BORIS. Ah, merciful Heavens! For one glimpse of her! I can't go into the house. No one calls anywhere uninvited in this place. What a life! We are living in the same town, almost next door; yet we barely see each other once a week, and then only in church, or in the street,--and that's all! When a woman's married here she might as well be buried,--it's all the same. _(Silence.)_ If only I had never seen her; it would have been better for me! I can only see her by snatches, and before people,--who are all eyes, staring at one. It's simply heartrending. And yet there's no mastering oneself. If I go out for a walk, I always find myself here at the gate. And what use is there in coming here? There's never any chance of seeing her, and what's more, it may give rise to gossip and do her harm. Well, it's a fine town, certainly! [_He is going, Kuligin comes, meeting him._ KULIGIN. Well, sir? out for a walk? BORIS. Yes, it's very pleasant out now. KULIGIN. Very pleasant it is, sir, walking now. The stillness, the sweet air, the scent of flowers from the far side of the Volga, the clear sky-- The space aloft, filled full of stars, Stars numberless, space limitless. Shall we go to the parade, there's not a soul there. BORIS. Yes, come along. KULIGIN That's our town all over, sir! Here they've made a parade, but they don't walk there. They only walk out on fete days, and then they only make a show of being out for a walk. They really come out to show off their best clothes. You never meet anyone but maybe a drunken attorney's clerk reeling home from the tavern. The poor have no time, sir, to walk out; they must work and worry day and night. Three hours' sleep is all they get out of the twenty-four. But what are the rich about? You'd wonder why they shouldn't walk about and enjoy the fresh air. But not a bit of it! They've all had their gates, sir, locked up long ago, and their dogs let loose. ... Do you suppose they are at work at their business, or praying to God? No, sir! And it's not for fear of thieves they lock themselves up; it's that folks shouldn't see the way they ill-treat their household, and bully their families. And the tears that flow behind those bolts, unseen, unheard of! But there's no need to tell you that, sir! You can judge of it for yourself. And the sordid sodden vice within those barred gates, sir! And all hidden and buried--no one sees or knows anything of it, God alone beholds it! Stare at me as you like, say they, in the street and among folk, but you've nothing to do with my family; that's what I have locks for, and bolts and bars and savage dogs. The family's something apart, secret! We know all about such secrets!--secrets, sir, that make one man merry, perhaps, while the rest are weeping and wailing. Much secrecy about it! Everyone knows! Robbing their orphans, kinsfolk, nephews, beating their dependents till they're too cowed to hint at what goes on within