Chapter IV: Act II: Scene I (2)

_Advocate._ In w w-what con-d-dish’n?

_Justice._ I must fine you three roubles. Please to leave the Court.

_Advocate._ Prompt, just, and merciful.

_INCOMPATIBILITY OF TEMPER._

PICTURES FROM MOSCOW LIFE.

BY A. N. OSTRÒVSKY.

PICTURE I.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

PRÈZHNEV, _an old man, completely in his dotage, official of high
rank; has lost the use of his limbs; is wheeled about in a chair_.

SÒFIA IVÀNOVNA PRÈZHNEVA, _his wife, aged forty-five_.

PAUL, _a young man, her son_.

OUSTÌNYA FILIMÒNOVNA PERESHÌVKINA, _an elderly woman, formerly_ PAUL’S
_nurse; now a kind of toady and hanger-on in several families_.

_A large drawing-room; very rich paper-hangings, grown old and shabby,
peeling off the walls. Polished parquet, sunk and uneven. Windows,
left, looking into garden. Door opening on wooden balcony, with
pillars. At back of stage, a door leading to hall. Door, right, to
inner rooms. In narrow niches, little marble tables with bronze
legs; over them hang long narrow pier-glasses with gilded frames.
Furniture old, heavy, with gilding rubbed off. Old bronze-work on
tables. Glass chandelier with lozenge-shaped drops. Two or three
ivy-screens. A general appearance of former luxury now become
shabby._

SCENE I.

(PRÈZHNEV _asleep in wheel-chair beside window. Fur dressing-gown;
white woollen rug over feet_. MADAME PRÈZHNEVA, _in elegant morning
négligé, lies on sofa with a book_.)

_Madame P._ (_lays down book_). That is cruel! That is dreadful! I would never have acted so! _Nous autres femmes_ ... we ... oh! we believe, we trust blindly, we never analyse. No, I cannot finish this novel. A young man of good birth, handsome, clever, an officer in the army, declares his love to her in such exquisite language; and she—she has the heart to refuse him! No; she is no woman! Woman is a weak creature of impulse! We live only through the heart. And how easy it is to deceive us! We are willing to make all sacrifices for the man we love. If men deceive us—which, alas! happens very often—the blame lies not upon us, but upon them. They, for the most part, are cunning and deceitful.... We women are so loving, so trustful, so ready to believe everything, that only after bitter (_meditates_)—yes, bitter—experience we realise the immorality of the beings we adore. (_Silence._) But, no! Even after a betrayal, even after several betrayals, we are ready again to yield to impulse, to believe once more in the possibility of pure and honourable love! Yes! it is our fate! All the more so, when the whole thing takes place amid such poetical surroundings as in this novel: spring-time, flowers, a beautiful park, gurgling streams; he came to her attired for the hunt, the gun upon his shoulder, the hound at his feet, ah! But men ... how often do they abuse the exquisite tenderness of our loving hearts; they care not to know how much we suffer through them, we poor women! (_Silence._) Of course there _are_ women whose whole interest in life consists in vulgar, material considerations and household affairs. But that is prose, prose! Nothing shall make me regard it as anything but prose. There are even women who discuss various learned topics as if they were men; but I cannot recognise their womanhood. They may be clever; they may be learned; but instead of a heart they have a lump of ice. (_Silence._) When such ideas come into my mind, I always think of my Paul. Oh! how successful he will be with women! It is a joy to me in anticipation! How sweet is that thought for a mother! Oh! children! children! (_smells vinaigrette and rings bell. Enter footman._)

_Footman._ Did madame ring?

_Madame P._ Has your master come in yet?

_Footman._ No, madame.

_Madame P._ When he comes, say I wish to see him.

_Footman._ Yes, madame. (_Exit._)

_Madame P._ He is such a sensitive, nervous boy! He has inherited my temperament. He should be watched over and tenderly cared for. But what can I do? I have no fortune! After receiving such a high-class education, he is reduced to the necessity of serving in a Government office! All those head-clerks.... They do wear such extraordinary coats!... and he is so nervous, so nervous!... I believe that they all persecute him out of envy.

(_Enter_ PAUL.)

