A Desperate Character and Other Stories

The fat woman stuck out an arm, bare to the shoulder—a huge arm, more like a leg than an arm—and thrust the hot bread just under his nose.

Ivan Afanasiitch stood some time under the window, walked once or twice up and down the street, glanced into the courtyard, and at last, ashamed of his childishness, returned home with the roll in his hand. He felt ill at ease the whole day, and even in the evening, contrary to his habit, did not drop into conversation with Onisim.

The next morning it was Onisim who went for the roll.

II

Some weeks went by. Ivan Afanasiitch had completely forgotten Vassilissa, and chatted in a friendly way with his servant as before. One fine morning there came to see him a certain Bublitsyn, an easy-mannered and very agreeable young man. It is true he sometimes hardly knew himself what he was talking about, and was always, as they say, a little wild; but all the same he had the reputation of being an exceedingly agreeable person to talk to. He smoked a great deal with feverish eagerness, with lifted eyebrows and contracted chest—smoked with an expression of intense anxiety, or, one might rather say, with an expression as though, let him have this one more puff at his pipe, and in a minute he would tell you some quite unexpected piece of news; at times he would even give a grunt and a wave of the hand, while himself sucking at his pipe, as though he had suddenly recollected something extraordinarily amusing or important, then he would open his mouth, let off a few rings of smoke, and utter the most commonplace remarks, or even keep silence altogether. After gossiping a little with Ivan Afanasiitch about the neighbours, about horses, the daughters of the gentry around, and other such edifying topics, Mr. Bublitsyn suddenly winked, pulled up his shock of hair, and, with a sly smile, approached the remarkably dim looking-glass which was the solitary ornament of Ivan Afanasiitch's room.

'There's no denying the fact,' he pronounced, stroking his light brown whiskers, 'we've got girls here that beat any of your Venus of Medicis hollow…. Have you seen Vassilissa, the baker girl, for instance?' … Mr. Bublitsyn sucked at his pipe.

Pyetushkov started.

'But why do I ask you?' pursued Bublitsyn, disappearing in a cloud of smoke,—'you're not the man to notice, don't you know, Ivan Afanasiitch! Goodness knows what you do to occupy yourself, Ivan Afanasiitch!'

'The same as you do,' Pyetushkov replied with some vexation, in a drawling voice.

'Oh no, Ivan Afanasiitch, not a bit of it…. How can you say so?'

'Well, why not?'

'Nonsense, nonsense.'

'Why so, why so?'

Bublitsyn stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and began scrutinising his not very handsome boots. Pyetushkov felt embarrassed.

'Ah, Ivan Afanasiitch, Ivan Afanasiitch!' pursued Bublitsyn, as though sparing his feelings. 'But as to Vassilissa, the baker girl, I can assure you: a very, ve-ry fine girl, … ve-ry.'

Mr. Bublitsyn dilated his nostrils, and slowly plunged his hands into his pockets.

Strange to relate, Ivan Afanasiitch felt something of the nature of jealousy. He began moving restlessly in his chair, burst into explosive laughter at nothing at all, suddenly blushed, yawned, and, as he yawned, his lower jaw twitched a little. Bublitsyn smoked three more pipes, and withdrew. Ivan Afanasiitch went to the window, sighed, and called for something to drink.

Onisim set a glass of kvas on the table, glanced severely at his master, leaned back against the door, and hung his head dejectedly.

'What are you so thoughtful about?' his master asked him genially, but with some inward trepidation.

'What am I thinking about?' retorted Onisim; 'what am I thinking about? … it's always about you.'

'About me!'

'Of course it's about you.'

'Why, what is it you are thinking?'

'Why, this is what I'm thinking.' (Here Onisim took a pinch of snuff.)

'You ought to be ashamed, sir—you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

'Ashamed?'

'Yes, ashamed…. Look at Mr. Bublitsyn, Ivan Afanasiitch…. Tell me if he's not a fine fellow, now.'

'I don't understand you.'

'You don't understand me…. Oh yes, you do understand me.'

Onisim paused.

'Mr. Bublitsyn's a real gentleman—what a gentleman ought to be. But what are you, Ivan Afanasiitch, what are you? Tell me that.'

'Why, I'm a gentleman too.'

'A gentleman, indeed!' … retorted Onisim, growing indignant. 'A pretty gentleman you are! You're no better, sir, than a hen in a shower of rain, Ivan Afanasiitch, let me tell you. Here you sit sticking at home the whole blessed day … much good it does you, sitting at home like that! You don't play cards, you don't go and see the gentry, and as for … well …'

Onisim waved his hand expressively.

'Now, come … you really go … too far …' Ivan Afanasiitch said hesitatingly, clutching his pipe.

'Too far, indeed, Ivan Afanasiitch, too far, you say! Judge for yourself. Here again, with Vassilissa … why couldn't you …'

'But what are you thinking about, Onisim,' Pyetushkov interrupted miserably.

'I know what I'm thinking about. But there—I'd better let you alone!

What can you do? Only fancy … there you …'

Ivan Afanasiitch got up.

'There, there, if you please, you hold your tongue,' he said quickly, seeming to be searching for Onisim with his eyes; 'I shall really, you know … I … what do you mean by it, really? You'd better help me dress.'

Onisim slowly drew off Ivan Afanasiitch's greasy Tartar dressing-gown, gazed with fatherly commiseration at his master, shook his head, put him on his coat, and fell to beating him about the back with a brush.

Pyetushkov went out, and after a not very protracted stroll about the crooked streets of the town, found himself facing the baker's shop. A queer smile was playing about his lips.

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?'