Matryòna. I’m to hold my tongue! What next! Anybody would think I was the dirt under your feet. I’m a merchant’s wife of the first guild!
Stepanìda. You and your guild! You needn’t talk like that to me, my girl! I’ve had to do with your betters in my time....
Matryòna. Even so, you’ve no right to shut me up. I’m not going to hold my tongue for anybody.
Stepanìda. And what do you suppose I care? There! go your own way; it’s all one to me; but when you drive me to it I must speak out; it’s my way. I’m not going to make myself over again for your pleasure. (Silence. They all sit and sulk.) You’ve just spoiled my Màsha between you.
Antìp. I say, Màsha, shall I find you a husband?
Stepanìda. ’Twas time to think of that long ago. Seems to me you’ve clean forgotten that you have a sister; and she getting on, too.
Màrya. Really, mamma! Always “getting on,” and “getting on”! I’m not so old as all that comes to.
Stepanìda. Don’t try your fine airs on me, miss! I was married at thirteen; and you—I’m downright ashamed to tell people of it—you’re twenty.
Antìp. Well, Màsha, shall I ask Kossolàpov?
Màrya. Well, really, brother! You know he smells of onions all the year round; and in Lent it’s just dreadful!