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. Eh! One only wears out one’s tongue with you.
AKÍM. The lass is hard-working and spruce, and keeps everything round herself … what d’you call it. And in our poverty, you know, it’s a pair of hands, I mean; and the wedding needn’t cost much. But the chief thing’s the offence, the offence to the lass, and she’s a what d’you call it, an orphan, you know; that’s what she is, and there’s the offence.
MATRYÓNA. Eh! they’ll all tell you a tale of that sort …
ANÍSYA. Daddy Akím, you’d better listen to us women; we can tell you a thing or two.
AKÍM. And God, how about God? Isn’t she a human being, the lass? A what d’you call it,–also a human being I mean, before God. And how do you look at it?
MATRYÓNA. Eh!… started off again?…
PETER. Wait a bit, Daddy Akím. One can’t believe all these girls say, either. The lad’s alive, and not far away; send for him, and find out straight from him if it’s true. He won’t wish to lose his soul. Go and call the fellow, [Anísya rises] and tell him his father wants him. [Exit Anísya].
MATRYÓNA. That’s right, dear friend; you’ve cleared the way clean, as with water. Yes, let the lad speak for himself. Nowadays, you know, they’ll not let you force a son to marry; one must first of all ask the lad. He’ll never consent to marry her and disgrace himself, not for all the world. To my thinking, it’s best he should go on living with you and serving you as his master. And we need not take him home for the summer either; we can hire a help. If you would only give us ten roubles now, we’ll let him stay on.
PETER. All in good time. First let us settle one thing before we start another.
AKÍM. You see, Peter Ignátitch, I speak. ‘Cos why? you know how it happens. We try to fix things up as seems best for ourselves, you know; and as to God, we what d’you call it, we forget Him. We think it’s best so, turn it our own way, and lo! we’ve got into a fix, you know. We think it will be best, I mean; and lo! it turns out much worse–without God, I mean.
PETER. Of course one must not forget God.
AKÍM. It turns out worse! But when it’s the right way–God’s way–it what d’you call it, it gives one joy; seems pleasant, I mean. So I reckon, you see, get him, the lad, I mean, get him to marry her, to keep him from sin, I mean, and let him what d’you call it at home, as it’s lawful, I mean, while I go and get the job in town. The work is of the right sort–it’s payin’, I mean. And in God’s sight it’s what d’you call it–it’s best, I mean. Ain’t she an orphan? Here, for example, a year ago some fellows went and took timber from the steward,–thought they’d do the steward, you know. Yes, they did the steward, but they couldn’t what d’you call it–do God, I mean. Well, and so …
Enter Nikíta and Nan.
NIKÍTA. You called me? [Sits down and takes out his tobacco-pouch].
PETER [in a low, reproachful voice] What are you thinking about–have you no manners? Your father is going to speak to you, and you sit down and fool about with tobacco. Come, get up!
Nikíta rises, leans carelessly with his elbow on the table, and smiles.
AKÍM. It seems there’s a complaint, you know, about you, Nikíta–a complaint, I mean, a complaint.
NIKÍTA. Who’s been complaining?
AKÍM. Complaining? It’s a maid, an orphan maid, complaining, I mean. It’s her, you know–a complaint against you, from Marína, I mean.
NIKÍTA [laughs] Well, that’s a good one. What’s the complaint? And who’s told you–she herself?
AKÍM. It’s I am asking you, and you must now, what d’you call it, give me an answer. Have you got mixed up with the lass, I mean–mixed up, you know?
NIKÍTA. I don’t know what you mean. What’s up?
AKÍM. Foolin’, I mean, what d’you call it? foolin’. Have you been foolin’ with her, I mean?
NIKÍTA. Never mind what’s been! Of course one does have some fun with a cook now and then to while away the time. One plays the concertina and gets her to dance. What of that?
PETER. Don’t shuffle, Nikíta, but answer your father straight out.
AKÍM [solemnly] You can hide it from men but not from God, Nikíta. You, what d’you call it–think, I mean, and don’t tell lies. She’s an orphan; so, you see, any one is free to insult her. An orphan, you see. So you should say what’s rightest.
NIKÍTA. But what if I have nothing to say? I have told you everything–because there isn’t anything to tell,
