KABANOV. I went away to Moscow, you know. Mamma sent me off with a sermon, oh, such a sermon, but as soon as I was well away, I went in for enjoying myself. I was glad to have escaped into freedom. And I was drinking all the journey, and in Moscow too I kept it up, and had a jolly time--as you may fancy! Of course I'd to get in fun enough to last me the whole year. I never once thought about home. Though, if I had thought of it, I never should have dreamed of what was going on here. You've heard about it? KULIGIN. Yes, sir. KABANOV. I'm a miserable man now! And so, for nothing, my life's spoiled, for nothing I have done. KULIGIN. Your mother is terribly hard. KABANOV. Yes, indeed, she's the cause of it all. And what am I suffering for, tell me that? Here I've just come from Dikoy's, and well, we drank a bit; I thought it would drown care; but it has only made me worse, Kuligin! Ah, the wrong my wife has done me! It couldn't be worse.... KULIGIN. It's a difficult business, sir. It's difficult to judge between you. KABANOV. No; nothing could be worse than what she's done! It wouldn't be much to kill her for it. There's mamma keeps saying: she ought to be buried alive to punish her! But I love her, I can't bear to lay a finger on her. I did give her a blow or two, but that was at mamma's bidding. It makes one wretched to see her, do you understand that, Kuligin. Mamma's just tormenting her to death, while she wanders about like a shadow, and makes no resistance. She only weeps, and she's wasting away like wax. It's simply breaking my heart to see her. KULIGIN. You must make it up somehow, sir! You ought to forgive her, and never refer to it again. You are not without sin yourself, I daresay! KABANOV. I should think not! KULIGIN. And you must never reproach her even when you're drunk! She would be a good wife to you yet, sir, better than any--believe me. KABANOV. But understand me, Kuligin; I'd never say a word, but mamma ... do you suppose one can get over her!... KULIGIN. It's time you were guided, sir, by your own good sense, sir. KABANOV. My own good sense! I've got none, I'm told, and so I'm to live by other people's! I declare I'll drink away whatever sense I have left, and then mamma can look after me as much as she likes, when I'm crazy. KULIGIN. Ah sir! there's a world of troubles! But, Boris Grigoritch, sir, what of him? KABANOV. Oh, he, the scoundrel, is being sent off to Tiahta, to the Chinese. His uncle's sending him off to a merchant he knows there. He's to be there three years. KULIGIN. Well, what does he say to it, sir? KABANOV. Oh, he's wretched too; he weeps. His uncle and I, we set upon him not long ago, we swore at him--he didn't say a word. He seems like a wild thing. Do what you like to me, says he, only don't torment her! He's sorry for her too. KULIGIN. He's a good fellow, sir.