'I don't understand you.'
'You don't understand me. . . Oh yes, you do understand me.'
Onisim paused.
'Mr. Bublitsyn's a real gentleman—what a gentleman ought to be. But what are you, Ivan Afanasiitch, what are you? Tell me that.'
'Why, I'm a gentleman too.'
'A gentleman, indeed!' . . . retorted Onisim, growing indignant. 'A pretty gentleman you are! You're no better, sir, than a hen in a shower of rain, Ivan Afanasiitch, let me tell you. Here you sit sticking at home the whole blessed day . . . much good it does you, sitting at home like that! You don't play cards, you don't go and see the gentry, and as for . . . well . . .'
Onisim waved his hand expressively.
'Now, come . . . you really go . . . too far . . .' Ivan Afanasiitch said hesitatingly, clutching his pipe.
'Too far, indeed, Ivan Afanasiitch, too far, you say! Judge for yourself. 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.
'There, there, if you please, you hold your
256
