ZOB. Bubnoff! Why did you run off?
BUBNOFF. Come here—sit down—brother, let’s sing my favorite ditty, eh?
THE TARTAR. Night was made for sleep! Sing your songs in the daytime!
SATINE. Well—never mind, Prince—come here!
THE TARTAR. What do you mean—never mind? There’s going to be a noise—there always is when people sing!
BUBNOFF [crossing to the Tartar] Count—ah—I mean Prince—how’s your hand? Did they cut it off?
THE TARTAR. What for? We’ll wait and see—perhaps it won’t be necessary . . . a hand isn’t made of iron—it won’t take long to cut it off . . .
ZOB. It’s your own affair, Hassanka! You’ll be good for nothing without your hand. We’re judged by our hands and backs—without the pride of your hand, you’re no longer a human being. Tobacco-carting—that’s your business! Come on—have a drink of vodka—and stop worrying!
KVASHNYA [comes in] Ah, my beloved fellow-lodgers! It’s horrible outside—snow and slush . . . is my policeman here?
MIEDVIEDIEFF. Right here!