Pras. Why do you say such things? You know that I should be glad. Ah! if I could but see him once again as he was then, and hold him in my arms!
Fomá. But he would not be the same now.
Pras. If he were different, he would not be my son.
Fomá. What if all these years he had been an outcast, living in degradation?
Pras. Who has been eating here? Who has been drinking here? Something has happened! Tell me what it is.
Ast. Your son is not dead.
Pras. Not dead? Why do you say it so sadly? No, it is not true. I do not believe it. How can I be joyful at the news if you tell it so sadly? If he is alive, where is he? Let me see him.
Ast. He is here.
[Sasha comes forward.]
Pras. No, no! Tell me that that is not him ... my son whom I have loved all these years, my son that lies in the churchyard. [To Sasha.] Don't be cruel to me. Say that you are not my son; you cannot be my son.