to my friend’s little place…. Vassily Fomitch had long been dead; he died soon after I made his acquaintance. Cucumber was still flourishing. He conducted me to the tomb of Agrafena Ivanovna. An iron railing enclosed a large slab with a detailed and enthusiastically laudatory epitaph on the deceased woman; and there, beside it, as it were at her feet, could be seen a little mound with a slanting cross on it; the servant of God, the brigadier and cavalier, Vassily Guskov, lay under this mound…. His ashes found rest at last beside the ashes of the creature he had loved with such unbounded, almost undying, love.

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