Antìp. Eh? Frightened you? (Bursts out laughing.) No, my lass! It was only my little joke. (Sighs.) Can’t we have tea?
Matryòna. In a minute. Why, bless my heart, you won’t die!
Antìp. Well, it’s so dull to sit and do nothing.
(Enter Stepanìda Trofimovna; then Dàrya carrying the samovar.)
Stepanìda. Lord, save us! You’re in a mighty hurry, my girl! What are you rushing about like a wild thing for? Nothing is going to fall on our heads. And as for you, little father, you must be gone clean daft! How many more times in the day do you want to drink tea? This is the third time at home; and I doubt you had some down in the town too? (Pours out tea.)
Antìp. Well, dear heart! what does it matter? A fellow can’t get tipsy on tea. Yes; I had some tea with Brioùkhov, and again with Sàvva Sàvvich. What harm is there in drinking tea with a jolly good fellow? I say, mamma, I did Brioùkhov out of a thousand roubles to-day. (Takes teacup.)
Stepanìda. What next, child! Why, you get fleeced yourself on all sides. You never keep an eye upon your shopmen; you never look after the business. Why, Antìpoushka, what sort of business man are you? All you do is to sit from morning till night in a tavern and drink tea. Ah! dear, dear! it’s just a grief to look at you; there’s not a bit of method in you; even I can’t manage to keep order in this house. The samovar stands on the table till eleven o’clock in the morning; first the men have their breakfast and go off to the shop; then you get up and dawdle over your breakfast till goodness knows when; and then your fine lady here comes down. And as for going to mass before breakfast, why, you don’t so much as cross yourselves, the Lord forgive you! Ah! Antìpoushka! if you’d give up your new-fangled ways and live as all respectable people should! You ought to get up at four in the morning and see that everything’s in order, and go out into the yard and look after everything there, and go to mass. Yes, my dear, and rout your good lady here out of bed too, and tell her it’s time to get up and look after the house; that’s what you ought to do. Yes, you needn’t look at me like that, Matryòna Sàvishna; I’ve said nothing but what’s right and true.
Matryòna. I suppose you are going to begin and preach now!
Stepanìda. Ah! little mother! And what would become of the house if it wasn’t for me? You’re not much of a housekeeper; you’re too young yet, little mother; you’ve a good deal to learn yet! Why, just look at you—you don’t get up till after ten o’clock—it’s a shame to say it, my girl, but it’s the Lord’s own truth—and here I have to sit by the samovar and wait till you please to come down; and I’m older than you are, madam. You’re too much of a fine lady, Matryòna Sàvishna, too much by a long way! It’s no use for you to give yourself airs, my lass; you’re naught but a shopkeeper’s wife, and you can’t be a real lady, however hard you try. Why, my good man, what’s the use of her dressing herself up, and hanging herself all over with gew-gaws and furbelows like a heathen savage, and making a sight of herself, the Lord forgive us our sins! and rustling about with a long tail like a peacock ... why, it’s a sin and a shame, so it is! You can flaunt about in your furbelows as much as you like, Matryòna Sàvishna; but you’re none the more of a lady for that.... You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
Matryòna. Yes; you’d like me to go about with an old shawl over my head!