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Updated: June 3, 2025
Well, if you can't get on with the Head, look out for another post. Why shouldn't you get a situation on the railway, for instance? I have just been talking to Anyuta Blagovo; she declares they would take you on the railway-line, and even promised to try and get a post for you. For God's sake, Misail, think a little! Think a little, I implore you." We talked a little longer and I gave way.
The crowd of relations and colleagues in the service stood, with glasses in their hands, waiting for the train to start to shout "Hurrah!" and the bride's father, Pyotr Leontyitch, wearing a top-hat and the uniform of a teacher, already drunk and very pale, kept craning towards the window, glass in hand and saying in an imploring voice: "Anyuta! Anya, Anya! one word!"
Anyuta put on her coat again, in silence wrapped up her embroidery in paper, gathered together her needles and thread: she found the screw of paper with the four lumps of sugar in the window, and laid it on the table by the books. "That's . . . your sugar . . ." she said softly, and turned away to conceal her tears. "Why are you crying?" asked Klotchkov.
Anyuta shivered, and was afraid the student, noticing it, would leave off drawing and sounding her, and then, perhaps, might fail in his exam. "Now it's all clear," said Klotchkov when he had finished. "You sit like that and don't rub off the crayon, and meanwhile I'll learn up a little more." And the student again began walking to and fro, repeating to himself.
I mentally compared her with our young ladies, and even the handsome, dignified Anyuta Blagovo could not stand comparison with her; the difference was immense, like the difference between a beautiful, cultivated rose and a wild briar. We had supper together, the three of us.
I'm painting a picture, you see, and I can't get on without a model." "Oh, with pleasure," Klotchkov agreed. "Go along, Anyuta." "The things I've had to put up with there," Anyuta murmured softly. "Rubbish! The man's asking you for the sake of art, and not for any sort of nonsense. Why not help him if you can?" Anyuta began dressing. "And what are you painting?" asked Klotchkov.
In the window, covered by patterns of frost, sat on a stool the girl who shared his room Anyuta, a thin little brunette of five-and-twenty, very pale with mild grey eyes. Sitting with bent back she was busy embroidering with red thread the collar of a man's shirt.
When she sees me, she always shakes her head mournfully, and says with a sigh: "Your life is ruined." On working days I am busy from morning till night. There I stand or sit down, and stay a long time gazing at the grave that is so dear to me, and tell the child that her mother lies here. Sometimes, by the graveside, I find Anyuta Blagovo.
"Can I come in?" asked a voice at the door. Anyuta quickly threw a woollen shawl over her shoulders. Fetisov, the artist, walked in. "I have come to ask you a favour," he began, addressing Klotchkov, and glaring like a wild beast from under the long locks that hung over his brow. "Do me a favour; lend me your young lady just for a couple of hours!
I went out, and there I found a hired brake from the town standing before the entrance of the great house. My sister had come in it with Anyuta Blagovo and a gentleman in a military tunic. Going up closer I recognized the latter: it was the brother of Anyuta Blagovo, the army doctor. "We have come to you for a picnic," he said; "is that all right?"
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