Pyetushkov Page #4

"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

								

a deafening cackle, straight under his feet, and long after was still
running about the yard in wild excitement. From a room close by peeped
the astonished countenance of the fat woman. Ivan Afanasiitch smiled and
nodded. The fat woman bowed to him. Tightly grasping his hat, Pyetushkov
approached her. Praskovia Ivanovna was apparently anticipating an
honoured guest; her dress was fastened up at every hook. Pyetushkov sat
down on a chair; Praskovia Ivanovna seated herself opposite him.

'I have come to you, Praskovia Ivanovna, more on account of....' Ivan
Afanasiitch began at last--and then ceased. His lips were twitching
spasmodically.

'You are kindly welcome, sir,' responded Praskovia Ivanovna in the
proper sing-song, and with a bow. 'Always delighted to see a guest.'

Pyetushkov took courage a little.

'I have long wished, you know, to have the pleasure of making your
acquaintance, Praskovia Ivanovna.'

'Much obliged to you, Ivan Afanasiitch.'

Followed a silence. Praskovia Ivanovna wiped her face with a
parti-coloured handkerchief; Ivan Afanasiitch continued with intense
attention to gaze away to one side. Both were rather uncomfortable. But
in merchant and petty shopkeeper society, where even old friends never
step outside special angular forms of etiquette, a certain constraint in
the behaviour of guests and host to one another not only strikes no one
as strange, but, on the contrary, is regarded as perfectly correct and
indispensable, particularly on a first visit. Praskovia Ivanovna was
agreeably impressed by Pyetushkov. He was formal and decorous in his
manners, and moreover, wasn't he a man of some rank, too?

'Praskovia Ivanovna, ma'am, I like your rolls very much,' he said to
her.

'Really now, really now.'

'Very good they are, you know, very, indeed.'

'May they do you good, sir, may they do you good. Delighted, to be
sure.'

'I've never eaten any like them in Moscow.'

'You don't say so now, you don't say so.'

Again a silence followed.

'Tell me, Praskovia Ivanovna,' began Ivan Afanasiitch; 'that's your
niece, I fancy, isn't it, living with you?'

'My own niece, sir.'

'How comes it ... she's with you?'....

'She's an orphan, so I keep her.'

'And is she a good worker?'

'Such a girl to work ... such a girl, sir ... ay ... ay ... to be
sure she is.'

Ivan Afanasiitch thought it discreet not to pursue the subject of the
niece further.

'What bird is that you have in the cage, Praskovia Ivanovna?'

'God knows. A bird of some sort.'

'H'm! Well, so, good day to you, Praskovia Ivanovna.'

'A very good day to your honour. Pray walk in another time, and take a
cup of tea.'

'With the greatest pleasure, Praskovia Ivanovna.'

Pyetushkov walked out. On the steps he met Vassilissa. She giggled.

'Where are you going, my darling?' said Pyetushkov with reckless daring.

'Come, give over, do, you are a one for joking.'

'He, he! And did you get my letter?'

Vassilissa hid the lower part of her face in her sleeve and made
no answer.

'And you're not angry with me?'

'Vassilissa!' came the jarring voice of the aunt; 'hey, Vassilissa!'

Vassilissa ran into the house. Pyetushkov returned home. But from that
day he began going often to the baker's shop, and his visits were not
for nothing. Ivan Afanasiitch's hopes, to use the lofty phraseology
suitable, were crowned with success. Usually, the attainment of the goal
has a cooling effect on people, but Pyetushkov, on the contrary, grew
every day more and more ardent. Love is a thing of accident, it exists
in itself, like art, and, like nature, needs no reasons to justify it,
as some clever man has said who never loved, himself, but made excellent
observations upon love.

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?'
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