Eight and twenty—nine and twenty—thirty—
(Clutching a handful of gold, she suddenly stops counting and stares at the back door. There is the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. The door flies open and the old man enters excitedly.)
Father
Mother! Mother! Wake him! Wake him—quick!
‘Tis Ivan with an old-time, merry trick—
They told me at the tavern—‘tis our son!
(Rushes toward the side door.)
Ivan! Ivan!
(Stops abruptly, aghast at the look of the woman. The coins jangle on the floor)
God! What have you done!