_Paul_ (_irreproachably dressed in summer costume, with an exhausted and somewhat affected air_). _Bonjour, Maman!_

_Madame P._ (_kisses his forehead_). _Bonjour_, Paul! Where have you been?

_Paul_ (_sits on sofa_). Where! In that charming place to which it pleased you to send me.

_Madame P._ What can we do, Paul?

_Paul._ I have come home on foot in this dreadful heat!

_Madame P._ It is charmingly cool in this room.

_Paul._ Yes; but what is it like in the winter? All the walls are damp-rotted; the floor is sunk in.

_Madame P._ Yes, my dear one; our affairs are in a very bad condition.

_Paul._ Your affairs! What affairs have you? There’s papa only half alive; and you, too, have had your day, and finished it. Look at _my_ position!

_Madame P._ I know, my dear one. I can understand how hard it is for you!

_Paul._ Hard! I should think so! Listen to me, _Maman_. By birth, by education, by the circle in which I move—in fact, by everything—I belong, every inch of me, to the best rank of society.

_Madame P._ Oh, yes!

_Paul._ And what is wanting? It is shameful, infamous! A fortune! And, indeed, what does it matter that I have no fortune? All the same, I ought to live and do like other people. Am I to go and register myself as an artizan? A cobbler, perhaps! All because I have no fortune! That amounts to an absurdity.

_Madame P._ We had a fortune once, Paul.

_Paul._ I know you had. And where is it now? I know more than that.... I know that you squandered it.

_Madame P._ Ah, Paul! do not blame me! You know that we women are so weak, so confiding. Before your father’s illness we were considered very wealthy people; we had a fine estate in the Simbìrsk country. He knew how to manage all those things. Afterwards, when he was struck down with paralysis, I lived not at all luxuriously, only respectably.

_Paul._ How much did Mons. Péché cost you? Confess, _Maman_!

_Madame P._ Oh! my dear one, he was indispensable for your education. Then I went abroad twice. But I never ran into any heavy expense. And suddenly I was informed that I had spent all the fortune, that we had nothing left. It is dreadful! In all probability it was our stewards and bailiffs that were to blame for the whole thing.

_Paul._ _Canaille!_

_Madame P._ What can we do, my dear one? People are so wicked, so cunning; and you and I are so confiding!

_Paul._ It’s you that are confiding, _Maman_. If they got into my hands, I would tell them quite another story! One, two, ... (_Makes gesture with his hand._) There’s nothing else to be done with those creatures. It’s good for them to get a thrashing sometimes. It really makes me quite angry; just because of these scoundrels I have to go every morning, on foot, to a miserable office of which I need never have heard; and then either walk home, or jolt along with a wretched cabman. I cannot live in the same fashion as all these copying-clerks that I have to sit side by side with. They buy onion-pies at the costermonger’s, and stand eating them at the street door. _They_ can do that sort of thing—they are made that way—but _I_ can’t. Now, you see, I am in debt to every one—to the cabman, to the tailor, to Chevalier: all our set go to Chevalier, and all the young barristers.... You can hardly expect _me_ to eat onion-pies! And now, I’ve got to go through an examination in some District Institution. It’s dreadful! You see, if I had a fortune, I should never even hear of all these things—Law Courts, and District Institutions, and copying-clerks, with their onion-pies! What do I want with them all?

_Madame P._ Yes, yes, I understand.... With your sensitive nature.... You are so nervous!

_Paul._ I really don’t know what to do! If there were a chance, I should have no scruples about cheating some one at cards.

_Madame P._ Well indeed, in your position——

_Prèzhnev_ (_waking up_). Paul, have you been to the theatre lately?

_Paul._ Quite lately.

_Prèzhnev._ Who plays the marquises now?

_Paul._ No one has done for some time.

_Prèzhnev._ I used to play marquises very well once.

(MADAME PRÈZHNEVA _rings_. _Enter_ FOOTMAN.)

