MURASHKIN. Oh, you liar, Ivan Ivanovitch! What the devil have you got to do in a dark wood? I expect you are up to something. I can see by your face that you are up to something. What’s the matter with you? Are you ill? TOLKACHOV. Wait a moment, let me breathe.... Oh little mothers! I am dog-tired. I’ve got a feeling all over me, and in my head as well, as if I’ve been roasted on a spit. I can’t stand it any longer. Be a friend, and don’t ask me any questions or insist on details; just give me the revolver! I beseech you! MURASHKIN. Well, really! Ivan Ivanovitch, what cowardice is this? The father of a family and a Civil Servant holding a responsible post! For shame! TOLKACHOV. What sort of a father of a family am I! I am a martyr. I am a beast of burden, a nigger, a slave, a rascal who keeps on waiting here for something to happen instead of starting off for the next world. I am a rag, a fool, an idiot. Why am I alive? What’s the use? [Jumps up] Well now, tell me why am I alive? What’s the purpose of this uninterrupted series of mental and physical sufferings? I understand being a martyr to an idea, yes! But to be a martyr to the devil knows what, skirts and lamp-globes, no! I humbly decline! No, no, no! I’ve had enough! Enough! MURASHKIN. Don’t shout, the neighbours will hear you! TOLKACHOV. Let your neighbours hear; it’s all the same to me! If you don’t give me a revolver somebody else will, and there will be an end of me anyway! I’ve made up my mind! MURASHKIN. Hold on, you’ve pulled off a button. Speak calmly. I still don’t understand what’s wrong with your life.