A Desperate Character and Other Stories

'You sit down here, Vassilissa,' he said to her, 'and I'll sit here. I want to have a little talk with you.'

Vassilissa sat down.

'Tell me, Vassilissa, can you write?'

'Write?'

'Yes, write?'

'No, I can't.'

'What about reading?'

'I can't read either.'

'Then who read you my letter?'

'The deacon.'

Pyetushkov paused.

'But would you like to learn to read and write?'

'Why, what use would reading and writing be to us, Ivan Afanasiitch?'

'What use? You could read books.'

'But what good is there in books?'

'All sorts of good … I tell you what, if you like, I'll bring you a book.'

'But I can't read, you see, Ivan Afanasiitch.'

'I'll read to you.'

'But, I say, won't it be dull?'

'Nonsense! dull! On the contrary, it's the best thing to get rid of dulness.'

'Maybe you'll read stories, then.'

'You shall see to-morrow.'

In the evening Pyetushkov returned home, and began rummaging in his boxes. He found several odd numbers of the Library of Good Reading, five grey Moscow novels, Nazarov's arithmetic, a child's geography with a globe on the title-page, the second part of Keydanov's history, two dream-books, an almanack for the year 1819, two numbers of Galatea, Kozlov's Natalia Dolgorukaia, and the first part of Roslavlev. He pondered a long while which to choose, and finally made up his mind to take Kozlov's poem, and Roslavlev.

Next day Pyetushkov dressed in haste, put both the books under the lapel of his coat, went to the baker's shop, and began reading aloud Zagoskin's novel. Vassilissa sat without moving; at first she smiled, then seemed to become absorbed in thought … then she bent a little forward; her eyes closed, her mouth slightly opened, her hands fell on her knees; she was dozing. Pyetushkov read quickly, inarticulately, in a thick voice; he raised his eyes …

'Vassilissa, are you asleep?'

She started, rubbed her face, and stretched. Pyetushkov felt angry with her and with himself….

'It's dull,' said Vassilissa lazily.

'I tell you what, would you like me to read you poetry?'

'What say?'

'Poetry … good poetry.'

'No, that's enough, really.'

Pyetushkov hurriedly picked up Kozlov's poem, jumped up, crossed the room, ran impulsively up to Vassilissa, and began reading. Vassilissa let her head drop backwards, spread out her hands, stared into Ivan Afanasiitch's face, and suddenly went off into a loud harsh guffaw … she fairly rolled about with laughing.

Ivan Afanasiitch flung the book on the floor in his annoyance.

Vassilissa went on laughing.

'Why, what are you laughing at, silly?'

Vassilissa roared more than ever.

'Laugh away, laugh away,' Pyetushkov muttered between his teeth.

Vassilissa held her sides, gasping.

'But what is it, idiot?' But Vassilissa could only wave her hands.

Ivan Afanasiitch snatched up his cap, and ran out of the house. With rapid, unsteady steps, he walked about the town, walked on and on, and found himself at the city gates. Suddenly there was the rattle of wheels, the tramp of horses along the street…. Some one called him by name. He raised his head and saw a big, old-fashioned wagonette. In the wagonette facing him sat Mr. Bublitsyn between two young ladies, the daughters of Mr. Tiutiurov. Both the girls were dressed exactly alike, as though in outward sign of their immutable affection; both smiled pensively, and carried their heads on one side with a languid grace. On the other side of the carriage appeared the wide straw hat of their excellent papa; and from time to time his round, plump neck presented itself to the gaze of spectators. Beside his straw hat rose the mob-cap of his spouse. The very attitude of both the parents was a sufficient proof of their sincere goodwill towards the young man and their confidence in him. And Bublitsyn obviously was aware of their flattering confidence and appreciated it. He was, of course, sitting in an unconstrained position, and talking and laughing without constraint; but in the very freedom of his manner there could be discerned a shade of tender, touching respectfulness. And the Tiutiurov girls? It is hard to convey in words all that an attentive observer could trace in the faces of the two sisters. Goodwill and gentleness, and discreet gaiety, a melancholy comprehension of life, and a faith, not to be shaken, in themselves, in the lofty and noble destiny of man on earth, courteous attention to their young companion, in intellectual endowments perhaps not fully their equal, but still by the qualities of his heart quite deserving of their indulgence … such were the characteristics and the feelings reflected at that moment on the faces of the young ladies. Bublitsyn called to Ivan Afanasiitch for no special reason, simply in the fulness of his inner satisfaction; he bowed to him with excessive friendliness and cordiality. The young ladies even looked at him with gentle amiability, as at a man whose acquaintance they would not object to…. The good, sleek, quiet horses went by Ivan Afanasiitch at a gentle trot; the carriage rolled smoothly along the broad road, carrying with it good-humoured, girlish laughter; he caught a final glimpse of Mr. Tiutiurov's hat; the two outer horses turned their heads on each side, jauntily stepping over the short, green grass … the coachman gave a whistle of approbation and warning, the carriage disappeared behind some willows.

A long while poor Pyetushkov remained standing still.

'I'm a poor lonely creature,' he whispered at last … 'alone in the world.'

A little boy in tatters stopped before him, looked timidly at him, held out his hand …

'For Christ's sake, good gentleman.'

Pyetushkov pulled out a copper.

'For your loneliness, poor orphan,' he said with effort, and he walked back to the baker's shop. On the threshold of Vassilissa's room Ivan Afanasiitch stopped.

'Yes,' he thought, 'these are my friends. Here is my family, this is it…. And here Bublitsyn and there Bublitsyn.'

Vassilissa was sitting with her back to him, winding worsted, and carelessly singing to herself; she was wearing a striped cotton gown; her hair was done up anyhow…. The room, insufferably hot, smelt of feather beds and old rags; jaunty, reddish-brown 'Prussians' scurried rapidly here and there across the walls; on the decrepit chest of drawers, with holes in it where the locks should have been, beside a broken jar, lay a woman's shabby slipper…. Kozlov's poem was still where it had fallen on the floor…. Pyetushkov shook his head, folded his arms, and went away. He was hurt.

At home he called for his things to dress. Onisim slouched off after his better coat. Pyetushkov had a great desire to draw Onisim into conversation, but Onisim preserved a sullen silence. At last Ivan Afanasiitch could hold out no longer.

'Why don't you ask me where I'm going?'

'Why, what do I want to know where you're going for?'

'What for? Why, suppose some one comes on urgent business, and asks, "Where's Ivan Afanasiitch?" And then you can tell him, "Ivan Afanasiitch has gone here or there."'

'Urgent business…. But who ever does come to you on urgent business?'

'Why, are you beginning to be rude again? Again, hey?'

Onisim turned away, and fell to brushing the coat.