MÁSHA [cries] You are unkind!
FÉDYA [goes up and embraces her] Másha! What's it all about? Stop that. One must live, and not whine. It doesn't suit you at all, my lovely one!
MÁSHA. You do love me?
FÉDYA. Whom else could I love?
MÁSHA. Only me? Well then, read what you have been writing.
FÉDYA. It will bore you.
MÁSHA. It's you who wrote it, so it's sure to be good.
FÉDYA. Well then listen. [Reads] “One day, late in autumn, my friend and I agreed to meet on the Murýgin fields, where there was a close thicket with many young birds in it. The day was dull, warm, and quiet. The mist …”
Enter two old gipsies, Másha's parents, Iván Makárovich and Nastásia Ivánovna.
NASTÁSIA [stepping up to her daughter] Here you are then, you damned runaway sheep! [To Fédya] My respects to you, sir! [To Másha] Is that how you treat us, eh?