[Shakes his fist] Gnats! It’s one of the plagues of Egypt, one of the tortures of the Inquisition! Buzz! It sounds so pitiful, so pathetic, as if it’s begging your pardon, but the villain stings so that you have to scratch yourself for an hour after. You smoke, and go for them, and cover yourself from head to foot, but it is no good! At last you have to sacrifice yourself and let the cursed things devour you. You’ve no sooner got used to the gnats when another plague begins: downstairs your wife begins practising sentimental songs with her two friends. They sleep by day and rehearse for amateur concerts by night. Oh, my God! Those tenors are a torture with which no gnats on earth can compare. [He sings] “Oh, tell me not my youth has ruined you.” “Before thee do I stand enchanted.” Oh, the beastly things! They’ve about killed me! So as to deafen myself a little I do this: I drum on my ears. This goes on till four o’clock. Oh, give me some more water, brother!... I can’t... Well, not having slept, you get up at six o’clock in the morning and off you go to the station. You run so as not to be late, and it’s muddy, foggy, cold--brr! Then you get to town and start all over again. So there, brother. It’s a horrible life; I wouldn’t wish one like it for my enemy. You understand--I’m ill! Got asthma, heartburn--I’m always afraid of something. I’ve got indigestion, everything is thick before me... I’ve become a regular psychopath.... [Looking round] Only, between ourselves, I want to go down to see Chechotte or Merzheyevsky. There’s some devil in me, brother. In moments of despair and suffering, when the gnats are stinging or the tenors sing, everything suddenly grows dim; you jump up and race round the whole house like a lunatic and shout, “I want blood! Blood!” And really all the time you do want to let a knife into somebody or hit him over the head with a chair. That’s what life in a summer villa leads to! And nobody has any sympathy for me, and everybody seems to think it’s all as it should be. People even laugh. But understand, I am a living being and I want to live! This isn’t farce, it’s tragedy! I say, if you don’t give me your revolver, you might at any rate sympathize. MURASHKIN. I do sympathize. TOLKACHOV. I see how much you sympathize.... Good-bye. I’ve got to buy some anchovies and some sausage... and some tooth-powder, and then to the station. MURASHKIN. Where are you living? TOLKACHOV. At Carrion River. MURASHKIN. [Delighted] Really? Then you’ll know Olga Pavlovna Finberg, who lives there? TOLKACHOV. I know her. We are even acquainted. MURASHKIN. How perfectly splendid! That’s so convenient, and it would be so good of you... TOLKACHOV. What’s that? MURASHKIN. My dear fellow, wouldn’t you do one little thing for me? Be a friend! Promise me now. TOLKACHOV. What’s that?