_Mrs. Uncouth_ (_to Tríshka_). You beast, come here. Didn’t I tell
you, you thief’s snout, to make the caftan wide enough? In the first
place, the child is growing; in the second place, the child is delicate
enough, without wearing a tight caftan. Tell me, you clod, what is your
excuse?
_Tríshka._ You know, madam, I never learned tailoring. I begged you
then to give it to a tailor.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ So you have got to be a tailor to be able to make a
decent caftan! What beastly reasoning!
_Tríshka._ But a tailor has learned how to do it, madam, and I haven’t.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ How dare you contradict me! One tailor has learned it
from another; that one from a third, and so on. But from whom did the
first tailor learn? Talk, stupid!
_Tríshka._ I guess the first tailor made a worse caftan than I.
_Mitrofán_ (_running in_). I called dad. He sent word he’ll be here in
a minute.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ Go fetch him by force, if you can’t by kindness.
_Mitrofán._ Here is dad.