_Madame P._ Wheel your master out on to the balcony, and take some old newspapers and read aloud to him. (_Footman takes newspapers and wheels Prèzhnev on to balcony._)

_Paul._ Then there’s my amiable uncle. Just because he’s been a judge somewhere, he puts on superior airs: “You want too much,” he says. What do I want? Have I ever asked for luxury and extravagance? I only want what is necessary, what a man in my set cannot do without. Surely that is plain enough. But no; my kind uncle tells me, “You have no right to want all these things, because you have no fortune.” Why! is it my fault that I have no fortune? What sort of logic is that?

_Madame P._ No logic at all; it’s absurd.

_Paul._ He says, “You ought to work!” Many thanks! Your humble servant! I’m not a horse, I suppose.

_Madame P._ Your uncle has no refinement.

_Paul._ No, _Maman_; it is a tragedy.

_Madame P._ A tragedy, indeed, _mon cher_!

_Paul._ And a terrible one! There’s no need of murder and poison to make a tragedy.

_Madame P._ Do you know, Paul, I think the best thing would be for you to marry.

_Paul._ I’ve no objection. But whom should I marry?

_Madame P._ Ah, that is the question. I know you well, Paul. Why are you so highly educated? Why have you such a sensitive nature? It will make you unhappy all your life long. There is no mate for you! To win your love and make you happy, a girl would need too many virtues.

_Paul._ You perhaps imagine, _Maman_, that domestic felicity has attractions for me? I’m not a child; I am twenty-one. That is too Arcadian! (_Bursts out laughing._) I simply want money.

_Madame P._ None the less, my dear one, I know your character; I know that you would not care to marry any sort of person.

_Paul._ Any one you like; I want money in order to be _comme il faut_; in order to play my proper part in society—in a word, to do that for which I am fitted. I do not know how to save up money; I only know how to spend it with elegance and dignity. For that I have all the necessary gifts. I have tact, I have taste, I am fitted to take a leading position in society.

_Madame P._ Still, my dear——(_Enter_ FOOTMAN.)

_Footman._ Pereshìvkina asks to see madame.

_Madame P._ She always comes at the wrong time!

_Paul._ We shall have time to talk afterwards.

_Madame P._ Let her come in. (_Exit_ FOOTMAN. _Enter_ PERESHÌVKINA.)

_Madame P._ What is it, Oustìnya Filimònovna?

_Pereshìvkina_ (_kisses_ PRÈZHNEVA _on the shoulder, and then stands a little back_.) I came to ask after your health, little mother; I never forget my benefactors.

_Paul._ Well, old vinegar face, where have you come from?

_Pereshìvkina._ Ah, Mr. Paul, you’re always full of your jokes!

_Paul._ She actually expects one to talk seriously with her!

_Pereshìvkina._ I have a friend, little mother, who makes dimmy-tule. (_Paul laughs._) Laugh away, little father; it’s a fine thing to laugh at an old woman.... So I thought perhaps you’d like to buy some; I get it cheap. It’s capital quality, and very wide. Shall I bring you some? You won’t get it for the same price down town.

_Madame P._ Very well; I’ll look at it.

_Paul._ How much money have you hoarded up, old hag?

_Pereshìvkina._ “Old hag,” now, is it!

_Paul._ Why, dear me! You’re not thinking of getting married, are you?

_Pereshìvkina._ It’s not right of you, sir, to speak to me like that! I’m an old woman; and I have carried you in my arms.

_Paul._ She’s going to get offended now; that’ll be the next thing.

_Madame P._ Let her alone, my dear.

_Pereshìvkina._ Never mind, little mother, never mind. Let him do as he likes, he was always such a one to joke. When he was quite a little fellow he set my cap on fire behind.

_Paul._ Ah! so you haven’t forgotten.

_Pereshìvkina._ Not I. Why, you burnt off all my hair, and even my face got scorched. But you needn’t laugh at me, sir. Maybe I shall come in useful to you yet.

_Paul._ Why, what use can I make of you? Stick you up in the kitchen garden for a scarecrow?

_Pereshìvkina._ Maybe I can do you a better service than that, Pàvel Petròvich—who knows? Little mother, you won’t get angry with my nonsense, will you? Maybe, after all, I shall say something worth hearing before I’ve done.

_Madame P._ Well, what is it?

