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