"Is naught so hard and evil As to be fatherless; Than slavery more grievous And sharper than distress. All in the world make holiday, But lonely you must pine. Your mind is wild and drunken, But it came not from the wine. Youth shall not do your pleasure, Beauty no healing bear. Your sweetheart does not comb your locks, But your harsh stepdame, Care." _During all this time_ RAZLYULYÁYEV _stands as if rooted to the ground, and listens with emotion; when the song is finished all are silent_. RAZLYULYÁYEV. Good! Very good! It's awfully sad; it takes hold of one's heart. [_Sighs_] Ah, Yasha! play something cheerful; that's enough of this stuff--to-day's a holiday. [_Sings_. "Who does not love a hussar! Life without love would be sad!" Play the tune, Yasha. GÚSLIN _plays the tune_. MÍTYA. That's enough of your fooling. Come, now, let's sit down in a circle and sing in a low tone. RAZLYULYÁYEV. All right. [_They sit down_. GÚSLIN. [_Begins to sing_; MÍTYA _and_ RAZLYULYÁYEV _join in_] "Now my young, my young lads, You my friends...." _Enter_ GORDÉY KÁRPYCH; _all stand up and stop singing_. SCENE VII _The same and_ GORDÉY KÁRPYCH GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. What's all this screeching! Bawling like so many peasants! [_To_ MÍTYA] And you here! You're not living here in a peasant's hut! What a dram-shop! See that this sort of thing doesn't go on in the future! [_Goes to the table and inspects the papers_] Why are these papers all scattered about? MÍTYA. I was looking over the accounts, sir. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. [_Takes the book by Koltsóv, and the copy-book with verses_] And this, too, what's this rubbish? MÍTYA. I was copying these poems of Koltsóv's to pass the time away, since it's a holiday. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. You are sentimental for a poor lad! MÍTYA. I just study for my own education, in order to understand things. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Education! Do you know what education is?--And yet you keep on talking! You ought to get yourself a new coat! For when you come up-stairs to us and there are guests, it's a disgrace! What do you do with your money? MÍTYA. I send it to my mother because she is old and has nowhere to get any. GORDÉY KÁRPYCH. Send it to your mother! You ought to educate yourself first; God knows what your mother needs! She wasn't brought up in luxury; most likely she used to look after the cows herself. MÍTYA. It's better that I should suffer than that my mother should be in any want at all.