_Pereshìvkina._ There’s a lady I know—Serafima Kàrpovna, her name is. She always allows me into her house. You see how it is, little mother. Her people are in trade, but she’s been married to a very grand gentleman—Mr. Aslàmevich. He was an official, you know. Why, little mother, he was a general once.

_Paul_ (_laughing_). How did that happen?

_Pereshìvkina._ Why, this way, sir. The general where he served was away for a holiday, so he was general for a whole month.

_Paul._ I daresay! Well, let’s hear some more lies.

_Pereshìvkina._ It’s the truth I’m telling you, sir. They were only married one year, and now she’s been a widow for more than a year.... But you won’t be angry with me, little mother?

_Madame P._ Well, go on!

_Pereshìvkina._ She’s just a beauty to look at; and very good and kind—and then so modest! It’s quite wonderful. And she’s saving, too, and doesn’t throw away her money on dresses and foolery.

_Paul._ That’s to say, she’s miserly.

_Pereshìvkina._ No, no, not miserly, only saving—just a careful housewife. Now, you see, the dowry that she had when she was married all belongs to her. She’s got a hundred and fifty thousand in money alone.

_Paul._ A hundred and fifty thousand!

_Pereshìvkina._ I saw it myself, sir. She’s got all the notes in her dressing-case; I saw her count it. Dear me, what a silly old woman I am! You’d much better tell me to hold my tongue, or it’ll get me into trouble. She’s a good woman, and she’s been kind to me, but all the same she’s not the first thing in the world to me. I don’t want you to be angry with me because of her.

_Madame P._ and _Paul_. Never mind; go on, go on!

_Pereshìvkina._ Well, I’ll tell you, if you wish it. You see, little mother, it’s like—well, you know how it is with women.... She’s young, and she’s been a widow for over a year, and so you see ... and don’t think I’m telling you lies—I’d count it a sin. I always wished you well, madame; I haven’t forgotten! Of course, I’m only a poor woman, but all the same, I don’t forget kindnesses. And if ever I can do you a service——

_Paul._ There, there! (_With an impatient gesture._)

_Madame P._ Well, but go on.

_Pereshìvkina._ Yes, little mother. Well, you see, she’s a near neighbour of yours—it’s the white stone house on the left-hand side. Pàvel Petròvich often passes.

_Madame P._ Well, what of that?

_Pereshìvkina_ (_whispers_). She’s fallen in love.

_Madame P._ What?

_Pereshìvkina_ (_louder_). She’s fallen in love. Yes; it’s quite true.

_Madame P._ Well, what is there wonderful in that? You’re very simple, my good woman. How could she help falling in love with him? She’s not the only one!

_Pereshìvkina._ Oh! of course, of course, ma’am. Only, you see, she’s rich.

_Paul_ (_sings_). “La Donna e mobile.”

_Pereshìvkina._ “Oustìnya Filimònovna,” says she, “I’m in love.” So I asked her, “With who, little mother?” “You look,” says she, “he’ll pass in a minute.” So I looked out of the window, and there was Pàvel Petròvich going past, and she says to me, “That’s he,” says she. You could have knocked me down with a feather.

_Paul_ (_sings_). “La Donna e mobile.”

_Pereshìvkina._ Of course Pàvel Petròvich must look at her himself, and see whether he likes her. And if you feel any doubt you might go to the Warden Council and see that the money’s all right; there’s no harm in making sure. Love’s all very well, but money’s money. You see, it’s for all your life.

_Paul_ (_goes up to his mother_). _Maman_, I’m going for a walk.

_Madame P._ Good-bye, my dear. (_Kisses his forehead._)

_Paul_ (_whispers_). Try your hardest. (_Exit._)

_Madame P._ You see, my dear Oustìnya Filimonòvna, it’s not a very great stroke of fortune for my Paul that some Madame Aslàmevich has fallen in love with him. However, if he sees her she may possibly take his fancy.... Of course, for my part, I shall make no difficulties, although she’s only from the merchant class.... All I care for is his happiness. (_Rises._) Come with me; I’ll tell the servants to give you some tea.... Only I beg you to behave with discretion.

