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Updated: August 29, 2024
But behold one morning his servant, Onisim, handed him, on a blue-sprigged plate, instead of a roll, three dark red rusks. Pyetushkov at once asked his servant, with some indignation, what he meant by it. 'The rolls have all been sold out, answered Onisim, a native of Petersburg, who had been flung by some queer freak of destiny into the very wilds of south Russia.
'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.
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.
The conversation was always begun, 'scratched up, by Pyetushkov; Onisim responded unwillingly. 'It's a strange thing, you know, Ivan Afanasiitch would say, for instance, as he lay on the sofa, while Onisim stood in his usual attitude, leaning against the door, with his hands folded behind his back, 'when you come to think of it, what it was I saw in that girl.
She can't even speak as she ought.... She's simply a baggage! Worse, even! 'Go away, Ivan Afanasiitch moaned into the cushion. 'No, I'm not going away, Ivan Afanasiitch. Who's to speak, if I don't? Why, upon my word! Here, you 're breaking your heart now ... and over what? Eh, over what? tell me that! 'Oh, go away, Onisim, Pyetushkov moaned again.
Ivan Afanasiitch was silent. Onisim cleared the table, and was just going out of the room.... 'Onisim, Pyetushkov cried faintly. 'What is it? 'Er ... did she ask after me? 'Of course she didn't. Pyetushkov set his teeth. 'Yes, he thought, 'that's all it's worth, her love, indeed.... His head dropped. 'Absurd I was, to be sure, he thought again. 'A fine idea to read her poetry.
'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? 'What business?
Here again, with Vassilissa ... why couldn't you ... 'But what are you thinking about, Onisim, Pyetushkov interrupted miserably. 'I know what I'm thinking about. But there I'd better let you alone! What can you do? Only fancy ... there you ... Ivan Afanasiitch got up.
Here were the captain and the lieutenant and the sergeant-major, Onisim Mikhaylovich, and all this was in the Cossack village where it was reported that the companies were ordered to take up their quarters: therefore they were at home here.
Onisim looked intently at his master. 'Ivan Afanasiitch, he began, 'wouldn't you have a snack of something? 'Wouldn't I have a snack of something? repeated Pyetushkov. 'Or may be you'd like to have a pipe? 'To have a pipe? repeated Pyetushkov. 'So this is what it's coming to, muttered Onisim. 'It's gone deep, it seems.
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