Vasya. He is a peaceful, timid man — he won't murder you. But better,’ I added, ‘far better in this world to tolerate torture from thy lawful husband than gnash thy teeth when the Day of Judgment is nigh!’ The silly wouldn't listen to me. Not a word would she say but ‘I love thee!’ and nothing more. Vasya came home on the Saturday before Trinity early in the morning. I watched the whole business through the fence. In ran Vasya into the house, and a minute later out he came with Kuzka in his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. He kissed Kuzka and looked up at the hayloft; he wanted to go to his pigeons, but he wouldn't let hold of Kuzka. He was a soft sort of man — sentimental! The day passed quietly enough. They rang the bells for the vesper service, and I kept thinking to myself, ‘Why don't they decorate the gates and the yard with birches? Something is wrong,’ I thought. I went into their house and looked. Vasya sat on the floor in the middle of the room, twitching his eyes as if in drink; the tears flowed down his cheeks, his hands shook; he took out of his handkerchief cracknels, necklaces, gingerbread — all sorts of gifts — and threw them on the floor. Kuzka — he was then aged three — crept on the floor and chewed the gingerbreads; and Mashenka stood by the stove, pale and trembling, and muttered, ‘I am not thy wife; I will not live with thee,’ and a lot more nonsense of that kind.
