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Onisim looked at Pyetushkov and plumped heavily down on his knees.

‘Dear master, Ivan Afanasiitch,’ he cried, ‘your honour! Be pleased to punish me. I’m a fool. I’ve troubled you, Ivan Afanasiitch…. How did I dare! Be pleased to punish me, your honour…. It’s not worth your while to weep over my silly words … dear master. Ivan Afanasiitch….’

But Pyetushkov did not even look at his servant; he turned away and buried himself in the corner of the sofa again.

Onisim got up, went up to his master, stood over him, and twice he tugged at his own hair.

‘Wouldn’t you like to undress, sir … you should go to bed … you should take some raspberry tea … don’t grieve, please your honour…. It’s only half a trouble, it’s all nothing … it’ll be all right in the end,’ he said to him every two minutes….

But Pyetushkov did not get up from the sofa, and only twitched his shoulders now and then, and drew up his knees to his stomach….

Onisim did not leave his side all night. Towards morning Pyetushkov fell asleep, but he did not sleep long. At seven o’clock he got up from the sofa, pale, dishevelled, and exhausted, and asked for tea.

Onisim with amazing eagerness and speed brought the samovar.

‘Ivan Afanasiitch,’ he began at last, in a timid voice, ‘your honour is not angry with me?’

‘Why should I be angry with you, Onisim?’ answered poor Pyetushkov. ‘You were perfectly right yesterday, and I quite agreed with you in everything.’

‘I only spoke through my devotion to you, Ivan Afanasiitch.’

‘I know that.’

Pyetushkov was silent and hung his head.

Onisim saw that things were in a bad way.

‘Ivan Afanasiitch,’ he said suddenly.

‘Well?’

‘Would you like me to fetch Vassilissa here?’

Pyetushkov flushed red.

‘No, Onisim, I don’t wish it. (‘Yes, indeed! as if she would come!’ he thought to himself.) One must be firm. It is all nonsense. Yesterday, I … It’s a disgrace. You are right. One must cut it all short, once for all, as they say. Isn’t that true?’

‘It’s the gospel truth your honour speaks, Ivan Afanasiitch.’

Pyetushkov sank again into reverie. He wondered at himself, he did not seem to know himself. He sat without stirring and stared at the floor. Thoughts whirled round within him, like smoke or fog, while his heart felt empty and heavy at once.

‘But what’s the meaning of it, after all,’ he thought sometimes, and again he grew calmer. ‘It’s nonsense, silliness!’ he said aloud, and passed his hand over his face, shook himself, and his hand dropped again on his knee, his eyes again rested on the floor.

Intently and mournfully Onisim kept watch on his master.

Pyetushkov lifted his head.

‘Tell me, Onisim,’ he began, ‘is it true, are there really such witches’ spells?’

‘There are, to be sure there are,’ answered Onisim, as he thrust one foot forward. ‘Does your honour know the non-commissioned officer, Krupovaty? … His brother was ruined by witchcraft. He was bewitched to love an old woman, a cook, if your honour only can explain that! They gave him nothing but a morsel of rye bread, with a muttered spell, of course. And Krupovaty’s brother simply lost his heart to the cook, he fairly ran after the cook, he positively adored her–couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She might tell him to do anything, he’d obey her on the spot. She’d even make a joke of him before other people, before strangers. Well, she drove him into a decline, at last. And so it was Krupovaty’s brother died. And you know, she was a cook, and an old woman too, very old. (Onisim took a pinch of snuff.) Confound the lot of them, these girls and women-folk!’

‘She doesn’t care for me a bit, that’s clear, at last; that’s beyond all doubt, at last,’ Pyetushkov muttered in an undertone, gesticulating with his head and hands as though he were explaining to a perfectly extraneous person some perfectly extraneous fact.