‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘these are my friends. Here is my family, this is it.... And here Bublitsyn and there Bublitsyn.’
Vassilissa was sitting with her back to him, winding worsted, and carelessly singing to herself; she was wearing a striped cotton gown; her hair was done up anyhow.... The room, insufferably hot, smelt of feather beds and old rags; jaunty, reddish-brown ‘Prussians’ scurried rapidly here and there across the walls; on the decrepit chest of drawers, with holes in it where the locks should have been, beside a broken jar, lay a woman’s shabby slipper.... Kozlov’s poem was still where it had fallen on the floor.... Pyetushkov shook his head, folded his arms, and went away. He was hurt.
At home he called for his things to dress. Onisim slouched off after his better coat. Pyetushkov had a great desire to draw Onisim into conversation, but Onisim preserved a sullen silence. At last Ivan Afanasiitch could hold out no longer.
‘Why don’t you ask me where I’m going?’
‘Why, what do I want to know where you’re going for?’
‘What for? Why, suppose some one comes on urgent business, and asks, “Where’s Ivan Afanasiitch?” And then you can tell him, “Ivan Afanasiitch has gone here or there.”’
‘Urgent business.... But who ever does come to you on urgent business?’
‘Why, are you beginning to be rude again? Again, hey?’
Onisim turned away, and fell to brushing the coat.
‘Really, Onisim, you are a most disagreeable person.’