‘What have you done to him? ... You go and look at him. Why, before we can look round, he’ll be in a decline, or dying outright, maybe.’ ‘It’s not my fault, Onisim Sergeitch.’ ‘Not your fault! God knows. Why, he’s lost his heart to you. And you, God forgive you, treated him as if he were one of yourselves. Don’t come, says you, I’m sick of you. Why, though he’s not much to boast of, he’s a gentleman anyway. He’s a gentleman born, you know.... Do you realise that?’ ‘But he’s such a dull person, Onisim Sergeitch....’ ‘Dull! So you must have merry fellows about you!’ ‘And it’s not so much that he’s dull: he’s so cross, so jealous.’ ‘Ah, you, you’re as haughty as a princess! He was in your way, I dare say!’ ‘But you yourself, Onisim Sergeitch, if you remember, were put out with him about it; “Why is he such friends?” you said; “what’s he always coming for?”’ ‘Well, was I to be pleased with him for it, do you suppose?’ ‘Well, then, why are you angry with me now? Here, he’s given up coming.’ Onisim positively stamped. ‘But what am I to do with him, if he’s such a madman?’ he added, dropping his voice. ‘But how am I in fault? What can I do?’ ‘I’ll tell you what: come with me to him.’ ‘God forbid!’ ‘Why won’t you come?’ ‘But why should I go to see him? Upon my word!’ ‘Why? Why, because he says you’ve a good heart; let me see if you’ve a good heart.’ ‘But what good can I do him?’ ‘Oh, that’s my business. You may be sure things are in a bad way, since I’ve come to you. It’s certain I could think of nothing else to do.’ Onisim paused for a while. ‘Well, come along, Vassilissa, please, come along.’ ‘Oh, Onisim Sergeitch, I don’t want to be friendly with him again ...’ ‘Well, and you needn’t--who’s talking of it? You’ve only to say a couple of words; to say, Why does your honour grieve? ... give over.... That’s all.’ ‘Really, Onisim Sergeitch ...’ ‘Why, am I to go down on my knees to you, eh? All right--there, I’m on my knees ...’ ‘But really ...’ ‘Why, what a girl it is! Even that doesn’t touch her! ...’ Vassilissa at last consented, put a kerchief on her head, and went out with Onisim. ‘You wait here a little, in the passage,’ he said to her, when they reached Pyetushkov’s abode, ‘and I’ll go and let the master know ...’ He went in to Ivan Afanasiitch. Pyetushkov was standing in the middle of the room, both hands in his pockets, his legs excessively wide apart; he was slightly swaying backwards and forwards. His face was hot, and his eyes were sparkling. ‘Hullo, Onisim,’ he faltered amiably, articulating the consonants very indistinctly and thickly: ‘hullo, my lad. Ah, my lad, when you weren’t here ... he, he, he ...’ Pyetushkov laughed and made a sudden duck forward with his nose. ‘Yes, it’s an accomplished fact, he, he, he.... However,’ he added, trying to assume a dignified air, ‘I’m all right.’ He tried to lift his foot, but almost fell over, and to preserve his dignity pronounced in a deep bass, ‘Boy, bring my pipe!’