NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. What are you saying? He's quite ill!
WOMAN. He's ill, and what about me? Am I not ill? When it's work, he's ill; but to merry-make or pull my hair out, he's not too ill. Let him die like a hound! What do I care?
NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. How can you say such wicked things?
WOMAN. I know it's a sin; but I can't subdue my heart. I'm expecting another child, and I have to work for two. Other people have their harvest in already, and we have not mowed a quarter of our oats yet. I ought to finish binding the sheaves, but can't. I had to come and see what the children were about.
NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. The oats shall be cut—I'll hire someone, and to bind the sheaves too.
WOMAN. Oh, binding's nothing. I can do that myself, if it's only mown down quick. What d'you think, Nicholas Ivánovich, will he die? He is very ill!
NICHOLAS IVÁNOVICH. I don't know. But he really is very ill. I think we must send him to the hospital.
WOMAN. Oh God! [Begins to cry] Don't take him away, let him die here.[28] [To her husband, who utters something] What's the matter?
IVÁN ZYÁBREV. I want to go to the hospital. Here I'm treated worse than a dog.
WOMAN. Well, I don't know. I've lost my head. Maláshka, get dinner ready.