Mrs. Uncouth (angrily). For whom, Mitrofán?
Mitrofán. For you, mamma: you got so tired drubbing dad.
Mrs. Uncouth. Embrace me, darling of my heart! Son, you are my comfort.
Beastly. I see, Mitrofán, you are mother’s son and not father’s.
Uncouth. I love him anyway as becomes a father: he is such a clever child, such a joker! I am often beside myself with joy when I look at him, and I can’t believe that he is my own son.
Beastly. Only now our joker looks a little gloomy.
Mrs. Uncouth. Had I not better send to town for the doctor?
Mitrofán. No, no, mamma. I’ll get well myself. I’ll run now to the dove-cot, maybe——
Mrs. Uncouth. Maybe God will be merciful. Go, have a good time, darling Mitrofán. (Exeunt Mitrofán and Eremyéevna.)