Uncouth. If I remember rightly, my dear, you did have something.
Mitrofán. Not much of anything: some three slices of salt bacon, and five or six pies, I do not remember which.
Eremyéevna. He kept on begging for something to drink all night long. He deigned to empty a pitcher of kvas.
Mitrofán. And even now I am walking around distracted. All kinds of stuff passed before my eyes all night long.
Mrs. Uncouth. What kind of stuff, darling Mitrofán?
Mitrofán. At times you, mamma, at others—dad.
Mrs. Uncouth. How so?
Mitrofán. No sooner did I close my eyes, than I saw you, mamma, drubbing dad.
Uncouth (aside). It is my misfortune, the dream has come to pass!
Mitrofán (tenderly). And I felt so sorry.