_Stepanìda._ Ah! my child! the enemy of man is cunning. Look at the way my poor dear husband and I lived. We were a happier couple than you are; and all the same he kept me in fear and submission, as a man should, the Lord rest his soul! However much he loved and cherished me, he always kept a little whip hanging on a nail in the bedroom, just in case of anything. _Matryòna._ You’re always making mischief between me and my husband! Why can’t you let me alone? _Stepanìda._ You’d best hold your tongue, my good girl! _Matryòna._ I’m to hold my tongue! What next! Anybody would think I was the dirt under your feet. I’m a merchant’s wife of the first guild! _Stepanìda._ You and your guild! You needn’t talk like that to me, my girl! I’ve had to do with your betters in my time.... _Matryòna._ Even so, you’ve no right to shut me up. I’m not going to hold my tongue for anybody. _Stepanìda._ And what do you suppose I care? There! go your own way; it’s all one to me; but when you drive me to it I must speak out; it’s my way. I’m not going to make myself over again for your pleasure. (_Silence. They all sit and sulk._) You’ve just spoiled my Màsha between you. _Antìp._ I say, Màsha, shall I find you a husband? _Stepanìda._ ’Twas time to think of that long ago. Seems to me you’ve clean forgotten that you have a sister; and she getting on, too. _Màrya._ Really, mamma! Always “getting on,” and “getting on”! I’m not so old as all that comes to. _Stepanìda._ Don’t try your fine airs on me, miss! I was married at thirteen; and you—I’m downright ashamed to tell people of it—you’re twenty. _Antìp._ Well, Màsha, shall I ask Kossolàpov? _Màrya._ Well, really, brother! You know he smells of onions all the year round; and in Lent it’s just dreadful! _Antìp._ Well, then, Perepyàtkin; he’d be a fine lover. (_Laughs._) _Màrya._ You just pick out all the frights on purpose. _Antìp._ Well, they’re all right. I think they’re very fine lovers, Màsha; first-rate lovers! (_Bursts out laughing._) _Màrya (almost in tears)._ You’re just laughing at me! _Stepanìda._ Come, leave off your foolishness! I’m talking seriously, Antìp Antìpych! What do you mean by all this rubbish? As for you, my girl, don’t be afraid; you shall have suitors enough to choose from. Bless my heart! You’re not a gipsy beggar-wench; you’re a marriageable girl with a position. Only you needn’t think I’ll let you marry a nobleman ... I won’t; so don’t imagine it. _Antìp._ Why, mamma, any one would think there are no decent folks among noblemen. Dear me! there are plenty. (_Laughs._) _Stepanìda._ Of course there are, little father! there are decent people in every class; only everybody should keep to their own. Our grandfathers were no worse than we are, and they weren’t always trying to get in among the nobles. _Antìp._ I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry her to a noble. There’s no harm in it; why should you mind?