A Desperate Character and Other Stories Page 19

  'You tell him, your master, that I'm …; say, not angry with him, but that …'

  She stammered.

  'We understand,' responded Onisim, and he got up from his seat. 'We understand. Thanks for the entertainment.'

  'Come in again some day.'

  'All right, all right.'

  Onisim approached the door. The fat woman came into the room.

  'Good evening to you, Onisim Sergeitch,' she said in a peculiar chant.

  'Good evening to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,' he said in the same sing-song.

  Both stood still for a little while facing each other.

  'Well, good day to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,' Onisim chanted out again.

  'Well, good day to you, Onisim Sergeitch,' she responded in the same sing-song.

  Onisim arrived home. His master was lying on his bed, gazing at the ceiling.

  'Where have you been?'

  'Where have I been?' … (Onisim had the habit of repeating reproachfully the last words of every question.) 'I've been about your business.'

  'What business?'

  'Why, don't you know? … I've been to see Vassilissa.'

  Pyetushkov blinked and turned over on his bed.

  'So that's how it is,' observed Onisim, and he coolly took a pinch of snuff. 'So that's how it is. You're always like that. Vassilissa sends you her duty.'

  'Really?'

  'Really? So that's all about it. Really! … She told me to say, Why is it, says she, one never sees him? Why is it, says she, he never comes?'

  'Well, and what did you say?'

  'What did I say? I told her: You're a silly girl—I told her—as if folks like that are coming to see you! No, you come yourself, I told her.'

  'Well, and what did she say?'

  'What did she say? … She said nothing.'

  'That is, how do you mean, nothing?'

  'Why, nothing, to be sure.'

  Pyetushkov said nothing for a little while.

  'Well, and is she coming?'

  Onisim shook his head.

  'She coming! You're in too great a hurry, sir. She coming, indeed! No, you go too fast.' …

  'But you said yourself that …'

  'Oh, well, it's easy to talk.'

  Pyetushkov was silent again.

  'Well, but how's it to be, then, my lad?'

  'How? … You ought to know best; you 're a gentleman.'

  'Oh, nonsense! come now!'

  Onisim swayed complacently backwards and forwards.

  'Do you know Praskovia Ivanovna?' he asked at last.

  'No. What Praskovia Ivanovna?'

  'Why, the baker woman!'

  'Oh yes, the baker woman. I've seen her; she's very fat.'

  'She's a worthy woman. She's own aunt to the other, to your girl.'

  'Aunt?'

  'Why, didn't you know?'

  'No, I didn't know.'

  'Well …'

  Onisim was restrained by respect for his master from giving full expression to his feelings.

  'That's whom it is you should make friends with.'

  'Well, I've no objection.'

  Onisim looked approvingly at Ivan Afanasiitch.

  'But with what object precisely am I to make friends with her?' inquired

  Pyetushkov.

  'What for, indeed!' answered Onisim serenely.

  Ivan Afanasiitch got up, paced up and down the room, stood still before the window, and without turning his head, with some hesitation he articulated:

  'Onisim!'

  'What say?'

  'Won't it be, you know, a little awkward for me with the old woman, eh?'

  'Oh, that's as you like.'

  'Oh, well, I only thought it might, perhaps. My comrades might notice it; it's a little … But I'll think it over. Give me my pipe…. So she,' he went on after a short silence—Vassilissa, I mean, says then …'

  But Onisim had no desire to continue the conversation, and he assumed his habitual morose expression.

  IV

  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 exi
sts 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.'