_Pereshìvkina._ Little mother, I’d as soon——(_Exeunt._)

PICTURE II.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

KARP KÀRPYCH TOLSTOGORÀZDOV, _merchant; short, fat, grey haired_.

OULÌTA NIKÌTISHNA, _his wife; an elderly woman, without any noteworthy
characteristics_.

SERAFÌMA KÀRPOVNA, _Tolstogoràzdov’s daughter; widow; tall, slender,
remarkably handsome; walk and gestures of boarding-school girl;
often meditates; sighs and lifts her eyes to heaven when she speaks
of love; also when she counts her money; and sometimes without any
reason_.

MATRYÒNA, _maid-servant; distant connection of the Tolstogoràzdov’s, a
young girl; plump, exquisitely white skin, red cheeks, black eyes
and brows. Costume: Pelisse, ornamental chemise, with muslin
sleeves, and coins woven into plait of hair._

FIRST COACHMAN, _Tolstogoràzdov’s_.

SECOND COACHMAN, _Serafima’s_.

_Courtyard, gallery of house, right. Garden in background. Stables, &c., left. Two doors: one into cellar, one into hay-loft._

SCENE I. IN COURTYARD.

(FIRST COACHMAN _sits on cellar steps_. _Enter_ MATRYÒNA.)

_First Coachman_ (_sings, falsetto_).

“In my youth I knew of naught but pleasure,
Gold had I to spare and give;—
Now my joys are vanished with my treasure,
As a wretched slave I live.”

_Matryòna._ The master and mistress have waked up; you might carry in the samovar, Ivànych.

_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!

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——

_Karp._ If I tell you to hold your tongue, that’s enough. (_Silence._)

_Oulìta._ When was that battle fought?

_Karp._ What battle?

_Oulìta._ Why, lately, you know. Don’t you remember?

_Karp._ And what about it?

_Oulìta._ Such a lot of common soldiers got made into officers.

_Karp._ Why not? They weren’t women. Everybody gets a fair reward for his services.

_Oulìta._ But, do you know, there’s a pedlar woman that comes here; and she says that, when her nephew passes his examination, she’ll be made a noble too.

_Karp._ When the sky rains potatoes!

_Oulìta._ But they say there are countries where they have women for soldiers.

_Karp_ (_laughs_). Life Guards, no doubt! (_Silence._)

_Oulìta._ They say it’s sinful to drink tea.

_Karp._ What do you mean by that?

_Oulìta._ Because it comes from a heathen country.

_Karp._ Heaps of things come from heathen countries.

_Oulìta._ No; it’s quite true; now, bread grows on Christian soil, and we eat it at the proper time; but when do we drink tea? People go to mass, and we sit drinking tea; now its vesper-time, and here we are drinking tea. So you see it’s a sin.

_Karp._ Well, then, drink it at the proper time.

_Oulìta._ Yes; but still——

_Karp._ Yes; but still, hold your tongue. You haven’t much of a headpiece, but you’re very fond of talking. Just hold your tongue! (_Silence._)

_Oulìta._ How lucky our Serafimochka is! She married a gentleman, and that made her a lady; and now that she’s a widow, she’s still a lady. Supposing she should marry a prince now, perhaps she’ll be a princess.

_Karp._ Only through her husband.

_Oulìta._ Well, now, if she were to marry a prince, what should I be? Surely, something; she’s my child.

_Karp._ It’s enough to addle one’s head to talk half an hour with you! I wanted to think about business, and here you keep worrying me with your chattering and nonsense. Life isn’t long enough to hear all you women have got to say; I think the quickest way will be for you to hold your tongue! (_Meditates. Silence. Enter_ MATRYÒNA, _hurriedly_.)

_Matryòna._ Oulìta Nikìtishna! Little mother! Serafima Kàrpovna has come.

_Oulìta._ Goodness gracious! (_Rises hastily, and exit with_ MATRYÒNA.)

_Karp._ If one didn’t manage one’s women by fear, there’d be no doing anything with them at all. They’ve got their own business; and yet nothing will satisfy them but to interfere in other people’s. And to see the way a woman will get round her husband, to make him tell her all his affairs and secrets, and work on him with her beauty and her cunning ways, and make eyes at him; and it’s all nothing but ruin and destruction. And if you tell them your affairs, they interfere, and lead you astray, and make you do everything their way instead of your own. Many men have gone to ruin through women. Of course, a young, inexperienced man can be led away by their beauty; but when a man has reached years of discretion, and grown serious and wise, a woman’s beauty is nothing to him at all, it only disgusts him.

