NATASHA. It’s best for her to be dead—yet it’s a pity . . . oh, Lord—why do we live?
BUBNOFF. It’s so with all . . . we’re born, live, and die—and I’ll die, too—and so’ll you—what’s there to be gloomy about?
[Enter Luka, the Tartar, Zob, and Kleshtch. The latter comes after the others, slowly, shrunk up.]
NATASHA. Sh-sh! Anna!
ZOB. We’ve heard—God rest her soul . . .
THE TARTAR [to Kleshtch] We must take her out of here. Out into the hall! This is no place for corpses—but for the living . . .
KLESHTCH [quietly] We’ll take her out—
[Everybody goes to the bed, Kleshtch looks at his wife ever the others’ shoulders.]
ZOB [to the Tartar] You think she’ll smell? I don’t think she will—she dried up while she was still alive . . .
NATASHA. God! If they’d only a little pity . . . if only some one would say a kindly word—oh, you . . .