Koch. A drunkard.
Zhev. (aside). I really don’t understand this!
Agàfia. You don’t mean to say he’s a drunkard too?
Koch. Oh! dear me! yes; a thoroughpaced scoundrel.
Zhev. (aloud). Allow me; that I did not ask you to say. If you had said something to my advantage, or in my praise—that would be another matter; but to speak of me in such a manner, to use such words—you may find some one else who will consent, but not your humble servant.
Koch. (aside). Whatever has brought him back again? (Softly to Agàfia.) Look! look! he can hardly stand on his feet. He’s as drunk as a lord; and it’s the same thing every day. Send him about his business and make an end of the whole affair. (Aside.) Podkolyòssin doesn’t come, and doesn’t come, the scoundrel! Oh! I’ll be even with him! (Exit.)
Zhev. (aside). He said he was going to praise me, and instead of that he began abusing me! Very queer man! (Aloud.) Don’t believe him, madam.
Agàfia. Excuse me, I am not well; my head aches. (Going.)
Zhev. It cannot be; there must be something about me that displeases you. (Points to his head.) I hope you don’t mind my having a little bald place here; it’s nothing, really; it’s from fever; the hair will soon grow again.
Agàfia. It is all the same to me whether it grows or not.