A Desperate Character and Other Stories
I >>
Ivan Turgenev >> A Desperate Character and Other Stories
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 | 14 |
15 |
16
He had hardly time to look twice at the too well-known 'establishment,'
when suddenly the little gate opened, and Vassilissa ran out with a
yellow kerchief on her head and a jacket flung after the Russian fashion
on her shoulders. Ivan Afanasiitch at once overtook her.
'Where are you going, my dear?'
Vassilissa glanced swiftly at him, laughed, turned away, and put her
hand over her lips.
'Going shopping, I suppose?' queried Ivan Afanasiitch, fidgeting
with his feet.
'How inquisitive we are!' retorted Vassilissa.
'Why inquisitive?' said Pyetushkov, hurriedly gesticulating with his
hands. 'Quite the contrary.... Oh yes, you know,' he added hastily, as
though these last words completely conveyed his meaning.
'Did you eat my roll?'
'To be sure I did,' replied Pyetushkov: 'with special enjoyment.'
Vassilissa continued to walk on and to laugh.
'It's pleasant weather to-day,' pursued Ivan Afanasiitch: 'do you often
go out walking?'
'Yes.'
'Ah, how I should like....'
'What say?'
The girls in our district utter those words in a very queer way, with a
peculiar sharpness and rapidity.... Partridges call at sunset with just
that sound.
'To go out walking, don't you know, with you ... into the
country, or ...'
'How can you?'
'Why not?'
'Ah, upon my word, how you do go on!'
'But allow me....'
At this point they were overtaken by a dapper little shopman, with a
little goat's beard, and with his fingers held apart like antlers, so as
to keep his sleeves from slipping over his hands, in a long-skirted
bluish coat, and a warm cap that resembled a bloated water-melon.
Pyetushkov, for propriety's sake, fell back a little behind Vassilissa,
but quickly came up with her again.
'Well, then, what about our walk?'
Vassilissa looked slily at him and giggled again.
'Do you belong to these parts?'
'Yes.'
Vassilissa passed her hand over her hair and walked a little more
slowly. Ivan Afanasiitch smiled, and, his heart inwardly sinking with
timidity, he stooped a little on one side and put a trembling arm about
the beauty's waist.
Vassilissa uttered a shriek.
'Give over, do, for shame, in the street.'
'Come now, there, there,' muttered Ivan Afanasiitch.
'Give over, I tell you, in the street.... Don't be rude.'
'A ... a ... ah, what a girl you are!' said Pyetushkov reproachfully,
while he blushed up to his ears.
Vassilissa stood still.
'Now go along with you, sir--go along, do.'
Pyetushkov obeyed. He got home, and sat for a whole hour without moving
from his chair, without even smoking his pipe. At last he took out a
sheet of greyish paper, mended a pen, and after long deliberation wrote
the following letter.
'DEAR MADAM, VASSILISSA TIMOFYEVNA!--Being naturally a most inoffensive
person, how could I have occasioned you annoyance? If I have really been
to blame in my conduct to you, then I must tell you: the hints of Mr.
Bublitsyn were responsible for this, which was what I never expected.
Anyway, I must humbly beg you not to be angry with me. I am a sensitive
man, and any kindness I am most sensible of and grateful for. Do not be
angry with me, Vassilissa Timofyevna, I beg you most humbly.--I remain
respectfully your obedient servant,
IVAN PYETUSHKOV.'
Onisim carried this letter to its address.
III
A fortnight passed. Onisim went every morning as usual to the baker's
shop. One day Vassilissa ran out to meet him.
'Good morning, Onisim Sergeitch.'
Onisim put on a gloomy expression, and responded crossly, ''Morning.'
'How is it you never come to see us, Onisim Sergeitch?'
Onisim glanced morosely at her.
'What should I come for? you wouldn't give me a cup of tea, no fear.'
'Yes, I would, Onisim Sergeitch, I would. You come and see. Rum
in it, too.'
Onisim slowly relaxed into a smile.
'Well, I don't mind if I do, then.'
'When, then--when?'
'When ... well, you are ...'
'To-day--this evening, if you like. Drop in.
'All right, I'll come along,' replied Onisim, and he sauntered home with
his slow, rolling step.
