Mme. Popova, startled: Who is it? Say that I am at home to no one.
LuKA: Very good, madam. Exits.
Mme. Popova, looking at the photograph: You shall see, Nicolas, how I can love and forgive. My love will die only with me, when my poor heart stops beating. Laughs through her tears. And aren't you ashamed? I am a good, faithful little wife, I've locked myself in and shall remain true to you to the grave, and you . . . aren't you ashamed, you naughty boy? You were un- faithful to me, you made scenes, you left me alone for weeks . . . L^^ enters.
L^^., disturbed: Madam, someone is asking for you, wants to see you . • .
Mme. Popova: But you told him, didn't you, that since my husband's death I receive no one?
L^^.: Yes, I did, but he wouldn't listen to me, he says it's a very urgent matter.
Mme. Popova: I do not re-ceive anyone!
Luka: I told him, but . . . he's a perfect devil . . . he curses and barges right in • • . he's in the dining- room now.
Mme. Popova, annoyed: Very well, ask him in . . . What rude people! Exit L^^.. How irritating! What do they want of me? Why do they have to intrude on my solitude? Sighs. No, I see I shall really have to enter a convent. Pensively: Yes, a convent . . . Enter SMIRNOV and L^^..
Smirnov, to LuKA: Blockhead, you talk too much. You jackass! Seeing Mme. Popova, with dignity. Madam, I have the honor to introduce myself: Landowner Grigory Stepanovich Smirnov, lieutenant of the artillery, retired. I am compelled to disturb you in connection with a very weighty matter.
Mme. Popova, without offering her hand: What do you wish?
SMIRNOV: At his death your late husband, with whom I had the honor of being acquainted, was in my debt to the amount of 1200 rubles, for which I hold two notes. As I have to pay interest on a loan to the Land Bank tomorrow, I must request you, madam, to pay me the money today.
Mme. Popova: Twelve hundred . . . • And for what did my husband owe you the money?
Smirnov : He used to buy oats from me.
Mme. Popova, sighing, to LuKA: So don't forget, Luka, to tell them to give Toby an extra measure of oats. Exit L^^. To Smirnov. If Nikolay Mihailovich owed you money, I shall pay you, of course; but you must ex- cuse me, I haven't any ready cash today. The day after tomorrow my steward will be back from town and I will see that he pays you what is owing to you, but just now I cannot comply with your request. Besides, today is exactly seven months since my husband's death and I am in no mood to occupy myself with money matters.
Smirnov: And I am in the mood to be carried out feet foremost if I don't pay the interest tomorrow. They'll seize my estate!
Mme. Popova: The day after tomorrow you wil re- ceive your money.
Smirnov: I need the money today, not the day after tomorrow.
Mme. Popova: I am sorry, but I cannot pay you today.
SMmNOv: And I can't wait till the day after tomorrow.
Mme. Popova: But what can I do if I don't have the money now!
Smirnov: So you can't pay me?
Mme. Popova: No, I can't.
Smirnov: H'm . . . So that's your last word?
Mme. Popova: My last word.
Smirnov : Your last word? Positively?
Mme. Popova: Positively.
Smirnov : Many thanks. I'll make a note of it. Shrugs his shoulders. And they want me to keep cool! I meet the tax commissioner on the road, and he asks me: "Why are you always in a bad humor, Grigory Stepanovich?" But in heaven's name, how can I help being in a bad humor? I'm in desperate need of money. I left home yesterday morning at dawn and called on all my debtors and not one of them paid up! I wore myself out, slept the devil knows where, in some Jewish inn next to a barrel of vodka . . . Finally I come here, fifty miles from home, hoping to get something, and I'm con- fronted with a "mood." How can I help getting in a temper?
Mme. Popova: I thought I made it clear to you that you will get your money as soon as my steward returns from town.
Smirnov: I didn't come to your steward, but to you! What the devil—pardon the expression—do I care for your steward!
Mme. Popova: Excuse me, sir, I am not accustomed to such language or to such a tone. I won't listen to you any more. Exits rapidly.
Smirnov: That's a nice thing! Not in the mood . • • husband died seven months ago! What about me? Do I have to pay the interest or don't I? I'm asking you: do I have to pay the interest or don't I? Well, your husband died, you're not in the mood, and all that . . . and your steward, devil take him, has gone off somewhere, but what do you want me to do? Am I to escape my creditors in a balloon, eh? Or take a running start and dash my head against a wall? I call on Gruzdev, he's not at home, Yaroshevich is hiding, I had an awful row with Kuritzyn and nearly threw him out of the window; Mazutov has an upset stomach, and this one isn't in the mood! Not one scoundrel will pay up! And it's all be- cause I've spoiled them, because I'm a milksop, a softy, a weak Sister. I'm too gentle with them altogether! But wait! You'll find out what I'm like! I won't let you make a fool of me, devil take it! I'll stay right here till she pays up! Ugh! I'm in a perfect rage today, in a rage! Every one of my nerves is trembling with fury, I can hardly breathe. Ouf! Good Lord, I even feel sick! Shouts. You there! Enter Luka.
Luka: What do you wish?
SMIRr-oov: Give me some kvass or a drink of water! Exit Luka. No, but the logic of it! A fellow is in desper- ate need of cash, is on the point of hanging himself, but she won't pay up, because, you see, she isn't in the mood to occupy herself with money matters! Real petti- coat logic! That's why I've never liked to talk to women, and I don't now. I'd rather sit on a powder-keg than talk to a woman. Brr! I'm getting gooseflesh—that skirt made me so furious! I just have to see one of these poetic creatures from a distance and my very calves begin to twitch with rage. It's enough to make me yell for help. Enter Luka.
L^^., handing SMIRNOV a glass of water: Madam is ill and will see no one.
Smirnov: Get out! Exit Luka. Ill and will see no one! All right, don't see me. I'll sit here until you pay up. If you're sick for a week, I'll stay a week; if you're sick a year, I'll stay a year. I'll get my own back, my good woman. You won't get round me with your widow's weeds and your dimples . . . We know those dimples! Shouts through the window. Semyon, take out the horses! We're not leaving so soon! I'm staying on! Tell them at the stables to give the horses oats. You block- head, you've let the left outrider's leg get caught in the reins again! Mimicking the coachman. "It don't matter" . . . I'll show you "don't matter." Walks away from the window. It's horrible . . . the heat is terrific, nobody has paid up, I slept badly, and here's this skirt in mourning, with her moods! I have a headache. Shall I have some vodka? Yes, I think I will. Shouts. You there! Enter L^^.
Luka: What do you wish?
Smirnov: Give me a glass of vodka. Exit L^^. Ouf! Sits down and looks himself over. I cut a fine figure, I must say! All dusty, boots dirty, unwashed, uncombed, straw on my vest. The little lady must have taken me for a highwayman. Yawns. It's a bit uncivil to barge into a drawing-room in such shape, but never mind . . . I'm no caller, just a creditor, and there are no rules as to what the creditor should wear. Enter Luka.