Fèkla. Yes, he does drink; I wouldn’t tell you a lie—he drinks. But then, you see, he’s a titular counsellor. And then he’s so quiet and gentle.
Agàfia. No, no; I don’t want to have a drunkard for a husband.
Fèkla. As you like, little mother. If you don’t care for one you can take another. But after all, what does it matter if a man takes a drop too much sometimes? He’s not drunk the whole week round, you know; some days he’ll come home sober.
Agàfia. And who else is there?
Fèkla. There is one more, only he’s not quite the sort.... Never mind him, the others will do better.
Agàfia. Well, but who is he?
Fèkla. Really, it’s not worth while talking about him. He’s in a good position—aulic counsellor and all that—but such a slow stick-in-the-mud, there’s no getting him out of the house.
Agàfia. Well, and who else? You have only told us about five, and you said there were six.
Fèkla. Surely you don’t want any more? Why, a minute ago you were frightened at so many, and now they’re not enough!
Arìna. What’s the use of all your noblemen? Even if you have got half a dozen of them, one shopkeeper’s worth the whole lot.