Onisim saw that things were in a bad way.
‘Ivan Afanasiitch,’ he said suddenly.
‘Well?’
‘Would you like me to fetch Vassilissa here?’
Pyetushkov flushed red.
‘No, Onisim, I don’t wish it. (‘Yes, indeed! as if she would come!’ he thought to himself.) One must be firm. It is all nonsense. Yesterday, I ... It’s a disgrace. You are right. One must cut it all short, once for all, as they say. Isn’t that true?’
‘It’s the gospel truth your honour speaks, Ivan Afanasiitch.’
Pyetushkov sank again into reverie. He wondered at himself, he did not seem to know himself. He sat without stirring and stared at the floor. Thoughts whirled round within him, like smoke or fog, while his heart felt empty and heavy at once.
‘But what’s the meaning of it, after all,’ he thought sometimes, and again he grew calmer. ‘It’s nonsense, silliness!’ he said aloud, and passed his hand over his face, shook himself, and his hand dropped again on his knee, his eyes again rested on the floor.
Intently and mournfully Onisim kept watch on his master.