NATASHA. [_in centre of room_] I, too--some day--I'll be found in the
cellar--dead. . . .
BUBNOFF [_spreading out some rags on his bunk_] What's that? What are
you muttering?
NATASHA. Nothing much . . .
BUBNOFF. Waiting for Vaska, eh? Take care--Vassilisa'll break your
head!
NATASHA. Isn't it the same who breaks it? I'd much rather he'd do it!
BUBNOFF [_lying down_] Well--that's your own affair . . .
NATASHA. It's best for her to be dead--yet it's a pity . . . oh,
Lord--why do we live?
BUBNOFF. It's so with all . . . we're born, live, and die--and I'll
die, too--and so'll you--what's there to be gloomy about?
[_Enter Luka, the Tartar, Zob, and Kleshtch. The latter comes after
the others, slowly, shrunk up._]
NATASHA. Sh-sh! Anna!
ZOB. We've heard--God rest her soul . . .
THE TARTAR [_to Kleshtch_] We must take her out of here. Out into the
hall! This is no place for corpses--but for the living . . .