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.’

‘What I’ve done to him?’

‘What have you done to him? … You go and look at him. Why, before we can look round, he’ll be in a decline, or dying outright, maybe.’

‘It’s not my fault, Onisim Sergeitch.’

‘Not your fault! God knows. Why, he’s lost his heart to you. And you, God forgive you, treated him as if he were one of yourselves. Don’t come, says you, I’m sick of you. Why, though he’s not much to boast of, he’s a gentleman anyway. He’s a gentleman born, you know…. Do you realise that?’

‘But he’s such a dull person, Onisim Sergeitch….’

‘Dull! So you must have merry fellows about you!’

‘And it’s not so much that he’s dull: he’s so cross, so jealous.’

‘Ah, you, you’re as haughty as a princess! He was in your way, I dare say!’

‘But you yourself, Onisim Sergeitch, if you remember, were put out with him about it; «Why is he such friends?» you said; «what’s he always coming for?»‘

‘Well, was I to be pleased with him for it, do you suppose?’

‘Well, then, why are you angry with me now? Here, he’s given up coming.’

Onisim positively stamped.

‘But what am I to do with him, if he’s such a madman?’ he added, dropping his voice.

‘But how am I in fault? What can I do?’

‘I’ll tell you what: come with me to him.’

‘God forbid!’

‘Why won’t you come?’

‘But why should I go to see him? Upon my word!’

‘Why? Why, because he says you’ve a good heart; let me see if you’ve a good heart.’

‘But what good can I do him?’

‘Oh, that’s my business. You may be sure things are in a bad way, since

I’ve come to you. It’s certain I could think of nothing else to do.’

Onisim paused for a while.

‘Well, come along, Vassilissa, please, come along.’

‘Oh, Onisim Sergeitch, I don’t want to be friendly with him again …’

‘Well, and you needn’t—who’s talking of it? You’ve only to say a couple of words; to say, Why does your honour grieve? … give over…. That’s all.’

‘Really, Onisim Sergeitch …’

‘Why, am I to go down on my knees to you, eh? All right—there, I’m on my knees …’

‘But really …’

‘Why, what a girl it is! Even that doesn’t touch her! …’

Vassilissa at last consented, put a kerchief on her head, and went out with Onisim.

‘You wait here a little, in the passage,’ he said to her, when they reached Pyetushkov’s abode, ‘and I’ll go and let the master know …’

He went in to Ivan Afanasiitch. Pyetushkov was standing in the middle of the room, both hands in his pockets, his legs excessively wide apart; he was slightly swaying backwards and forwards. His face was hot, and his eyes were sparkling.

‘Hullo, Onisim,’ he faltered amiably, articulating the consonants very indistinctly and thickly: ‘hullo, my lad. Ah, my lad, when you weren’t here … he, he, he …’ Pyetushkov laughed and made a sudden duck forward with his nose. ‘Yes, it’s an accomplished fact, he, he, he…. However,’ he added, trying to assume a dignified air, ‘I’m all right.’ He tried to lift his foot, but almost fell over, and to preserve his dignity pronounced in a deep bass, ‘Boy, bring my pipe!’

Onisim gazed in astonishment at his master, glanced round…. In the window stood an empty dark-green bottle, with the inscription: ‘Best Jamaica rum.’

‘I’ve been drinking, my lad, that’s all,’ Pyetushkov went on. ‘I’ve been and taken it. I’ve been drinking, and that’s all about it. And where’ve you been? Tell us … don’t be shy … tell us. You’re a good hand at a tale.’

‘Ivan Afanasiitch, mercy on us!’ wailed Onisim.

‘To be sure. To be sure I will,’ replied Pyetushkov with a vague wave of his hand. ‘I’ll have mercy on you, and forgive you. I forgive every one, I forgive you, and Vassilissa I forgive, and every one, every one. Yes, my lad, I’ve been drinking…. Dri-ink-ing, lad…. Who’s that?’ he cried suddenly, pointing to the door into the passage; ‘who’s there?’

‘Nobody’s there,’ Onisim answered hastily: ‘who should be there? … where are you going?’

‘No, no,’ repeated Pyetushkov, breaking away from Onisim, ‘let me go, I saw—don’t you talk to me,—I saw there, let me go…. Vassilissa!’ he shrieked all at once.

Pyetushkov turned pale.

‘Well … well, why don’t you come in?’ he said at last. ‘Come in,

Vassilissa, come in. I’m very glad to see you, Vassilissa.’

Vassilissa glanced at Onisim and came into the room. Pyetushkov went nearer to her…. He heaved deep, irregular breaths. Onisim watched him.