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Pyetushkov got up, paced up and down the room in silence, stood still, knitted his brows slightly and scratched his neck. ‘However,’ he said aloud, ‘I’ll go to see her. I must see what she’s about there. I must make her feel ashamed. Most certainly … I’ll go. Onisim! my clothes.’

‘Well,’ he mused as he dressed, ‘we shall see what comes of it. She may, I dare say, be angry with me. And after all, a man keeps coming and coming, and all of a sudden, for no rhyme or reason, goes and gives up coming. Well, we shall see.’

Ivan Afanasiitch went out of the house, and made his way to the baker’s shop. He stopped at the little gate, he wanted to straighten himself out and set himself to rights…. Pyetushkov clutched at the folds of his coat with both hands, and almost pulled them out altogether…. Convulsively he twisted his tightly compressed neck, fastened the top hook of his collar, drew a deep breath….

‘Why are you standing there?’ Praskovia Ivanovna bawled to him from the little window. ‘Come in.’

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.

VII

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….