TIKHON. Go tell it to the judge, not me . . . Go on, beg outside with good Christians, let them treat you outa Christian charity if they want, but all I give outa Christian charity is bread.
BORTSOV. You’d take from them, the poor creatures, but I . . . excuse me! I haven’t got it in me to rob them! It’s not in me! Understand? (Slams his fist on the bar.) Not in me!
Pause.
Hm . . . Hold on a bit . . . (Turns to the pilgrims.) That’s not a bad idea, good Christians! Sacrifice a mere five kopeks! My guts are pleading! I’m sick!
FEDYA. Looky there, make a sacrifice . . . Swindler . . . Wouldja like a little water?
BORTSOV. How low I’ve sunk! How low I’ve sunk! Never mind! Never mind about me! I was joking!
MERIK. Don’t go begging to him, sir . . . He’s a notorious tightwad . . . Hold on, I got five kopeks rattling around somewheres . . . Let’s us both have a drink . . . fifty-fifty . . . (Rummages in his pockets.) Hell . . . it was stuck in there somewheres . . . Coulda sworn something was jingling in my pocket the other day . . . No, nothin’ . . . Nothin’, pal! Just your luck!
Pause.
BORTSOV. I have got to have a drink, otherwise I’ll commit a crime or kill myself . . . What am I to do, my God! (Looks out the doorway.) Should I leave? Go off into that darkness, wherever my feet take me . . .
MERIK. How about it, godly sisters, why don’t you preach to him? And you, Tikhon, how come you don’t throw him out? He ain’t paid for his night’s lodging, after all. Throw ‘im out, right on his ear! Ech, folks is cruel nowadays. Ain’t got no soft hearts and kindliness in ‘em . . . Folks is mean! A man’s drowning, and they shout at him: “Drown faster, we ain’t got time to watch, it’s a workday!” And as for throwing him a rope, don’t make me laugh . . . A rope costs money.
SAVVA. Judge not, good man!
MERIK. Shut up, you old wolf! You’re vicious folks! Child killers! Dealers in souls! (To Tikhon.) Come here and take off my boots! Step lively!
TIKHON. Hey, he’s gone hog wild! (Laughs.) Reg’lar bogeyman!
MERIK. Git over here, I said! Step lively!
Pause.
You hear me or not? Am I talking to the wall? (Gets up.)
TIKHON. All right . . . that’ll do!
MERIK. I want you, you mule-skinner, to pull off my boots, the boots of a beggar tramp!
TIKHON. All right . . . don’t fly off the handle! Come on, have a little drink . . . Come and drink!
MERIK. Folks, what do I want? For him to treat me to vodka or take off my boots? Did I say it wrong, didn’t you hear me? (To Tikhon.) Mebbe you didn’t catch my drift? I’ll wait just one minute, then I figure you’ll catch it.
Something of a stir among the pilgrims and vagrants. They get up and stare at Tikhon and Merik. Silent suspense.
TIKHON. The foul fiend brought you here! (Comes out from behind the bar.) Some fine gentleman made an entrance! Well, let’s have ‘em, or what? (Pulls off Merik’s boots.) Spawn of Cain . . .
MERIK. That’s it. Line ‘em up neat . . . That’s it . . . Get out!
TIKHON (having taken off the boots, goes behind the bar). Think you’re pretty smart! Get smart with me again, and you’ll fly out of this joint on the double! Right! (to Bortsov, who is approaching.) You again?
BORTSOV. Well, you see, I might let you have some gold . . . Listen here, if you like, I’ll give you . . .
TIKHON. Why are you shaking like that? Talk sense!
BORTSOV. Even though it’s vile and base on my part, what am I to do? I’m resolved to do this dirty deed, since I’m not in my right mind . . . I’d be acquitted by any court . . . Take it, but only on one condition: give it back to me afterwards, when I return from town. I give it to you before witnesses . . . Ladies and gentlemen, please serve as witnesses! (Takes a gold locket out of his bosom.) Here it is . . . I ought to remove the portrait, but there’s nowhere for me to put it; I’m all wet! . . . Well, take it with the portrait! Only, look here . . . you sort of . . . shouldn’t graze the face with your fingers . . . I beg of you . . . I was rude to you, my dear man . . . stupid, but you’ll forgive me and . . . don’t put your fingers on it . . . Don’t cast your eyes upon the face . . . (Gives Tikhon the locket.)
TIKHON (inspects the locket). A stolen watch . . . Well, all right, have a drink . . . (Pours out the vodka.) Guzzle that down.
BORTSOV. Only those fingers of yours . . . don’t sort of . . . (Drinks slowly, with convulsive pauses.)
TIKHON (opens the locket). Hm . . . A fine lady! . . . Where’d you pick up something like that?
MERIK. Show us! (Gets up and walks over to the bar.) Let’s have a look!
TIKHON (pushes his hand away). Where’d you crawl in from? Hands off while you’re looking.
FEDYA (rises and walk over to Tikhon). Lemme look too!
Pilgrims and vagrants walk over to the bar from all directions.
A group.
MERIK (firmly holds in his hands Tikhon’s hand with the locket and silently stares at the portrait.)
Pause.
A beautiful she-devil! A real lady . . .
FEDYA. A real lady . . . Them cheeks, eyes . . . Pull away your hand, I can’t see! Hair down to her waist . . . Real life-like! You’d think she was talking . . .
Pause.
MERIK. For a weak man that’s the first step to ruination. Get a woman like that round your neck and . . . (waves his hand in dismissal) and — you’re done for!
We can hear KUZMA’s voice: “Who-o-oa . . . Stop, my hearties!” Enter KUZMA.
SCENE III
The same and KUZMA.
KUZMA (enters). “Here on the road a tavern’s nigh, Don’t walk past it, don’t drive by.” You can drive past your dear old dad in broad daylight, and take no notice of ‘im, but you can see a tavern in the dark from a hundred miles off. Clear a space, God-fearing folk! Hey, barkeep! (Slams his fist on the bar.) A glass of real Madeira! Make it snappy!
FEDYA. Lookit you, in a hell of a rush!
TIKHON. Stop waving your arms around! You’ll get caught on something!
KUZMA. Why’d God give ‘em to us except to wave around. Melting, are you, my little sugar cubes, sheltering in your auntie’s hen house! Rain got you skeered, my delicate blossoms! (Drinks.)
YEFIMOVNA. You’d be skeered too, good man, if you was caught on the road on a night like this. Nowadays, thank God, we’re blessed with lots o’ villages and farms along the way, there’s somewheres to git out of the wet, but times past, the Lord save us from the way it used to be! Seventy miles you’d tramp and don’t even talk about a village or a farm, no sign of even a wood chip. So you’d spend the night on the bare ground . . .