THEODORE IVÁNITCH. I must ask Vasíly Leoníditch.
COACHMAN [angrily] He'd better hang the brutes round his neck and lug them about with him! But no fear: he'd rather ride on horseback himself. It's he as spoilt Beauty without rhyme or reason. That was a horse!… Oh dear! what a life! [Exit, slamming door].
THEODORE IVÁNITCH. That's not right! Certainly not right! [To Peasants] Well then, it's time we were saying good-bye, friends.
PEASANTS. Good-bye!
Exit Theodore Ivánitch.
As soon as he is gone a sound of groaning is heard from the top of the oven.
SECOND PEASANT. He's sleek, that one; looks like a general.
SERVANTS' COOK. Rather! Why, he has a room all to himself; he gets his washing, his tea and sugar, and food from the master's table.
DISCHARGED COOK [on the oven]. Why shouldn't the old beggar live well? He's lined his pockets all right!
SECOND PEASANT. Who's that up there, on the oven?