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 exists 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