_Beastly._ Whom? For what? On the day of my betrothal! I beg you,
sister, for the sake of the celebration, put off the flogging until
to-morrow, and to-morrow, if you wish, I’ll gladly take a hand in it
myself. My name is not Tarás Beastly, if I don’t make every offence a
serious matter. In such things my custom is the same as yours, sister.
But what has made you so angry?
_Mrs. Uncouth._ Here, brother, I’ll leave it to you. Mitrofán, just
come here! Is this caftan baggy?
_Beastly._ No.
_Uncouth._ I see now myself, wifey, that it is too tight.
_Beastly._ But I don’t see that. My good fellow, the caftan is just
right.
_Mrs. Uncouth_ (_to Tríshka_). Get out, you beast! (_To Eremyéevna._)
Go, Eremyéevna, and give the child his breakfast. I am afraid the
teachers will soon be here.
_Eremyéevna._ My lady, he has deigned to eat five rolls ere this.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ So you are too stingy to give him the sixth, you beast?
What zeal! I declare!
_Eremyéevna._ I meant it for his health, my lady. I am looking out for
Mitrofán Teréntevich: he has been ill all night.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ Oh, Holy Virgin! What was the matter with you, darling
Mitrofán?
_Mitrofán._ I don’t know what, mamma. I was bent with pain ever since
last night’s supper.
_Beastly._ My good fellow, I guess you have had too solid a supper.
_Mitrofán._ Why, uncle! I have eaten hardly anything.
_Uncouth._ If I remember rightly, my dear, you did have something.
_Mitrofán._ Not much of anything: some three slices of salt bacon, and
five or six pies, I do not remember which.
_Eremyéevna._ He kept on begging for something to drink all night long.
He deigned to empty a pitcher of kvas.
_Mitrofán._ And even now I am walking around distracted. All kinds of
stuff passed before my eyes all night long.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ What kind of stuff, darling Mitrofán?
_Mitrofán._ At times you, mamma, at others--dad.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ How so?
_Mitrofán._ No sooner did I close my eyes, than I saw you, mamma,
drubbing dad.
_Uncouth_ (_aside_). It is my misfortune, the dream has come to pass!
_Mitrofán_ (_tenderly_). And I felt so sorry.
_Mrs. Uncouth_ (_angrily_). For whom, Mitrofán?
_Mitrofán._ For you, mamma: you got so tired drubbing dad.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ Embrace me, darling of my heart! Son, you are my
comfort.
_Beastly._ I see, Mitrofán, you are mother’s son and not father’s.
_Uncouth._ I love him anyway as becomes a father: he is such a clever
child, such a joker! I am often beside myself with joy when I look at
him, and I can’t believe that he is my own son.
_Beastly._ Only now our joker looks a little gloomy.
_Mrs. Uncouth._ Had I not better send to town for the doctor?
_Mitrofán._ No, no, mamma. I’ll get well myself. I’ll run now to the
dove-cot, maybe----
_Mrs. Uncouth._ Maybe God will be merciful. Go, have a good time,
darling Mitrofán. (_Exeunt Mitrofán and Eremyéevna._)