SCENE III. IN THE COURTYARD.

(_Enter_ FIRST _and_ SECOND COACHMAN.)

_Second C._ Why, there’s no comparing it; you’re a thousand times better off. If you knew what my mistress is like! She’s more of a Jew than a lady; she measures the very oats out herself. (_Exeunt into stable. Enter on gallery_ OULÌTA, SERAFÌMA, _and_ MATRYÒNA.)

SCENE IV. ON GALLERY.

(KARP KÀRPYCH. OULÌTA _sits down at her place and pours out tea_.
SERAFÌMA, _in hat and cloak, with parasol and green gloves_.
MATRYÒNA _places on table a figured china cup which she has brought
from the room, and stands a little way off_.)

SERAFIMA: “GOOD EVENING, PAPA.”
]

_Serafima._ Good evening, papa. (_Goes up to him. They kiss._)

_Karp._ Good evening. Sit down, my girl.

_Serafima_ (_sits down_). And where’s my brother, Onesìme?

_Karp._ Where’s Onesìme? Off on the spree. He’s been playing the devil for five days.

_Serafima._ And Anna Vlàsyevna?

_Karp._ Well, you see, whatever we do, we can’t make Onesìme leave off drinking. So your mother has sent your sister round to the prisons to give out white bread; so perhaps God will forgive us.

_Oulìta._ Yes, yes; I sent her to take round white rolls to the prisoners.... You know they’ve most of them got into trouble for nothing....

_Karp._ Oho! For nothing? They’re to rob and murder to their heart’s content, and not get locked up for it!

_Oulìta._ Well, but the robbers and murderers are in the great prison; what do people get put into the jail for?

_Karp._ For debt.

_Oulìta._ It’s all very well to talk about debt; they say Kòn Kònych is in jail for interest.

_Karp._ For what—interest?

_Oulìta._ Yes, indeed; for interest. And it’s not right! What a man borrows, he should give back; but interest is a sin.

_Karp._ Going to begin your chattering again, now! (OULÌTA _pours out tea_; MATRYÒNA _carries cup on tray to_ SERAFÌMA; _she takes it with her gloves on_.)

_Oulìta._ Serafimoushka, you’d better take off your hat and cloak; and you might as well unlace your dress at the back; there are no strangers here. Matryòna will do it for you.

_Serafima._ Oh! mamma, how _can_ you? I don’t feel the heat. I just came to you for a minute to ask your advice.

_Karp_ (_blowing on his saucer_). What about?

_Serafima._ I want to marry.

_Oulìta_ (_clasping her hands_). Good gracious!

_Karp._ Well, why not? Why shouldn’t she? You might do worse....

_Oulìta_ (_shaking her head, and folding both hands on her breast_). My beauty!

_Karp._ Who is the man? I should like to hear that.

_Serafima._ He’s quite a young man, papa; he serves in the Law Court; and, I ought to tell you, he’s not well off. I wouldn’t marry a poor man, only that I am so very much in love with him. (_Raises eyes to heaven; sighs, and meditates._)

_Oulìta_ (_clasping her hands_). Dear heart!

_Karp._ And who is he?

_Serafima._ His name is Prèzhnev. He’s a noble, of good family; and may get a good situation. I’ve thought it over; you see, I have my own fortune. If I am careful with the money, there will be enough for me and a husband. I am willing to deny myself many things rather than live without him. (_Raises eyes to heaven, and sighs._)

_Karp._ Perhaps there’s something remarkable about him?

_Serafima._ I haven’t heard of anything at all.

_Karp._ Well, Serafima, my girl, remember one thing: you’re a cut-off twig; I shan’t give you any more money; so mind you don’t run through what you’ve got.

_Oulìta._ The other one was old; but you say this one’s young, so very likely you may have children; you must keep the money for them.

