LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [Sitting and reflecting for some time] Give it here. [Takes the paper and hides it, then rises] Now I will write something for you.
MÍTYA. You!
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Only I don't know how to do it in verse, but—just plain
Russian.
MÍTYA. I shall regard such a kindness from you as a great happiness to myself. [Gives her paper and pen] Here they are.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. It's a great pity that I write so abominably. [She writes; MÍTYA tries to look] Only don't you look, or I'll stop writing and tear it up.
MÍTYA. I won't look. But kindly condescend to permit me to reply, in so far as I am able, and to write some verses for you on a second occasion.
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. [Laying down the pen] Write if you wish—only I've inked all my fingers; if I'd only known, I'd better not have written.
MÍTYA. May I have it?
LYUBÓV GORDÉYEVNA. Well, take it; only don't dare to read it while I'm here, but after, when I've gone.
Folds together the paper and gives it to him; he conceals it in his pocket.