute he would tell you some quite unexpected piece of news; at times he would even give a grunt and a wave of the hand, while himself sucking at his pipe, as though he had suddenly recollected something extraordinarily amusing or important, then he would open his mouth, let off a few rings of smoke, and utter the most commonplace remarks, or even keep silence altogether. After gossiping a little with Ivan Afanasiitch about the neighbours, about horses, the daughters of the gentry around, and other such edifying topics, Mr. Bublitsyn suddenly winked, pulled up his shock of hair, and, with a sly smile, approached the remarkably dim looking-glass which was the solitary ornament of Ivan Afanasiitch's room.

  'There's no denying the fact,' he pronounced, stroking his light brown whiskers, 'we've got girls here that beat any of your Venus of Medicis hollow…. Have you seen Vassilissa, the baker girl, for instance?' … Mr. Bublitsyn sucked at his pipe.

  Pyetushkov started.

  'But why do I ask you?' pursued Bublitsyn, disappearing in a cloud of smoke,—'you're not the man to notice, don't you know, Ivan Afanasiitch! Goodness knows what you do to occupy yourself, Ivan Afanasiitch!'

  'The same as you do,' Pyetushkov replied with some vexation, in a drawling voice.

  'Oh no, Ivan Afanasiitch, not a bit of it…. How can you say so?'

  'Well, why not?'

  'Nonsense, nonsense.'

  'Why so, why so?'

  Bublitsyn stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and began scrutinising his not very handsome boots.
Pyetushkov felt embarrassed.

  'Ah, Ivan Afanasiitch, Ivan Afanasiitch!' pursued Bublitsyn, as though sparing his feelings. 'But as to Vassilissa, the baker girl, I can assure you: a very, ve-ry fine girl, … ve-ry.'

  Mr. Bublitsyn dilated his nostrils, and slowly plunged his hands into his pockets.

  Strange to relate, Ivan Afanasiitch felt something of the nature of jealousy. He began moving restlessly in his chair, burst into explosive laughter at nothing at all, suddenly blushed, yawned, and, as he yawned, his lower jaw twitched a little. Bublitsyn smoked three more pipes, and withdrew. Ivan Afanasiitch went to the window, sighed, and called for something to drink.

  Onisim set a glass of kvas on the table, glanced severely at his master, leaned back against the door, and hung his head dejectedly.

  'What are you so thoughtful about?' his master asked him genially, but with some inward trepidation.

  'What am I thinking about?' retorted Onisim; 'what am I thinking about? … it's always about you.'

  'About me!'

  'Of course it's about you.'

  'Why, what is it you are thinking?'

  'Why, this is what I'm thinking.' (Here Onisim took a pinch of snuff.)

  'You ought to be ashamed, sir—you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

  'Ashamed?'

  'Yes, ashamed…. Look at Mr. Bublitsyn, Ivan Afanasiitch…. Tell me if he's not a fine fellow, now.'

  'I don't understand you.'

  'You don't understand me…. Oh yes, you do understand me.'

  Onisim paused.

  'Mr. Bublitsyn's a real gentleman—what a gentleman ought to be. But what are you, Ivan Afanasiitch, what are you? Tell me that.'

  'Why, I'm a gentleman too.'

  'A gentleman, indeed!' … retorted Onisim, growing indignant. 'A pretty gentleman you are! You're no better, sir, than a hen in a shower of rain, Ivan Afanasiitch, let me tell you. Here you sit sticking at home the whole blessed day … much good it does you, sitting at home like that! You don't play cards, you don't go and see the gentry, and as for … well …'

  Onisim waved his hand expressively.

  'Now, come … you really go … too far …' Ivan Afanasiitch said hesitatingly, clutching his pipe.

  'Too far, indeed, Ivan Afanasiitch, too far, you say! Judge for yourself. Here again, with Vassilissa … why couldn't you …'

  'But what are you thinking about, Onisim,' Pyetushkov interrupted miserably.

  'I know what I'm thinking about. But there—I'd better let you alone!

  What can you do? Only fancy … there you …'

  Ivan Afanasiitch got up.

  'There, there, if you please, you hold your tongue,' he said quickly, seeming to be searching for Onisim with his eyes; 'I shall really, you know … I … what do you mean by it, really? You'd better help me dress.'

  Onisim slowly drew off Ivan Afanasiitch's greasy Tartar dressing-gown, gazed with fatherly commiseration at his master, shook his head, put him on his coat, and fell to beating him about the back with a brush.

  Pyetushkov went out, and after a not very protracted stroll about the crooked streets of the town, found himself facing the baker's shop. A queer smile was playing about his lips.

  He had hardly time to look twice at the too well-known 'establishment,' when suddenly the little gate opened, and Vassilissa ran out with a yellow kerchief on her head and a jacket flung after the Russian fashion on her shoulders. Ivan Afanasiitch at once overtook her.

  'Where are you going, my dear?'

  Vassilissa glanced swiftly at him, laughed, turned away, and put her hand over her lips.

  'Going shopping, I suppose?' queried Ivan Afanasiitch, fidgeting with his feet.

  'How inquisitive we are!' retorted Vassilissa.

  'Why inquisitive?' said Pyetushkov, hurriedly gesticulating with his hands. 'Quite the contrary…. Oh yes, you know,' he added hastily, as though these last words completely conveyed his meaning.

  'Did you eat my roll?'

  'To be sure I did,' replied Pyetushkov: 'with special enjoyment.'

  Vassilissa continued to walk on and to laugh.

