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‘You know best, sir,’ Praskovia Ivanovna rejoined serenely. ‘It’s for you to decide, sir. And, oh, if you’ll allow me, I’ll give you your little account, sir.’

Pyetushkov had not at all anticipated such a prompt acquiescence. He had not desired acquiescence at all; he had only wanted to frighten Praskovia Ivanovna, and above all Vassilissa. He felt wretched.

‘I know,’ be began, ‘this will not be disagreeable to Vassilissa; on the contrary, I believe she will be glad.’

Praskovia Ivanovna got out her reckoning beads, and began rattling the counters.

‘On the other hand,’ continued Pyetushkov, growing more and more agitated, ‘if Vassilissa were, for instance, to give an explanation of her behaviour … possibly…. Though, of course … I don’t know, possibly, I might perceive that after all there was no great matter for blame in it.’

‘There’s thirty-seven roubles and forty kopecks in notes to your account, sir,’ observed Praskovia Ivanovna. ‘Here, would you be pleased to go through it?’

Ivan Afanasiitch made no reply.

‘Eighteen dinners at seventy kopecks each; twelve roubles sixty kopecks.’

‘And so we are to part, Praskovia Ivanovna.’

‘If so it must be, sir. Things do turn out so. Twelve samovars at ten kopecks each …’

‘But you might just tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna, where it was Vassilissa went, and what it was she …’

‘Oh, I never asked her, sir…. One rouble twenty kopecks in silver.’

Ivan Afanasiitch sank into meditation.

‘Kvas and effervescing drinks,’ pursued Praskovia Ivanovna, holding the counters apart on the frame not with her first, but her third finger, ‘half a rouble in silver. Sugar and rolls for tea, half a rouble. Four packets of tobacco bought by your orders, eighty kopecks in silver. To the tailor Kuprian Apollonov …’

Ivan Afanasiitch suddenly raised his head, put out his hand and mixed up the counters.

‘What are you about, my good man?’ cried Praskovia Ivanovna. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘Praskovia Ivanovna,’ replied Pyetushkov, with a hurried smile, ‘I’ve thought better of it. I was only, you know … joking. We’d better remain friends and go on in the old way. What nonsense it is! How can we separate–tell me that, please?’

Praskovia Ivanovna looked down and made him no reply.

‘Come, we’ve been talking nonsense, and there’s an end of it,’ pursued Ivan Afanasiitch, walking up and down the room, rubbing his hands, and, as it were, resuming his ancient rights. ‘Amen! and now I’d better have a pipe.’

Praskovia Ivanovna still did not move from her place….

‘I see you are angry with me,’ said Pyetushkov.

‘I’ve offended you, perhaps. Well! well! forgive me generously.’

‘How could you offend me, my good sir? No offence about it…. Only, please, sir,’ added Praskovia Ivanovna, bowing, ‘be so good as not to go on coming to us.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not for you, sir, to be friends with us, your honour. So, please, do us the favour …’

Praskovia Ivanovna went on bowing.

‘What ever for?’ muttered the astounded Pyetushkov.

‘Oh, nothing, sir. For mercy’s sake …’

‘No, Praskovia Ivanovna, you must explain this! …’

‘Vassilissa asks you. She says, “I thank you, thank you very much, and from my heart; only for the future, your honour, give us up.”‘

Praskovia Ivanovna bowed down almost to Pyetushkov’s feet.

‘Vassilissa, you say, begs me not to come?’

‘Just so, your honour. When your honour came in to-day, and said what you did, that you didn’t wish, you said, to visit us any more, I felt relieved, sir, that I did; thinks I, Well, thank God, how nicely it’s all come about! But for that, I should have had hard work to bring my tongue to say it…. Be so good, sir.’

Pyetushkov turned red and pale almost at the same instant. Praskovia Ivanovna still went on bowing….

‘Very good,’ Ivan Afanasiitch cried sharply. ‘Good-bye.’

He turned abruptly and put on his cap.

‘But the little bill, sir….’

‘Send it … my orderly shall pay you.’

Pyetushkov went with resolute steps out of the baker’s shop, and did not even look round.

X

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.