_Serafima._ With my character, I can’t squander my money. (_Gives cup to_ MATRYÒNA.)

_Karp._ H’m!——You say he’s young; and you’re a widow, not a girl; I doubt you’ll feel a bit ashamed before your husband; he’ll just make a fool of you and get hold of your money.

_Serafima_ (_takes cup from_ MATRYÒNA). Do you think that men love only for money? (_Raises eyes to heaven, and sighs._)

_Karp._ Why, what did you suppose? Everybody knows that.

_Serafima_ (_suddenly waking out of meditation_). I won’t give him any money.

_Karp._ That’s right; that’s capital; you do as I told you.

_Serafima._ Of course I will, papa. You needn’t think I’m going to be silly.

_Karp._ We’re going to have a wedding too, soon. Matryòna was found in the garden with one of the shopmen; so I’m going to marry them. (MATRYÒNA _hides her face in her sleeve_.) I shall give him a thousand roubles, and have the wedding at my cost.

_Oulìta._ It’s all very well for you to get up weddings; you just want a chance to have a drunken spree.

_Karp._ Well, what now?

_Oulìta._ Nothing.

_Karp_ (_sternly_). No; you say what you mean.

_Oulìta._ Nothing; really nothing.

_Karp_ (_very sternly_). No; I will have you speak out; I want to hear.

_Oulìta._ There’s no use speaking when you never listen.

_Karp._ What should I listen for? It’s not worth while when _you_ talk. Ah-h-h-, Oulìta Nikìtishna! (_Threatens with his finger._) You were told to hold your tongue! I want the lass to feel what I’m doing for her; and here you come in with your chattering!... (MATRYÒNA _hides her face with the other sleeve_.) She’s only my second cousin twice removed, and yet I give her a dowry. I’m the benefactor of all my kindred. There’s another little one; I shall take her in Matryòna’s place, and bring her up, and settle her in life. (_Silence._)

_Oulìta._ Are you quite sure he will love you, my dear?

_Serafima._ Why not, mamma? There’s nothing objectionable in my character. The only thing is ... when I was at boarding-school they used to say that I had no comprehension of music whatsoever, and that I was dreamy, and given to meditating about nothing; and then, I’m very fond of sweets—perhaps he won’t notice that though. There is one thing more: I’m very bad at counting silver money——

_Karp._ Oh, that’s nothing! You’ll soon get into it.

_Serafima._ Perhaps he won’t like my being economical; but then, how could I manage otherwise? I only try to live within my income, and not run into my capital. What should I be without capital? I should have no value at all!

_Karp._ Of course not!

_Serafima._ And I know how to add up interest—on paper; I was taught that at boarding-school. I can’t do it without paper, though. (_Meditates._)

_Oulìta._ What are you thinking about, child?... Why, what a silly I am! It’s not much wonder that you think, poor girl! Such a change in your life! And there’s no telling beforehand how it’ll turn out.

_Serafima._ No, mamma, it’s not that. I’ve just been buying some ribbon—seven ells at eighty kopecks, paper money; and I was just thinking how much that would be in silver money, and how much change I ought to have from three roubles. (_Takes out purse and looks into it._)

_Karp._ Rouble sixty kopecks—one rouble forty change.

_Serafima._ Are you sure, papa?

_Karp._ Why, bless the girl, what else could it be?

_Serafima_ (_puts back purse_). All right.

_Oulìta._ Are you sure he doesn’t drink?

_Karp._ There you are again! Everybody drinks nowadays.

_Oulìta._ I mean, you’d better ask what he’s like when he’s drunk.

_Karp._ Ah! that’s another matter!

_Oulìta._ Because, you know, some people are so quiet in drink that it really doesn’t matter. It’s just as if they weren’t drunk.

_Serafima._ All right, mamma; I’ll ask. I must go now.

_Oulìta._ Oh, no! You mus’n’t, indeed; stop a bit. You’re so fond of sweet things.... We’ve got some splendid fruit. Run and fetch it, Matryòna; it’s on my bedroom window-sill. (MATRYÒNA _goes out, comes back with fruit, offers it to_ SERAFÌMA, _and then places it on table_.) Take some, dear child; take some. Won’t you have some liqueur?

