‘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!’ ‘Go away,’ Ivan Afanasiitch moaned into the cushion. ‘No, I’m not going away, Ivan Afanasiitch. Who’s to speak, if I don’t? Why, upon my word! Here, you ‘re breaking your heart now ... and over what? Eh, over what? tell me that!’ ‘Oh, go away, Onisim,’ Pyetushkov moaned again. Onisim, for propriety’s sake, was silent for a little while. ‘And another thing,’ he began again, ‘she’s no feeling of gratitude whatever. Any other girl wouldn’t know how to do enough to please you; while she! ... she doesn’t even think of you. Why, it’s simply a disgrace. Why, the things people are saying about you, one cannot repeat them, they positively cry shame on me. If I could have known beforehand, I’d have....’ ‘Oh, go away, do, devil!’ shrieked Pyetushkov, not stirring from his place, however, nor raising his head. ‘Ivan Afanasiitch, for mercy’s sake,’ pursued the ruthless Onisim. ‘I’m speaking for your good. Despise her, Ivan Afanasiitch; you simply break it off. Listen to me, or else I’ll fetch a wise woman; she’ll break the spell in no time. You’ll laugh at it yourself, later on; you’ll say to me, “Onisim, why, it’s marvellous how such things happen sometimes!” You just consider yourself: girls like her, they’re like dogs ... you’ve only to whistle to them....’ Like one frantic, Pyetushkov jumped up from the sofa ... but, to the amazement of Onisim, who was already lifting both hands to the level of his cheeks, he sat down again, as though some one had cut away his legs from under him.... Tears were rolling down his pale face, a tuft of hair stood up straight on the top of his head, his eyes looked dimmed ... his drawn lips were quivering ... his head sank on his breast. Onisim looked at Pyetushkov and plumped heavily down on his knees. ‘Dear master, Ivan Afanasiitch,’ he cried, ‘your honour! Be pleased to punish me. I’m a fool. I’ve troubled you, Ivan Afanasiitch.... How did I dare! Be pleased to punish me, your honour.... It’s not worth your while to weep over my silly words ... dear master. Ivan Afanasiitch....’ But Pyetushkov did not even look at his servant; he turned away and buried himself in the corner of the sofa again. Onisim got up, went up to his master, stood over him, and twice he tugged at his own hair.