Fèkla. Of course it’s a name.
Agàfia. Goodness gracious! What a funny name! Why, Fèkloushka, supposing I were to marry him, I should have to be called Agàfia Tikhònovna Yaìchnitza—it sounds like I don’t know what!
Fèkla. Eh-h-h! little mother; there are such names in Russia, that all you can do when you hear them is to spit and cross yourself. But if you don’t like the name you may as well take Baltazàr Baltazàrovich Zhevàkin—he’d be a fine bridegroom.
Agàfia. What sort of hair has he got?
Fèkla. Very nice hair.
Agàfia. And his nose?
Fèkla. H-m-m ... his nose is all right; everything’s in its right place, and he’s a very nice gentleman. Only you musn’t mind one thing: there’s no furniture in his rooms, only a pipe and nothing else at all.
Agàfia. And who else is there?
Fèkla. Àkinf Stepánovich Pantelèyev—he’s an official, a titular counsellor.[[5]] He stutters a little; but then he’s such a very modest gentleman.
Arìna. You always keep on “official” and “official” you’d better tell us whether he doesn’t drink.