Pyetushkov Page #3

"Pyetushkov" is a lesser-known work by Russian author Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev, reflecting his profound understanding of human emotions and social dynamics. Set against the backdrop of rural Russia, the narrative delves into the complexities of love, betrayal, and personal growth. Through its richly drawn characters and evocative prose, Turgenev explores themes of existential struggle and the quest for identity, capturing the essence of 19th-century Russian society. The novel juxtaposes the idealism of youth with the disillusionment of adulthood, making it a poignant exploration of the human experience.

• Novel

								

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?'

'Oh, I only asked,' answered Vassilissa.

'But I say'--(here Onisim grinned)--'I say, he wrote you a letter,
didn't he?'

'Yes, he did.'

Onisim shook his head with an extraordinarily self-satisfied air.

'So he did, did he?' he said huskily, with a smile. 'Well, and what did
he say in his letter to you?'

'Oh, all sorts of things. "I didn't mean anything, Madam, Vassilissa
Timofyevna," says he, "don't you think anything of it; don't you be
offended, madam," and a lot more like that he wrote.... But I say,' she
added after a brief silence: 'what's he like?'

'He's all right,' Onisim responded indifferently.

'Does he get angry?'

'He get angry! Not he. Why, do you like him?'

Vassilissa looked down and giggled in her sleeve.

'Come,' grumbled Onisim.

'Oh, what's that to you, Onisim Sergeitch?'

'Oh, come, I tell you.'

'Well,' Vassilissa brought out at last, 'he's ... a gentleman. Of
course ... I ... and besides; he ... you know yourself ...'

'Of course I do,' Onisim observed solemnly.

'Of course you're aware, to be sure, Onisim Sergeitch.' ... Vassilissa
was obviously becoming agitated.

'You tell him, your master, that I'm ...; say, not angry with him,
but that ...'

She stammered.

'We understand,' responded Onisim, and he got up from his seat. 'We
understand. Thanks for the entertainment.'

'Come in again some day.'

'All right, all right.'

Onisim approached the door. The fat woman came into the room.

'Good evening to you, Onisim Sergeitch,' she said in a peculiar chant.

'Good evening to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,' he said in the same
sing-song.

Both stood still for a little while facing each other.

'Well, good day to you, Praskovia Ivanovna,' Onisim chanted out again.

'Well, good day to you, Onisim Sergeitch,' she responded in the same
sing-song.

Onisim arrived home. His master was lying on his bed, gazing at
the ceiling.

'Where have you been?'

'Where have I been?' ... (Onisim had the habit of repeating reproachfully
the last words of every question.) 'I've been about your business.'

'What business?'

'Why, don't you know? ... I've been to see Vassilissa.'

Pyetushkov blinked and turned over on his bed.

'So that's how it is,' observed Onisim, and he coolly took a pinch of
snuff. 'So that's how it is. You're always like that. Vassilissa sends
you her duty.'

'Really?'

'Really? So that's all about it. Really! ... She told me to say, Why is
it, says she, one never sees him? Why is it, says she, he never comes?'

'Well, and what did you say?'

'What did I say? I told her: You're a silly girl--I told her--as if
folks like that are coming to see you! No, you come yourself, I
told her.'

'Well, and what did she say?'

'What did she say? ... She said nothing.'

'That is, how do you mean, nothing?'

'Why, nothing, to be sure.'

Pyetushkov said nothing for a little while.

'Well, and is she coming?'

Onisim shook his head.

'She coming! You're in too great a hurry, sir. She coming, indeed! No,
you go too fast.' ...

'But you said yourself that ...'

'Oh, well, it's easy to talk.'

Pyetushkov was silent again.

'Well, but how's it to be, then, my lad?'

'How? ... You ought to know best; you 're a gentleman.'

'Oh, nonsense! come now!'

Onisim swayed complacently backwards and forwards.

'Do you know Praskovia Ivanovna?' he asked at last.

'No. What Praskovia Ivanovna?'

'Why, the baker woman!'

'Oh yes, the baker woman. I've seen her; she's very fat.'

'She's a worthy woman. She's own aunt to the other, to your girl.'

'Aunt?'

'Why, didn't you know?'

'No, I didn't know.'

'Well ...'

Onisim was restrained by respect for his master from giving full
expression to his feelings.

'That's whom it is you should make friends with.'

'Well, I've no objection.'

Onisim looked approvingly at Ivan Afanasiitch.

'But with what object precisely am I to make friends with her?' inquired
Pyetushkov.

'What for, indeed!' answered Onisim serenely.

Ivan Afanasiitch got up, paced up and down the room, stood still before
the window, and without turning his head, with some hesitation he
articulated:

'Onisim!'

'What say?'

'Won't it be, you know, a little awkward for me with the old woman, eh?'

'Oh, that's as you like.'

'Oh, well, I only thought it might, perhaps. My comrades might
notice it; it's a little ... But I'll think it over. Give me my
pipe.... So she,' he went on after a short silence--Vassilissa, I
mean, says then ...'

But Onisim had no desire to continue the conversation, and he assumed
his habitual morose expression.

IV

Ivan Afanasiitch's acquaintance with Praskovia Ivanovna began in the
following manner. Five days after his conversation with Onisim,
Pyetushkov set off in the evening to the baker's shop. 'Well,' thought
he, as he unlatched the creaking gate, 'I don't know how it's to be.' ...

He mounted the steps, opened the door. A huge, crested hen rushed, with
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