LUKA. Don’t be hurt, girl—never mind! Why and how should we pity the dead? Come, dear! We don’t pity the living—we can’t even pity our own selves—how can we?
BUBNOFF [yawning] And, besides, when you’re dead, no word will help you—when you’re still alive, even sick, it may. . . .
THE TARTAR [stepping aside] The police must be notified . . .
ZOB. The police—must be done! Kleshtch! Did you notify the police?
KLESHTCH. No—she’s got to be buried—and all I have is forty kopecks—
ZOB. Well—you’ll have to borrow then—otherwise we’ll take up a collection . . . one’ll give five kopecks, others as much as they can. But the police must be notified at once—or they’ll think you killed her or God knows what not . . .
[Crosses to the Tartar’s bunk and prepares to lie down by his side.]
NATASHA [going to Bubnoff’s bunk] Now—I’ll dream of her . . . I always dream of the dead . . . I’m afraid to go out into the hall by myself—it’s dark there . . .
LUKA [following her] You better fear the living—I’m telling you . . .
NATASHA. Take me across the hall, grandfather.