LITMIR.BIZ

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is a sensible fellow, you see. He knows whom to love. So don't you go and fret, my jewel. We'll not take him away, and we won't marry him. No, we'll let him stay on, if you'll only oblige us with a little money.

      ANÍSYA. All I know is, that I could not live if Nikíta went away.

      MATRYÓNA. Naturally, when one's young it's no easy matter! You, a wench in full bloom, to be living with the dregs of a man like that husband of yours.

      ANÍSYA. Mother Matryóna, would you believe it? I'm that sick of him, that sick of this long-nosed cur of mine, I can hardly bear to look at him.

      MATRYÓNA. Yes, I see, it's one of them cases. Just look here, [looks round and whispers] I've been to see that old man, you know—he's given me simples of two kinds. This, you see, is a sleeping draught. “Just give him one of these powders,” he says, “and he'll sleep so sound you might jump on him!” And this here, “This is that kind of simple,” he says, “that if you give one some of it to drink it has no smell whatever, but its strength is very great. There are seven doses here, a pinch at a time. Give him seven pinches,” he says, “and she won't have far to look for freedom,” he says.

      ANÍSYA. O-o-oh! What's that?

      MATRYÓNA. “No sign whatever,” he says. He's taken a rouble for it. “Can't sell it for less,” he says. Because it's no easy matter to get 'em, you know. I paid him, dearie, out of my own money. If she takes them, thinks I, it's all right; if she don't, I can let old Michael's daughter have them.

      ANÍSYA. O-o-oh! But mayn't some evil come of them? I'm frightened!

      MATRYÓNA. What evil, my jewel? If your old man was hale and hearty, 'twould be a different matter, but he's neither alive nor dead as it is. He's not for this world. Such things often happen.

       ANÍSYA. O-o-oh, my poor head! I'm afeared, Mother Matryóna, lest some evil come of them. No. That won't do.

      MATRYÓNA. Just as you like. I might even return them to him.

      ANÍSYA. And are they to be used in the same way as the others? Mixed in water?

      MATRYÓNA. Better in tea, he says. “You can't notice anything,” he says, “no smell nor nothing.” He's a cute old fellow too.

      ANÍSYA. [taking the powder] O-oh, my poor head! Could I have ever thought of such a thing if my life were not a very hell?

      MATRYÓNA. You'll not forget that rouble? I promised to take it to the old man. He's had some trouble, too.

      ANÍSYA. Of course? [Goes to her box and hides the powders].

      MATRYÓNA. And now, my jewel, keep it as close as you can, so that no one should find it out. Heaven defend that it should happen, but if any one notices it, tell 'em it's for the black-beetles. [Takes the rouble] It's also used for beetles. [Stops short].

      Enter Akím, who crosses himself in front of the icón, and then Peter, who sits down.

      PETER. Well then, how's it to be, Daddy Akím?

      AKÍM. As it's best, Peter Ignátitch, as it's best … I mean—as it's best. 'Cos why? I'm afeared of what d'you call 'ems, some tomfoolery, you know. I'd like to, what d'you call it … to start, you know, start the lad honest, I mean. But supposing you'd rather, what d'you call it, we might, I mean, what's name? As it's best …

      PETER. All right. All right. Sit down and let's talk it over. [Akím sits down] Well then, what's it all about? You want him to marry?

      MATRYÓNA. As to marrying, he might bide a while, Peter Ignátitch. You know our poverty, Peter Ignátitch. What's he to marry on? We've hardly enough to eat ourselves. How can he marry then?…

      PETER. You must consider what will be best.

      MATRYÓNA. Where's the hurry for him to get married? Marriage is not that sort of thing, it's not like ripe raspberries that drop off if not picked in time.

      PETER. If he were to get married, 'twould be a good thing in a way.

      AKÍM. We'd like to … what d'you call it? 'Cos why, you see. I've what d'you call it … a job. I mean, I've found a paying job in town, you know.

      MATRYÓNA. And a fine job too—cleaning out cesspools. The other day when he came home, I could do nothing but spew and spew. Faugh!

      AKÍM. It's true, at first it does seem what d'you call it … knocks one clean over, you know,—the smell, I mean. But one gets used to it, and then it's nothing, no worse than malt grain, and then it's, what d'you call it, … pays, pays, I mean. And as to the smell being, what d'you call it, it's not for the likes of us to complain. And one changes one's clothes. So we'd like to take what's his name … Nikíta I mean, home. Let him manage things at home while I, what d'you call it,—earn something in town.

      PETER. You want to keep your son at home? Yes, that would be well: but how about the money he has had in advance?

      AKÍM. That's it, that's it! It's just as you say, Ignátitch, it's just what d'you call it. 'Cos why? If you go into service, it's as good as if you had sold yourself, they say. That will be all right. I mean he may stay and serve his time, only he must, what d'you call it, get married. I mean—so: you let him off for a little while, that he may, what d'you call it?

      PETER. Yes, we could manage that.

       MATRYÓNA. Ah, but it's not yet settled between ourselves, Peter Ignátitch. I'll speak to you as I would before God, and you may judge between my old man and me. He goes on harping on that marriage. But just ask—who it is he wants him to marry. If it were a girl of the right sort now— I am not my child's enemy, but the wench is not honest.

      AKÍM. No, that's wrong! Wrong, I say. 'Cos why? She, that same girl—it's my son as has offended, offended the girl I mean.

      PETER. How offended?

      AKÍM. That's how. She's what d'you call it, with him, with my son, Nikíta. With Nikíta, what d'you call it, I mean.

      MATRYÓNA. You wait a bit, my tongue runs smoother—let me tell it. You know, this lad of ours lived at the railway before he came to you. There was a girl there as kept dangling after him. A girl of no account, you know, her name's Marína. She used to cook for the men. So now this same girl accuses our son, Nikíta, that he, so to say, deceived her.

      PETER. Well, there's nothing good in that.

      MATRYÓNA. But she's no honest girl herself; she runs after the fellows like a common slut.

      AKÍM. There you are again, old woman, and it's not at all what d'you call it, it's all not what d'you call it, I mean …

      MATRYÓNA. There now, that's all the sense one gets from my old owl—“what d'you call it, what d'you call it,” and he doesn't know himself what he means. Peter Ignátitch, don't listen to me, but go yourself and ask any one you like about the girl, everybody will say the same. She's just a homeless good-for-nothing.

      PETER. You know, Daddy Akím, if that's how things are, there's no reason for him to marry her. A daughter-in-law's not like a shoe, you can't kick her off.

       AKÍM [excitedly] It's false, old woman, it's what d'you call it, false; I mean, about the girl; false! 'Cos why? The lass is a good lass, a very good lass, you know. I'm sorry, sorry for the lassie, I mean.

      MATRYÓNA. It's an old saying: “For the wide world old Miriam grieves, and at home without bread her children she leaves.” He's sorry for the girl, but not sorry for his own son! Sling her round your neck and carry her about with you! That's enough of such empty cackle!

      AKÍM. No, it's not empty.

      MATRYÓNA. There, don't interrupt, let me have my say.

      AKÍM [interrupts] No, not empty! I mean, you twist things your own way, about the lass or about yourself. Twist them, I mean, to make it better for yourself; but God, what d'you call it, turns them His way. That's how it is.

      MATRYÓNA.

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