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‘Well, she’s a fine girl!’ Onisim observed condescendingly.

‘Yes, … she’s not bad-looking,’ said Ivan Afanasiitch, also looking away. ‘And what’s her name, do you know?’

‘Vassilissa.’

‘And do you know her?’

Onisim did not answer for a minute or two.

‘We know her.’

Pyetushkov was on the point of opening his mouth again, but he turned over on the other side and fell asleep.

Onisim went out into the passage, took a pinch of snuff, and gave his head a violent shake.

The next day, early in the morning, Pyetushkov called for his clothes. Onisim brought him his everyday coat–an old grass-coloured coat, with huge striped epaulettes. Pyetushkov gazed a long while at Onisim without speaking, then told him to bring him his new coat. Onisim, with some surprise, obeyed. Pyetushkov dressed, and carefully drew on his chamois-leather gloves.

‘You needn’t go to the baker’s to-day,’ said he with some hesitation; ‘I’m going myself, … it’s on my way.’

‘Yes, sir,’ responded Onisim, as abruptly as if some one had just given him a shove from behind.

Pyetushkov set off, reached the baker’s shop, tapped at the window. The fat woman opened the pane.

‘Give me a roll, please,’ Ivan Afanasiitch articulated slowly.

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.