Pyetushkov started, and went in. Praskovia Ivanovna
met him in the doorway.
’Why didn’t you come to see us yesterday,
my good sir? Was it, maybe, some ailment prevented
you?’
‘Yes, I had something of a headache yesterday....’
’Ah, you should have put cucumber on your temples,
my good sir. It would have taken it away in a
twinkling. Is your head aching now?’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Ah well, and thank Thee, O Lord, for it.’
Ivan Afanasiitch went off into the back room.
Vassilissa saw him.
‘Ah! good day, Ivan Afanasiitch.’
‘Good day, Vassilissa Ivanovna.’
‘Where have you put the tap, Ivan Afanasiitch?’
‘Tap? what tap?’
’The wine-tap ... our tap. You must have
taken it home with you. You are such a one ...
Lord, forgive us....’
Pyetushkov put on a dignified and chilly air.
‘I will direct my man to look. Seeing that
I was not here yesterday,’ he pronounced significantly....
‘Ah, why, to be sure, you weren’t here
yesterday.’ Vassilissa squatted down on
her heels, and began rummaging in the chest....
‘Aunt, hi! aunt!’
‘What sa-ay?’
‘Have you taken my neckerchief?’
‘What neckerchief?’
‘Why, the yellow one.’
‘The yellow one?’
‘Yes, the yellow, figured one.’
‘No, I’ve not taken it.’
Pyetushkov bent down to Vassilissa.
’Listen to me, Vassilissa; listen to what I
am saying to you. It is not a matter of taps
or of neckerchiefs just now; you can attend to such
trifles another time.’
Vassilissa did not budge from her position; she only
lifted her head.
’You just tell me, on your conscience, do you
love me or not? That’s what I want to know,
once for all.’
‘Ah, what a one you are, Ivan Afanasiitch....
Well, then, of course.’
’If you love me, how was it you didn’t
come to see me yesterday? Had you no time?
Well, you might have sent to find out if I were ill,
as I didn’t turn up. But it’s little
you cared. I might die, I dare say, you wouldn’t
grieve.’
’Ah, Ivan Afanasiitch, one can’t be always
thinking of one thing, one’s got one’s
work to do.’
‘To be sure,’ responded Pyetushkov; ’but
all the same ... And it’s improper to laugh
at your elders.... It’s not right.
Moreover, it’s as well in certain cases ...
But where’s my pipe?’
‘Here’s your pipe.’
Pyetushkov began smoking.
Several days slipped by again, apparently rather tranquilly.
But a storm was getting nearer. Pyetushkov suffered
tortures, was jealous, never took his eyes off Vassilissa,
kept an alarmed watch over her, annoyed her horribly.
Behold, one evening, Vassilissa dressed herself with
more care than usual, and, seizing a favourable instant,
sallied off to make a visit somewhere. Night
came on, she had not returned. Pyetushkov at
sunset went home to his lodgings, and at eight o’clock
in the morning ran to the baker’s shop....
Vassilissa had not come in. With an inexpressible
sinking at his heart, he waited for her right up to
dinner-time.... They sat down to the table without
her....