  'It's pleasant weather to-day,' pursued Ivan Afanasiitch: 'do you often go out walking?'

  'Yes.'

  'Ah, how I should like….'

  'What say?'

  The girls in our district utter those words in a very queer way, with a peculiar sharpness and rapidity…. Partridges call at sunset with just that sound.

  'To go out walking, don't you know, with you … into the country, or …'

  'How can you?'

  'Why not?'

  'Ah, upon my word, how you do go on!'

  'But allow me….'

  At this point they were overtaken by a dapper little shopman, with a little goat's beard, and with his fingers held apart like antlers, so as to keep his sleeves from slipping over his hands, in a long-skirted bluish coat, and a warm cap that resembled a bloated water-melon. Pyetushkov, for propriety's sake, fell back a little behind Vassilissa, but quickly came up with her again.

  'Well, then, what about our walk?'

  Vassilissa looked slily at him and giggled again.

  'Do you belong to these parts?'

  'Yes.'

  Vassilissa passed her hand over her hair and walked a little more slowly. Ivan Afanasiitch smiled, and, his heart inwardly sinking with timidity, he stooped a little on one side and put a trembling arm about the beauty's waist.

  Vassilissa uttered a shriek.

  'Give over, do, for shame, in the street.'

  'Come now, there, there,' muttered Ivan Afanasiitch.

  'Give over, I tell you, in the street…. Don't be rude.'

  'A … a … ah, what a girl you are!' said Pyetushkov reproachfully, while he blushed up to his ears.

  Vassilissa stood still.

  'Now go along with you, sir—go along, do.'

  Pyetushkov obeyed. He got home, and sat for a whole hour without moving from his chair, without even smoking his pipe. At last he took out a sheet of greyish paper, mended a pen, and after long deliberation wrote the following letter.

  'DEAR MADAM, VASSILISSA TIMOFYEVNA!—Being naturally a most inoffensive person, how could I have occasioned you annoyance? If I have really been to blame in my conduct to you, then I must tell you: the hints of Mr. Bublitsyn were responsible for this, which was what I never expected. Anyway, I must humbly beg you not to be angry with me. I am a sensitive man, and any kindness I am most sensible of and grateful for. Do not be angry with me, Vassilissa Timofyevna, I beg you most humbly.—I remain respectfully your obedient servant,

  IVAN PYETUSHKOV.'

  Onisim carried this letter to its address.

  III

  A fortnight passed. Onisim went every morning as usual to the baker's shop. One day Vassilissa ran out to meet him.

  'Good morning, Onisim Sergeitch.'

  Onisim put on a gloomy expression, and responded crossly, ''Morning.'

  'How is it you never come to see us, Onisim Sergeitch?'

  Onisim glanced morosely at her.

  'What should I come for? you wouldn't give me a cup of tea, no fear.'

  'Yes, I would, Onisim Sergeitch, I would. You come and see. Rum in it, too.'

  Onisim slowly relaxed into a smile.

  'Well, I don't mind if I do, then.'

  'When, then—when?'

  'When … well, you are …'

  'To-day—this evening, if you like. Drop in.

  'All right, I'll come along,' replied Onisim, and he sauntered home with his slow, rolling step.

  The same evening in a little room, beside a bed covered with a striped eider-down, Onisim was sitting at a clumsy little table, facing Vassilissa. A huge, dingy yellow samovar was hissing and bubbling on the table; a pot of geranium stood in the window; in the other corner near the door there stood aslant an ugly chest with a tiny hanging lock; on the chest lay a shapeless heap of all sorts of old rags; on the walls were black, greasy prints. Onisim and Vassilissa dr
ank their tea in silence, looking straight at each other, turning the lumps of sugar over and over in their hands, as it were reluctantly nibbling them, blinking, screwing up their eyes, and with a hissing sound sucking in the yellowish boiling liquid through their teeth. At last they had emptied the whole samovar, turned upside down the round cups—one with the inscription, 'Take your fill'; the other with the words, 'Cupid's dart hath pierced my heart'—then they cleared their throats, wiped their perspiring brows, and gradually dropped into conversation.

  'Onisim Sergeitch, how about your master …' began Vassilissa, and did not finish her sentence.

  'What about my master?' replied Onisim, and he leaned on his hand. 'He's all right. But why do you ask?'

  'Oh, I only asked,' answered Vassilissa.

  'But I say'—(here Onisim grinned)—'I say, he wrote you a letter, didn't he?'

  'Yes, he did.'

  Onisim shook his head with an extraordinarily self-satisfied air.

  'So he did, did he?' he said huskily, with a smile. 'Well, and what did he say in his letter to you?'

  'Oh, all sorts of things. "I didn't mean anything, Madam, Vassilissa Timofyevna," says he, "don't you think anything of it; don't you be offended, madam," and a lot more like that he wrote…. But I say,' she added after a brief silence: 'what's he like?'

  'He's all right,' Onisim responded indifferently.

  'Does he get angry?'

  'He get angry! Not he. Why, do you like him?'

  Vassilissa looked down and giggled in her sleeve.

  'Come,' grumbled Onisim.

  'Oh, what's that to you, Onisim Sergeitch?'

  'Oh, come, I tell you.'

  'Well,' Vassilissa brought out at last, 'he's … a gentleman. Of course … I … and besides; he … you know yourself …'

  'Of course I do,' Onisim observed solemnly.

  'Of course you're aware, to be sure, Onisim Sergeitch.' … Vassilissa was obviously becoming agitated.