[Enter AKOULÍNA, smartly dressed and carrying their purchases.
Akoulína. Why have you thrown everything about? Where's the yarn?
Nikíta. The yarn? The yarn's there. Hullo, Mítritch, where are you? Asleep? Asleep? Go and put the horse up.
Akím (not seeing AKOULÍNA but looking at his son). Dear me, what is he doing? The old man's what d'ye call it, quite done up, I mean,—been thrashing,—and look at him, what d'ye call it, putting on airs! Put up the horse! Faugh, what filth!
Mítritch (climbs down from the oven, and puts on felt boots). Oh, merciful Lord! Is the horse in the yard? Done it to death, I dare say. Just see how he's been swilling, the deuce take him. Up to his very throat. Oh Lord, Holy Nicholas!
[Puts on sheepskin and exit.
Nikíta (sits down). You must forgive me, father. It's true I've had a drop; well, what of that? Even a hen will drink. Ain't it true? So you must forgive me. Never mind Mítritch, he doesn't mind, he'll put it up.
Anísya. Shall I really light the samovár?
Nikíta. Light it! My parent has come. I wish to talk to him, and shall drink tea with him. (To AKOULÍNA.) Have you brought all the parcels?
Akoulína. The parcels? I've brought mine, the rest's in the sledge. Hi, take this, this isn't mine!