The same evening in a little room, beside a bed covered with a striped
eider-down, Onisim was sitting at a clumsy little table, facing
Vassilissa. A huge, dingy yellow samovar was hissing and bubbling on the
table; a pot of geranium stood in the window; in the other corner near
the door there stood aslant an ugly chest with a tiny hanging lock; on
the chest lay a shapeless heap of all sorts of old rags; on the walls
were black, greasy prints. Onisim and Vassilissa drank their tea in
silence, looking straight at each other, turning the lumps of sugar over
and over in their hands, as it were reluctantly nibbling them, blinking,
screwing up their eyes, and with a hissing sound sucking in the
yellowish boiling liquid through their teeth. At last they had emptied
the whole samovar, turned upside down the round cups--one with the
inscription, 'Take your fill'; the other with the words, 'Cupid's dart
hath pierced my heart'--then they cleared their throats, wiped their
perspiring brows, and gradually dropped into conversation.
'Onisim Sergeitch, how about your master ...' began Vassilissa, and did
not finish her sentence.
'What about my master?' replied Onisim, and he leaned on his hand. 'He's
all right. But why do you ask?'
'Oh, I only asked,' answered Vassilissa.
'But I say'--(here Onisim grinned)--'I say, he wrote you a letter,
didn't he?'
'Yes, he did.'
Onisim shook his head with an extraordinarily self-satisfied air.
'So he did, did he?' he said huskily, with a smile. 'Well, and what did
he say in his letter to you?'
'Oh, all sorts of things. "I didn't mean anything, Madam, Vassilissa
Timofyevna," says he, "don't you think anything of it; don't you be
offended, madam," and a lot more like that he wrote.... But I say,' she
added after a brief silence: 'what's he like?'
'He's all right,' Onisim responded indifferently.
'Does he get angry?'
'He get angry! Not he. Why, do you like him?'
Vassilissa looked down and giggled in her sleeve.
'Come,' grumbled Onisim.
'Oh, what's that to you, Onisim Sergeitch?'
'Oh, come, I tell you.'
'Well,' Vassilissa brought out at last, 'he's ... a gentleman. Of
course ... I ... and besides; he ... you know yourself ...'
'Of course I do,' Onisim observed solemnly.
'Of course you're aware, to be sure, Onisim Sergeitch.' ... Vassilissa
was obviously becoming agitated.
'You tell him, your master, that I'm ...; say, not angry with him,
but that ...'
She stammered.
'We understand,' responded Onisim, and he got up from his seat. 'We
understand. Thanks for the entertainment.'
'Come in again some day.'
'All right, all right.'
Onisim approached the door. The fat woman came into the room.
'Good evening to you, Onisim Sergeitch,' she said in a peculiar chant.
'Good evening to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,' he said in the same
sing-song.
Both stood still for a little while facing each other.
'Well, good day to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,' Onisim chanted out again.
'Well, good day to you, Onisim Sergeitch,' she responded in the same
sing-song.
Onisim arrived home. His master was lying on his bed, gazing at
the ceiling.
'Where have you been?'
'Where have I been?' ... (Onisim had the habit of repeating reproachfully
the last words of every question.) 'I've been about your business.'
'What business?'
'Why, don't you know? ... I've been to see Vassilissa.'
Pyetushkov blinked and turned over on his bed.
'So that's how it is,' observed Onisim, and he coolly took a pinch of
snuff. 'So that's how it is. You're always like that. Vassilissa sends
you her duty.'
'Really?'
'Really? So that's all about it. Really! ... She told me to say, Why is
it, says she, one never sees him? Why is it, says she, he never comes?'
'Well, and what did you say?'
'What did I say? I told her: You're a silly girl--I told her--as if
folks like that are coming to see you! No, you come yourself, I
told her.'
'Well, and what did she say?'
'What did she say? ... She said nothing.'
'That is, how do you mean, nothing?'
'Why, nothing, to be sure.'
Pyetushkov said nothing for a little while.
'Well, and is she coming?'
Onisim shook his head.
'She coming! You're in too great a hurry, sir. She coming, indeed! No,
you go too fast.' ...
'But you said yourself that ...'
'Oh, well, it's easy to talk.'
Pyetushkov was silent again.
'Well, but how's it to be, then, my lad?'
'How? ... You ought to know best; you 're a gentleman.'
'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.
IV
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.'
