‘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.
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.’
