Page:The Novels of Ivan Turgenev (volume XIV).djvu/278

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
PYETUSHKOV

'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