Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (345 page)

Here the major positively choked and spluttered, while poor Pyetushkov could only draw himself up and turn pale, sitting on the very edge of his chair.

‘I must have’ … the major continued, with an imperious wave of his trembling hand, ‘I must have everything … up to the mark! Conduct first - class! I’m not going to put up with any irregularities! You can make friends with whom you like, that makes no odds to me! But if you are a gentleman, why, act as such … behave like one! No putting bread in the oven for me! No calling a draggletail old woman auntie! No disgracing the uniform! Silence! No arguing!’

The major’s voice broke. He took breath, and turning towards the door into the passage, bawled, ‘Frolka, you scoundrel! The herrings!’

Pyetushkov rose hurriedly and darted away, almost upsetting the page - boy, who ran to meet him, carrying some sliced herring and a stout decanter of spirits on an iron tray.

‘Silence! No arguing!’ sounded after Pyetushkov the disjointed exclamations of his exasperated superior officer.

IX

A queer sensation overmastered Ivan Afanasiitch when, at last, he found himself in the street.

‘Why am I walking as it were in a dream?’ he thought to himself. ‘Am I out of my mind, or what? Why, it passes all belief, at last. Come, damn it, she’s tired of me, come, and I’ve grown tired of her, come, and … What is there out of the way in that?

Pyetushkov frowned.

‘I must put an end to it, once for all,’ he said almost aloud. ‘I’ll go and speak out decisively for the last time, so that it may never come up again.’

Pyetushkov made his way with rapid step to the baker’s shop. The nephew of the hired man, Luka, a little boy, friend and confidant of the goat that lived in the yard, darted swiftly to the little gate, directly he caught sight of Ivan Afanasiitch in the distance.

Praskovia Ivanovna came out to meet Pyetushkov.

‘Is your niece at home?’ asked Pyetushkov.

‘No, sir.’

Pyetushkov was inwardly relieved at Vassilissa’s absence.

‘I came to have a few words with you, Praskovia Ivanovna.’

‘What about, my good sir?’

‘I’ll tell you. You comprehend that after all … that has passed … after such, so to say, behaviour (Pyetushkov was a little confused) … in a word … But, pray, don’t be angry with me, though.’

‘Certainly not, sir.’

‘On the contrary, enter into my position, Praskovia Ivanovna.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘You’re a reasonable woman, you’ll understand of yourself, that … that

I can’t go on coming to see you any more.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ Praskovia Ivanovna repeated slowly.

‘I assure you I greatly regret it; I confess it is positively painful to me, genuinely painful …’

‘You know best, sir,’ Praskovia Ivanovna rejoined serenely. ‘It’s for you to decide, sir. And, oh, if you’ll allow me, I’ll give you your little account, sir.’

Pyetushkov had not at all anticipated such a prompt acquiescence. He had not desired acquiescence at all; he had only wanted to frighten Praskovia Ivanovna, and above all Vassilissa. He felt wretched.

‘I know,’ be began, ‘this will not be disagreeable to Vassilissa; on the contrary, I believe she will be glad.’

Praskovia Ivanovna got out her reckoning beads, and began rattling the counters.

‘On the other hand,’ continued Pyetushkov, growing more and more agitated, ‘if Vassilissa were, for instance, to give an explanation of her behaviour … possibly…. Though, of course … I don’t know, possibly, I might perceive that after all there was no great matter for blame in it.’

‘There’s thirty - seven roubles and forty kopecks in notes to your account, sir,’ observed Praskovia Ivanovna. ‘Here, would you be pleased to go through it?’

Ivan Afanasiitch made no reply.

‘Eighteen dinners at seventy kopecks each; twelve roubles sixty kopecks.’

‘And so we are to part, Praskovia Ivanovna.’

‘If so it must be, sir. Things do turn out so. Twelve samovars at ten kopecks each …’

‘But you might just tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna, where it was Vassilissa went, and what it was she …’

‘Oh, I never asked her, sir…. One rouble twenty kopecks in silver.’

Ivan Afanasiitch sank into meditation.

‘Kvas and effervescing drinks,’ pursued Praskovia Ivanovna, holding the counters apart on the frame not with her first, but her third finger, ‘half a rouble in silver. Sugar and rolls for tea, half a rouble. Four packets of tobacco bought by your orders, eighty kopecks in silver. To the tailor Kuprian Apollonov …’

Ivan Afanasiitch suddenly raised his head, put out his hand and mixed up the counters.

‘What are you about, my good man?’ cried Praskovia Ivanovna. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘Praskovia Ivanovna,’ replied Pyetushkov, with a hurried smile, ‘I’ve thought better of it. I was only, you know … joking. We’d better remain friends and go on in the old way. What nonsense it is! How can we separate — tell me that, please?’

Praskovia Ivanovna looked down and made him no reply.

‘Come, we’ve been talking nonsense, and there’s an end of it,’ pursued Ivan Afanasiitch, walking up and down the room, rubbing his hands, and, as it were, resuming his ancient rights. ‘Amen! and now I’d better have a pipe.’

Praskovia Ivanovna still did not move from her place….

‘I see you are angry with me,’ said Pyetushkov.

