'I'm quite well. . . . Go away,' Ivan Afanasiitch articulated huskily.
'Well? . . . no, you're not well, Ivan Afanasiitch. . . . Is this what you call being well?'
Pyetushkov did not speak.
'Just look at yourself. You've grown so thin, that you're simply not like yourself. And what's it all about? It's enough to turn one's brain to think of it. And you a gentleman born, too!'
Onisim paused. Pyetushkov did not stir.
'Is that the way gentlemen go on? They'd amuse themselves a bit, to be sure . . . why shouldn't they . . . they'd amuse themselves, and then drop it. . . They may well say, Fall in love with Old Nick, and you'll think him a beauty.'
Ivan Afanasiitch merely writhed.
'Well, it's really like this, Ivan Afanasiitch. If any one had said this and that of you, and your goings on, why, I would have said, "Get along with you, you fool, what do you take me for?" Do you suppose I'd have believed it? Why, as it is, I see it with my own eyes, and I can't believe it. Worse than this nothing can be. Has she put some spell over you or what? Why, what is there in her? If you come to consider, she's below contempt, really. She can't even speak as she ought. . . She's simply a baggage! Worse, even!'
293