'Much obliged to you, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
Followed a silence. Praskovia Ivanovna wiped her face with a
parti-coloured handkerchief; Ivan Afanasiitch continued with intense
attention to gaze away to one side. Both were rather uncomfortable. But
in merchant and petty shopkeeper society, where even old friends never
step outside special angular forms of etiquette, a certain constraint in
the behaviour of guests and host to one another not only strikes no one
as strange, but, on the contrary, is regarded as perfectly correct and
indispensable, particularly on a first visit. Praskovia Ivanovna was
agreeably impressed by Pyetushkov. He was formal and decorous in his
manners, and moreover, wasn't he a man of some rank, too?
'Praskovia Ivanovna, ma'am, I like your rolls very much,' he said to
her.
'Really now, really now.'
'Very good they are, you know, very, indeed.'
'May they do you good, sir, may they do you good. Delighted, to be
sure.'
'I've never eaten any like them in Moscow.'
'You don't say so now, you don't say so.'
Again a silence followed.
'Tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna,' began Ivan Afanasiitch; 'that's your
niece, I fancy, isn't it, living with you?'
'My own niece, sir.'
'How comes it ... she's with you?'....
'She's an orphan, so I keep her.'
'And is she a good worker?'
'Such a girl to work ... such a girl, sir ... ay ... ay ... to be
sure she is.'
Ivan Afanasiitch thought it discreet not to pursue the subject of the
niece further.
'What bird is that you have in the cage, Praskovia Ivanovna?'
'God knows. A bird of some sort.'
'H'm! Well, so, good day to you, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
'A very good day to your honour. Pray walk in another time, and take a
cup of tea.'
'With the greatest pleasure, Praskovia Ivanovna.'
Pyetushkov walked out. On the steps he met Vassilissa. She giggled.
'Where are you going, my darling?' said Pyetushkov with reckless daring.
'Come, give over, do, you are a one for joking.'
'He, he! And did you get my letter?'
Vassilissa hid the lower part of her face in her sleeve and made
no answer.
'And you're not angry with me?'
'Vassilissa!' came the jarring voice of the aunt; 'hey, Vassilissa!'
Vassilissa ran into the house. Pyetushkov returned home. But from that
day he began going often to the baker's shop, and his visits were not
for nothing. Ivan Afanasiitch's hopes, to use the lofty phraseology
suitable, were crowned with success. Usually, the attainment of the goal
has a cooling effect on people, but Pyetushkov, on the contrary, grew
every day more and more ardent. Love is a thing of accident, it exists
in itself, like art, and, like nature, needs no reasons to justify it,
as some clever man has said who never loved, himself, but made excellent
observations upon love.
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.
V
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.'
'And do you know him?'
'Rather!' responded Vassilissa, with a wag of her head.
Pyetushkov, without a word, paced ten times up and down the room.
'I say, Vassilissa,' he said at last, 'that is, how do you know him?'
'How do I know him? ... I know him ... He's such a nice gentleman.'
'How do you mean nice, though? how nice? how nice?'
Vassilissa gazed at Ivan Afanasiitch.
'Nice,' she said slowly and in perplexity. 'You know what I mean.'
Pyetushkov bit his lips and began again pacing the room.
'What were you talking about with him, eh?'
Vassilissa smiled and looked down.
'Speak, speak, speak, I tell you, speak!'
'How cross you are to-day!' observed Vassilissa.
Pyetushkov was silent.
'Come now, Vassilissa,' he began at last; 'no, I won't be cross....
Come, tell me, what were you talking about?'
Vassilissa laughed.
'He is a one to joke, really, that Piotr Petrovitch!'
'Well, what did he say?'
'He is a fellow!'
Pyetushkov was silent again for a little.
'Vassilissa, you love me, don't you?' he asked her.
'Oh, so that's what you're after, too!'
Poor Pyetushkov felt a pang at his heart. Praskovia Ivanovna came in.
They sat down to dinner. After dinner Praskovia Ivanovna betook herself
to the shelf bed. Ivan Afanasiitch himself lay down on the stove, turned
over and dropped asleep. A cautious creak waked him. Ivan Afanasiitch
sat up, leaned on his elbow, looked: the door was open. He jumped up--no
Vassilissa. He ran into the yard--she was not in the yard; into the
street, looked up and down--Vassilissa was nowhere to be seen. He ran
without his cap as far as the market--no, Vassilissa was not in sight.
Slowly he returned to the baker's shop, clambered on to the stove, and
turned with his face to the wall. He felt miserable. Bublitsyn ...