‘I’ve offended you, perhaps. Well! well! forgive me generously.’

‘How could you offend me, my good sir? No offence about it…. Only, please, sir,’ added Praskovia Ivanovna, bowing, ‘be so good as not to go on coming to us.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not for you, sir, to be friends with us, your honour. So, please, do us the favour …’

Praskovia Ivanovna went on bowing.

‘What ever for?’ muttered the astounded Pyetushkov.

‘Oh, nothing, sir. For mercy’s sake …’

‘No, Praskovia Ivanovna, you must explain this! …’

‘Vassilissa asks you. She says, “I thank you, thank you very much, and from my heart; only for the future, your honour, give us up.”‘

Praskovia Ivanovna bowed down almost to Pyetushkov’s feet.

‘Vassilissa, you say, begs me not to come?’

‘Just so, your honour. When your honour came in to - day, and said what you did, that you didn’t wish, you said, to visit us any more, I felt relieved, sir, that I did; thinks I, Well, thank God, how nicely it’s all come about! But for that, I should have had hard work to bring my tongue to say it…. Be so good, sir.’

Pyetushkov turned red and pale almost at the same instant. Praskovia

Ivanovna still went on bowing….

‘Very good,’ Ivan Afanasiitch cried sharply. ‘Good - bye.’

He turned abruptly and put on his cap.

‘But the little bill, sir….’

‘Send it … my orderly shall pay you.’

Pyetushkov went with resolute steps out of the baker’s shop, and did not even look round.

X

A fortnight passed. At first Pyetushkov bore up in an extraordinary way. He went out, and visited his comrades, with the exception, of course, of Bublitsyn; but in spite of the exaggerated approbation of Onisim, he almost went out of his mind at last from wretchedness, jealousy, and ennui. Conversations with Onisim about Vassilissa were the only thing that afforded him some consolation. The conversation was always begun, ‘scratched up,’ by Pyetushkov; Onisim responded unwillingly.

‘It’s a strange thing, you know,’ Ivan Afanasiitch would say, for instance, as he lay on the sofa, while Onisim stood in his usual attitude, leaning against the door, with his hands folded behind his back, ‘when you come to think of it, what it was I saw in that girl. One would say that there was nothing unusual in her. It’s true she has a good heart. That one can’t deny her.’

‘Good heart, indeed!’ Onisim would answer with displeasure.

‘Come, now, Onisim,’ Pyetushkov went on, ‘one must tell the truth. It’s a thing of the past now; it’s no matter to me now, but justice is justice. You don’t know her. She’s very good - hearted. Not a single beggar does she let pass by; she’ll always give, if it’s only a crust of bread. Oh! And she’s of a cheerful temper, that one must allow, too.’

‘What a notion! I don’t know where you see the cheerful temper!’

‘I tell you … you don’t know her. And she’s not mercenary either … that’s another thing. She’s not grasping, there’s no doubt of it. Why I never gave her anything, as you know.’

‘That’s why she’s flung you over.’

‘No, that’s not why!’ responded Pyetushkov with a sigh.

‘Why, you’re in love with her to this day,’ Onisim retorted malignantly.

‘You’d be glad to go back there as before.’

‘That’s nonsense you’re talking. No, my lad, you don’t know me either, I can see. Be sent away, and then go dancing attendance — no, thank you, I’d rather be excused. No, I tell you. You may believe me, it’s all a thing of the past now.’

‘Pray God it be so!’

‘But why ever shouldn’t I be fair to her, now after all? If now I say she’s not good - looking — why, who’d believe me?’

‘A queer sort of good looks!’

‘Well, find me, — well, mention anybody better - looking …’

‘Oh, you’d better go back to her, then! …’

‘Stupid! Do you suppose that’s why I say so? Understand me …’

‘Oh! I understand you,’ Onisim answered with a heavy sigh.

Another week passed by. Pyetushkov had positively given up talking with his Onisim, and had given up going out. From morning till night he lay on the sofa, his hands behind his head. He began to get thin and pale, eat unwillingly and hurriedly, and did not smoke at all. Onisim could only shake his head, as he looked at him.

‘You’re not well, Ivan Afanasiitch,’ he said to him more than once.

‘No, I’m all right,’ replied Pyetushkov.

At last, one fine day (Onisim was not at home) Pyetushkov got up, rummaged in his chest of drawers, put on his cloak, though the sun was rather hot, went stealthily out into the street, and came back a quarter of an hour later…. He carried something under his cloak….

Onisim was not at home. The whole morning he had been sitting in his little room, deliberating with himself, grumbling and swearing between his teeth, and, at last, he sallied off to Vassilissa. He found her in the shop. Praskovia Ivanovna was asleep on the stove, rhythmically and soothingly snoring.

‘Ah, how d’ye do, Onisim Sergeitch,’ began Vassilissa, with a smile; ‘why haven’t we seen anything of you for so long?’

‘Good day.’

‘Why are you so depressed? Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘It’s not me we’re talking about now,’ rejoined Onisim, in a tone of vexation.

‘Why, what then?’

‘What! Don’t you understand me? What! What have you done to my master, come, you tell me that.’