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.
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.’
