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‘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?’

Vassilissa looked slily at him and giggled again.

‘Do you belong to these parts?’

‘Yes.’

Vassilissa passed her hand over her hair and walked a little more slowly. Ivan Afanasiitch smiled, and, his heart inwardly sinking with timidity, he stooped a little on one side and put a trembling arm about the beauty’s waist.

Vassilissa uttered a shriek.

‘Give over, do, for shame, in the street.’

‘Come now, there, there,’ muttered Ivan Afanasiitch.

‘Give over, I tell you, in the street…. Don’t be rude.’

‘A … a … ah, what a girl you are!’ said Pyetushkov reproachfully, while he blushed up to his ears.

Vassilissa stood still.

‘Now go along with you, sir–go along, do.’

Pyetushkov obeyed. He got home, and sat for a whole hour without moving from his chair, without even smoking his pipe. At last he took out a sheet of greyish paper, mended a pen, and after long deliberation wrote the following letter.

‘DEAR MADAM, VASSILISSA TIMOFYEVNA!–Being naturally a most inoffensive person, how could I have occasioned you annoyance? If I have really been to blame in my conduct to you, then I must tell you: the hints of Mr. Bublitsyn were responsible for this, which was what I never expected. Anyway, I must humbly beg you not to be angry with me. I am a sensitive man, and any kindness I am most sensible of and grateful for. Do not be angry with me, Vassilissa Timofyevna, I beg you most humbly.–I remain respectfully your obedient servant,

IVAN PYETUSHKOV.’

Onisim carried this letter to its address.

III

A fortnight passed. Onisim went every morning as usual to the baker’s shop. One day Vassilissa ran out to meet him.

‘Good morning, Onisim Sergeitch.’

Onisim put on a gloomy expression, and responded crossly, ”Morning.’

‘How is it you never come to see us, Onisim Sergeitch?’

Onisim glanced morosely at her.

‘What should I come for? you wouldn’t give me a cup of tea, no fear.’

‘Yes, I would, Onisim Sergeitch, I would. You come and see. Rum in it, too.’

Onisim slowly relaxed into a smile.

‘Well, I don’t mind if I do, then.’

‘When, then–when?’

‘When … well, you are …’

‘To-day–this evening, if you like. Drop in.

‘All right, I’ll come along,’ replied Onisim, and he sauntered home with his slow, rolling step.

The same evening in a little room, beside a bed covered with a striped eider-down, Onisim was sitting at a clumsy little table, facing Vassilissa. A huge, dingy yellow samovar was hissing and bubbling on the table; a pot of geranium stood in the window; in the other corner near the door there stood aslant an ugly chest with a tiny hanging lock; on the chest lay a shapeless heap of all sorts of old rags; on the walls were black, greasy prints. Onisim and Vassilissa drank their tea in silence, looking straight at each other, turning the lumps of sugar over and over in their hands, as it were reluctantly nibbling them, blinking, screwing up their eyes, and with a hissing sound sucking in the yellowish boiling liquid through their teeth. At last they had emptied the whole samovar, turned upside down the round cups–one with the inscription, ‘Take your fill’; the other with the words, ‘Cupid’s dart hath pierced my heart’–then they cleared their throats, wiped their perspiring brows, and gradually dropped into conversation.

‘Onisim Sergeitch, how about your master …’ began Vassilissa, and did not finish her sentence.

‘What about my master?’ replied Onisim, and he leaned on his hand. ‘He’s all right. But why do you ask?’