Act 1 — SCENE 4. THE SAME AND BEASTLY

Beastly. Whom? For what? On the day of my betrothal! I beg you, sister, for the sake of the celebration, put off the flogging until to-morrow, and to-morrow, if you wish, I’ll gladly take a hand in it myself. My name is not Tarás Beastly, if I don’t make every offence a serious matter. In such things my custom is the same as yours, sister. But what has made you so angry?

Mrs. Uncouth. Here, brother, I’ll leave it to you. Mitrofán, just come here! Is this caftan baggy?

Beastly. No.

Uncouth. I see now myself, wifey, that it is too tight.

Beastly. But I don’t see that. My good fellow, the caftan is just right.

Mrs. Uncouth (to Tríshka). Get out, you beast! (To Eremyéevna.) Go, Eremyéevna, and give the child his breakfast. I am afraid the teachers will soon be here.

Eremyéevna. My lady, he has deigned to eat five rolls ere this.

Mrs. Uncouth. So you are too stingy to give him the sixth, you beast? What zeal! I declare!

Eremyéevna. I meant it for his health, my lady. I am looking out for Mitrofán Teréntevich: he has been ill all night.

Mrs. Uncouth. Oh, Holy Virgin! What was the matter with you, darling Mitrofán?

Mitrofán. I don’t know what, mamma. I was bent with pain ever since last night’s supper.

Beastly. My good fellow, I guess you have had too solid a supper.

Mitrofán. Why, uncle! I have eaten hardly anything.

Uncouth. If I remember rightly, my dear, you did have something.

Mitrofán. Not much of anything: some three slices of salt bacon, and five or six pies, I do not remember which.

Eremyéevna. He kept on begging for something to drink all night long. He deigned to empty a pitcher of kvas.

Mitrofán. And even now I am walking around distracted. All kinds of stuff passed before my eyes all night long.

Mrs. Uncouth. What kind of stuff, darling Mitrofán?

Mitrofán. At times you, mamma, at others—dad.

Mrs. Uncouth. How so?

Mitrofán. No sooner did I close my eyes, than I saw you, mamma, drubbing dad.

Uncouth (aside). It is my misfortune, the dream has come to pass!

Mitrofán (tenderly). And I felt so sorry.

Mrs. Uncouth (angrily). For whom, Mitrofán?

Mitrofán. For you, mamma: you got so tired drubbing dad.

Mrs. Uncouth. Embrace me, darling of my heart! Son, you are my comfort.

Beastly. I see, Mitrofán, you are mother’s son and not father’s.

Uncouth. I love him anyway as becomes a father: he is such a clever child, such a joker! I am often beside myself with joy when I look at him, and I can’t believe that he is my own son.

Beastly. Only now our joker looks a little gloomy.

Mrs. Uncouth. Had I not better send to town for the doctor?

Mitrofán. No, no, mamma. I’ll get well myself. I’ll run now to the dove-cot, maybe——

Mrs. Uncouth. Maybe God will be merciful. Go, have a good time, darling Mitrofán. (Exeunt Mitrofán and Eremyéevna.)