Vassilissa got up.
‘That’s for you to say, Ivan Afanasiitch.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Why, you yourself ...’
‘I’m not sending you away,’ Pyetushkov
interrupted her.
‘Oh no, Ivan Afanasiitch.... What’s
the use of my stopping here?’
Pyetushkov let her get as far as the door.
‘So you’re going, Vassilissa?’
‘You keep on abusing me.’
’I abuse you! You’ve no fear of God,
Vassilissa! When have I abused you? Come,
come, say when?’
‘Why! Just this minute weren’t you
all but beating me?’
‘Vassilissa, it’s wicked of you.
Really, it’s downright wicked.’
’And then you threw it in my face, that you
don’t want to know me. “I’m
a gentleman,” say you.’
Ivan Afanasiitch began wringing his hands speechlessly.
Vassilissa got back as far as the middle of the room.
’Well, God be with you, Ivan Afanasiitch.
I’ll keep myself to myself, and you keep yourself
to yourself.’
‘Nonsense, Vassilissa, nonsense,’ Pyetushkov
cut her short. ’You think again; look at
me. You see I’m not myself. You see
I don’t know what I’m saying....
You might have some feeling for me.’
‘You keep on abusing me, Ivan Afanasiitch.’
’Ah, Vassilissa! Let bygones be bygones.
Isn’t that right? Come, you’re not
angry with me, are you?’
‘You keep abusing me,’ Vassilissa repeated.
’I won’t, my love, I won’t.
Forgive an old man like me. I’ll never do
it in future. Come, you’ve forgiven me,
eh?’
‘God be with you, Ivan Afanasiitch.’
‘Come, laugh then, laugh.’
Vassilissa turned away.
‘You laughed, you laughed, my love!’ cried
Pyetushkov, and he capered about like a child.
The next day Pyetushkov went to the baker’s
shop as usual. Everything went on as before.
But there was a settled ache at his heart. He
did not laugh now as often, and sometimes he fell
to musing. Sunday came. Praskovia Ivanovna
had an attack of lumbago; she did not get down from
the shelf bed, except with much difficulty to go to
mass. After mass Pyetushkov called Vassilissa
into the back room. She had been complaining
all the morning of feeling dull. To judge by the
expression of Ivan Afanasiitch’s countenance,
he was revolving in his brain some extraordinary idea,
unforeseen even by him.
‘You sit down here, Vassilissa,’ he said
to her, ’and I’ll sit here. I want
to have a little talk with you.’
Vassilissa sat down.
‘Tell me, Vassilissa, can you write?’
‘Write?’
‘Yes, write?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘What about reading?’
‘I can’t read either.’
‘Then who read you my letter?’
‘The deacon.’
Pyetushkov paused.
‘But would you like to learn to read and write?’
