“No, you do understand.”
“No, by God, I don’t understand!”
“Swearing, too! Well, tell us, since it’s come to that: have you no fear of God? Why can’t you let the poor girl live in peace? What do you want of her?”
“Whom are you talking of?” the fat man asked with feigned amazement.
“Ugh! doesn’t know; what next? I’m talking of Tatyana. Have some fear of God—what do you want to revenge yourself for? You ought to be ashamed: a married man like you, with children as big as I am; it’s a very different thing with me.—I mean marriage: I’m acting straightforwardly.”
“How am I to blame in that, Pavel Andreitch? The mistress won’t permit you to marry; it’s her seigniorial will! What have I to do with it?”
“Why, haven’t you been plotting with that old hag, the housekeeper, eh? Haven’t you been telling tales, eh? Tell me, aren’t you bringing all sorts of stories up against the defenseless girl? I suppose it’s not your doing that she’s been degraded from laundrymaid to washing dishes in the scullery? And it’s not your doing that she’s beaten and dressed in sackcloth?—You ought to be ashamed, you ought to be ashamed—an old man like you! You know there’s a paralytic stroke always hanging over you.— answer to God.”
“You’re abusive, Pavel Andreitch, you’re abusive—You shan’t have a chance to be insolent much longer.”
Pavel fired up.
“What? You dare to threaten me?” he said passionately. “You think I’m afraid of you. No, my man, I’m not come to that! What have I to be afraid of? I can make my bread everywhere. For you, now, it’s another thing! It’s only here you can live and tell tales, and filch—”