Pyetushkov went with resolute steps out of the baker’s
shop, and did not even look round.
A fortnight passed. At first Pyetushkov bore
up in an extraordinary way. He went out, and
visited his comrades, with the exception, of course,
of Bublitsyn; but in spite of the exaggerated approbation
of Onisim, he almost went out of his mind at last
from wretchedness, jealousy, and ennui. Conversations
with Onisim about Vassilissa were the only thing that
afforded him some consolation. The conversation
was always begun, ‘scratched up,’ by Pyetushkov;
Onisim responded unwillingly.
‘It’s a strange thing, you know,’
Ivan Afanasiitch would say, for instance, as he lay
on the sofa, while Onisim stood in his usual attitude,
leaning against the door, with his hands folded behind
his back, ’when you come to think of it, what
it was I saw in that girl. One would say that
there was nothing unusual in her. It’s true
she has a good heart. That one can’t deny
her.’
‘Good heart, indeed!’ Onisim would answer
with displeasure.
‘Come, now, Onisim,’ Pyetushkov went on,
’one must tell the truth. It’s a
thing of the past now; it’s no matter to me now,
but justice is justice. You don’t know
her. She’s very good-hearted. Not a
single beggar does she let pass by; she’ll always
give, if it’s only a crust of bread. Oh!
And she’s of a cheerful temper, that one must
allow, too.’
‘What a notion! I don’t know where
you see the cheerful temper!’
’I tell you ... you don’t know her.
And she’s not mercenary either ... that’s
another thing. She’s not grasping, there’s
no doubt of it. Why I never gave her anything,
as you know.’
‘That’s why she’s flung you over.’
‘No, that’s not why!’ responded
Pyetushkov with a sigh.
‘Why, you’re in love with her to this
day,’ Onisim retorted malignantly. ‘You’d
be glad to go back there as before.’
’That’s nonsense you’re talking.
No, my lad, you don’t know me either, I can
see. Be sent away, and then go dancing attendance—no,
thank you, I’d rather be excused. No, I
tell you. You may believe me, it’s all a
thing of the past now.’
‘Pray God it be so!’
’But why ever shouldn’t I be fair to her,
now after all? If now I say she’s not good-looking—why,
who’d believe me?’
‘A queer sort of good looks!’
‘Well, find me,—well, mention anybody
better-looking ...’
‘Oh, you’d better go back to her, then!
...’
‘Stupid! Do you suppose that’s why
I say so? Understand me ...’
‘Oh! I understand you,’ Onisim answered
with a heavy sigh.
Another week passed by. Pyetushkov had positively
given up talking with his Onisim, and had given up
going out. From morning till night he lay on
the sofa, his hands behind his head. He began
to get thin and pale, eat unwillingly and hurriedly,
and did not smoke at all. Onisim could only shake
his head, as he looked at him.
