1867.
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.