Bublitsyn ... the name was positively ringing in his ears.
'What's the matter, my good sir?' Praskovia Ivanovna asked him in a
drowsy voice. 'Why are you groaning?'
'Oh, nothing, ma'am. Nothing. I feel a weight oppressing me.'
'It's the mushrooms,' murmured Praskovia Ivanovna--'it's all those
mushrooms.'
O Lord, have mercy on us sinners!
An hour passed, a second--still no Vassilissa. Twenty times Pyetushkov
was on the point of getting up, and twenty times he huddled miserably
under the sheepskin.... At last he really did get down from the stove
and determined to go home, and positively went out into the yard, but
came back. Praskovia Ivanovna got up. The hired man, Luka, black as a
beetle, though he was a baker, put the bread into the oven. Pyetushkov
went again out on to the steps and pondered. The goat that lived in the
yard went up to him, and gave him a little friendly poke with his horns.
Pyetushkov looked at him, and for some unknown reason said 'Kss, Kss.'
Suddenly the low wicket-gate slowly opened and Vassilissa appeared. Ivan
Afanasiitch went straight to meet her, took her by the hand, and rather
coolly, but resolutely, said to her:
'Come along with me.'
'But, excuse me, Ivan Afanasiitch ... I ...'
'Come with me,' he repeated.
She obeyed.
Pyetushkov led her to his lodgings. Onisim, as usual, was lying at full
length asleep. Ivan Afanasiitch waked him, told him to light a candle.
Vassilissa went to the window and sat down in silence. While Onisim was
busy getting a light in the anteroom, Pyetushkov stood motionless at the
other window, staring into the street. Onisim came in, with the candle
in his hands, was beginning to grumble ... Ivan Afanasiitch turned
quickly round: 'Go along,' he said to him.
Onisim stood still in the middle of the room.
'Go away at once,' Pyetushkov repeated threateningly.
Onisim looked at his master and went out.
Ivan Afanasiitch shouted after him:
'Away, quite away. Out of the house. You can come back in two
hours' time.'
Onisim slouched off.
Pyetushkov waited till he heard the gate bang, and at once went up to
Vassilissa.
'Where have you been?'
Vassilissa was confused.
'Where have you been? I tell you,' he repeated.
Vassilissa looked round ...
'I am speaking to you ... where have you been?' And Pyetushkov raised
his arm ...
'Don't beat me, Ivan Afanasiitch, don't beat me,' Vassilissa whispered
in terror.
Pyetushkov turned away.
'Beat you ... No! I'm not going to beat you. Beat you? I beg your
pardon, my darling. God bless you! While I supposed you loved me, while
I ... I ... '
Ivan Afanasiitch broke off. He gasped for breath.
'Listen, Vassilissa,' he said at last. 'You know I'm a kind-hearted man,
you know it, don't you, Vassilissa, don't you?'
'Yes, I do,' she said faltering.
'I do nobody any harm, nobody, nobody in the world. And I deceive
nobody. Why are you deceiving me?'
'But I'm not deceiving you, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'You aren't deceiving me? Oh, very well! Oh, very well! Then tell me
where you've been.'
'I went to see Matrona.'
'That's a lie!'
'Really, I've been at Matrona's. You ask her, if you don't believe me.'
'And Bub--what's his name ... have you seen that devil?'
'Yes, I did see him.'
'You did see him! you did see him! Oh! you did see him!'
Pyetushkov turned pale.
'So you were making an appointment with him in the morning at the
window--eh? eh?'
'He asked me to come.'
'And so you went.... Thanks very much, my girl, thanks very much!'
Pyetushkov made Vassilissa a low bow.
'But, Ivan Afanasiitch, you're maybe fancying ...'
'You'd better not talk to me! And a pretty fool I am! There's nothing to
make an outcry for! You may make friends with any one you like. I've
nothing to do with you. So there! I don't want to know you even.'
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.
VI
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?'
'Why, what use would reading and writing be to us, Ivan Afanasiitch?'
'What use? You could read books.'
'But what good is there in books?'
'All sorts of good ... I tell you what, if you like, I'll bring
you a book.'
'But I can't read, you see, Ivan Afanasiitch.'
'I'll read to you.'
'But, I say, won't it be dull?'
'Nonsense! dull! On the contrary, it's the best thing to get rid
of dulness.'
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 | 14 |
15 |
16