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 drank 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.

‘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