‘Why, this is what I’m thinking.’ (Here Onisim took a pinch of snuff.) ‘You ought to be ashamed, sir—you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Ashamed?’
‘Yes, ashamed.... Look at Mr. Bublitsyn, Ivan Afanasiitch.... Tell me if he’s not a fine fellow, now.’
‘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.