Pyetushkov Page #6

"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

								

complaining all the morning of feeling dull. To judge by the expression
of Ivan Afanasiitch's countenance, he was revolving in his brain some
extraordinary idea, unforeseen even by him.

'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?'
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