Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (343 page)

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.

VII

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.