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Pyetushkov became passionately attached to Vassilissa. He was completely happy. His soul was aglow with bliss. Little by little he carried all his belongings, at any rate all his pipes, to Praskovia Ivanovna’s, and for whole days together he sat in her back room. Praskovia Ivanovna charged him something for his dinner and drank his tea, consequently she did not complain of his presence. Vassilissa had grown used to him. She would work, sing, or spin before him, sometimes exchanging a couple of words with him; Pyetushkov watched her, smoked his pipe, swayed to and fro in his chair, laughed, and in leisure hours played ‘Fools’ with her and Praskovia Ivanovna. Ivan Afanasiitch was happy….

But in this world nothing is perfect, and, small as a man’s requirements may be, destiny never quite fulfils them, and positively spoils the whole thing, if possible…. The spoonful of pitch is sure to find its way into the barrel of honey! Ivan Afanasiitch experienced this in his case.

In the first place, from the time of his establishing himself at Vassilissa’s, Pyetushkov dropped more than ever out of all intercourse with his comrades. He saw them only when absolutely necessary, and then, to avoid allusions and jeers (in which, however, he was not always successful), he put on the desperately sullen and intensely scared look of a hare in a display of fireworks.

Secondly, Onisim gave him no peace; he had lost every trace of respect for him, he mercilessly persecuted him, put him to shame.

And … thirdly…. Alas! read further, kindly reader.

V

One day Pyetushkov (who for the reasons given above found little comfort outside Praskovia Ivanovna’s doors) was sitting in Vassilissa’s room at the back, and was busying himself over some home-brewed concoction, something in the way of jam or syrup. The mistress of the house was not at home. Vassilissa was sitting in the shop singing.

There came a knock at the little pane. Vassilissa got up, went to the window, uttered a little shriek, giggled, and began whispering with some one. On going back to her place, she sighed, and then fell to singing louder than ever.

‘Who was that you were talking to?’ Pyetushkov asked her.

Vassilissa went on singing carelessly.

‘Vassilissa, do you hear? Vassilissa!’

‘What do you want?’

‘Whom were you talking to?’

‘What’s that to you?’

‘I only asked.’

Pyetushkov came out of the back room in a parti-coloured smoking-jacket with tucked-up sleeves, and a strainer in his hand.

‘Oh, a friend of mine,’ answered Vassilissa.

‘What friend?’

‘Oh, Piotr Petrovitch.’

‘Piotr Petrovitch? … what Piotr Petrovitch?’

‘He’s one of your lot. He’s got such a difficult name.’

‘Bublitsyn?’

‘Yes, yes … Piotr Petrovitch.’

‘And do you know him?’

‘Rather!’ responded Vassilissa, with a wag of her head.

Pyetushkov, without a word, paced ten times up and down the room.

‘I say, Vassilissa,’ he said at last, ‘that is, how do you know him?’

‘How do I know him? … I know him … He’s such a nice gentleman.’

‘How do you mean nice, though? how nice? how nice?’

Vassilissa gazed at Ivan Afanasiitch.

‘Nice,’ she said slowly and in perplexity. ‘You know what I mean.’

Pyetushkov bit his lips and began again pacing the room.

‘What were you talking about with him, eh?’

Vassilissa smiled and looked down.

‘Speak, speak, speak, I tell you, speak!’

‘How cross you are to-day!’ observed Vassilissa.

Pyetushkov was silent.

‘Come now, Vassilissa,’ he began at last; ‘no, I won’t be cross…. Come, tell me, what were you talking about?’

Vassilissa laughed.

‘He is a one to joke, really, that Piotr Petrovitch!’

‘Well, what did he say?’

‘He is a fellow!’

Pyetushkov was silent again for a little.

‘Vassilissa, you love me, don’t you?’ he asked her.

‘Oh, so that’s what you’re after, too!’

Poor Pyetushkov felt a pang at his heart. Praskovia Ivanovna came in. They sat down to dinner. After dinner Praskovia Ivanovna betook herself to the shelf bed. Ivan Afanasiitch himself lay down on the stove, turned over and dropped asleep. A cautious creak waked him. Ivan Afanasiitch sat up, leaned on his elbow, looked: the door was open. He jumped up–no Vassilissa. He ran into the yard–she was not in the yard; into the street, looked up and down–Vassilissa was nowhere to be seen. He ran without his cap as far as the market–no, Vassilissa was not in sight. Slowly he returned to the baker’s shop, clambered on to the stove, and turned with his face to the wall. He felt miserable. Bublitsyn … Bublitsyn … the name was positively ringing in his ears.