_First C._ Oh! you’re a fine lady, I suppose. Why, you’ve got so fat that one can’t pinch you anywhere; just as if you’d been hammered on an anvil. (_Sings._) “Who has known a captive’s sorrow? Who shall tell its bitterness?” _Matryòna._ Talk about me being fat! Why, your own cheeks are blown out like wind-bags! Can’t you take in the samovar when I ask you? _First C._ Come again to-morrow. (_Sings._) “In my youth I knew of naught but pleasure, Gold had I to spare and give——” _Matryòna._ Wait a bit! I’ll tell Oulìta Nikìtishna that you’re an idle fellow, and one never can get you to do anything. _First C._ I’m the coachman; do you understand that? I have my own work to do. And what are you? A beggarly fine lady! If you go so fine, you’ll freeze your stockings. So you can just carry the samovar yourself. _Matryòna._ Why, the thing weighs twelve stone, man; how can a girl carry it? _First C._ All I have to say is—it’s not my business. _Matryòna._ Then you’re a brazen, shameless fellow! A girl may break her back, for all you care! (_Lifts samovar with great difficulty, and carries it to gallery, turning her head away from the steam._) _First C._ (_calls after her_). Don’t romp in your earrings, the gilding will come off! [Illustration: MATRYÒNA: “THEN YOU’RE A BRAZEN, SHAMELESS FELLOW! A GIRL MAY BREAK HER BACK, FOR ALL YOU CARE.” ] _Matryòna_ (_going up steps: looks back_). Impertinence! (_Puts samovar on table._) _First C. (sings)._ “Who has known a captive’s sorrow? Who shall tell its bitterness?” (_Enter on gallery_ KARP KÀRPYCH _and_ OULÌTA NIKÌTISHNA. COACHMAN _stops singing, and exit_.) SCENE II. ON GALLERY. (KARP KÀRPYCH _and_ OULÌTA NIKÌTISHNA _sit down at table_.) _Oulìta_ (_makes tea_). Moiré antique is all the fashion now. _Karp._ What do you mean by moiré antique? _Oulìta._ It’s a kind of material. _Karp._ Well, it’s all one to me. _Oulìta._ Yes; I was only thinking.... Supposing Serafimochka were to marry, I really think I’d have a dress made of it.... All the ladies are wearing it. _Karp._ And you call yourself a lady? _Oulìta._ Well, what else am I? _Karp._ You might have found out by now that I can’t bear to hear you call yourself a lady. I hate the word! _Oulìta._ What’s the matter with the word? There’s nothing—(_hesitates_)—nothing to be ashamed of. _Karp._ If I don’t like it, that’s enough, I suppose! _Oulìta._ Well, Serafimochka’s a lady, anyway. _Karp._ Of course she is! She’s had learning; and she was married to a gentleman. But what are you? You were always a goodwife like any other. And now, just because your husband’s got rich, you must be a lady! Climb on your own feet if you want to be so high! _Oulìta._ No, no! But all the same ... you know——