_Serafima._ Really, mamma!

_Oulìta._ Have a glass of beer, darling.

_Serafima._ You know I never drink it.

_Oulìta._ Well then, mead?

_Serafima._ I can’t, really.

_Oulìta._ Jam, then?

_Serafima._ I’ll have some jam.

_Oulìta_ (_taking keys out of pocket_). Go to the store-room, Matryòna, and bring me two kinds.

_Serafima._ And tell my coachman to bring the carriage round.

(MATRYÒNA _crosses stage, and exit_.)

_Oulìta._ Have some more fruit, Serafimoushka. (SERAFÌMA _takes some_.) Won’t you have any, Karp Kàrpych?

_Karp._ What next? As if I were going to eat all sorts of rubbish now! Put some aside for me, and have the rest cleared away. I’ll eat an orange with my brandy. (OULÌTA _eats fruit_. _Silence._)

SCENE V. IN THE COURTYARD.

_Matryòna_ (_crosses stage with two plates, goes up to stable-door, and pushes it with her foot_). Here, you ragamuffins! (_Enter_ COACHMEN _from stable_.) Bring the horses round; Madame wants to go.

_Second C._ You see, at that time, my master was angry with me about something, and wanted to sell me for a soldier.

_First C._ Bless my soul!

_Second C._ So you see, my dear fellow, I’d got my head just full of the war, and never talked about anything but war with every man I met. And I got so worked up in my feelings like, that I was ready to go at the Circassians themselves.

_First C._ I’ve got a neighbour here, a friend of mine; he’s an officer’s servant, and he was with his master in the Hungarian campaign; and you should just hear what he can tell about the Austrians!

_Second C._ What about them?

_First C._ Why, my good fellow, they told him beforehand, with the Frenchmen standing by—there were Frenchmen, you know—“Do you think you can stand against me? If I choose, I’ll tear you in pieces.”

_Second C._ And they can do it too!

_First C._ Ah! that they can!

_Second C._ Because they’re so strong, you see!

_First C._ Nothing can stand against them. It’s like when they had the militia ... eleven _vershkòv_ high, and could lift fifteen _poods_. And there they’d advance on you! Then, bang, bang, bang goes the big drum, and they all shout, Forwards! March! Treason! And there they come on and on, and what can you do?

_Second C._ In course they must get the better of them; that’s plain.

_First C._ You see, the one that wins, that’ll be which ever is strongest.

_Matryòna._ I’m perfectly tired of hearing you. You’re fine soldiers ... do your fighting sitting by the oven. War can’t be such a very dreadful thing after all.

_First C._ (_glances sideways at_ MATRYÒNA _with absolute contempt_): Brazen hussy!

_Matryòna._ Madame’s waiting; do you hear?

_Second C._ (_hangs whip on right arm, and gives left hand to First C._). Good-bye!

_First C._ Good-bye, my lad! (_Exit behind house_. MATRYÒNA _goes on to gallery_.)

SCENE VI. ON THE GALLERY.

_Oulìta._ Serafimoushka! I’d almost forgotten! There’s one more thing you must certainly do; now mind you don’t forget. When you’ve found out all about your lover, and are sure he’s not a spendthrift, or a drunkard, or a gambler, go to the wise woman, Paràsha. You must go in quietly, and ask: “Will God’s servant, Serafima, be happy with God’s servant”——what’s his name?

_Serafima._ Paul.

_Oulìta._ “With God’s servant, Paul?” And whatever she tells you, do accordingly.

_Karp._ Don’t you do anything of the kind.

_Oulìta._ Look here, Karp Kàrpych, I always obey you in everything; but this is not your business; it’s woman’s business! Don’t listen to him, Serafimoushka; do as I tell you. I’m your mother; I shan’t advise you wrong.

_Serafima._ Very well. (_Rises._) Good-bye, mamma; good-bye, papa. (_Kisses them._)

_Karp._ And listen here! You tell your lover that, if he behaves to me respectfully and properly, I’ll give him a good fur cloak; and if he doesn’t, I’ll take it away again. (_Exeunt._)

PICTURE III.[14]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

PAUL. SERAFÌMA, _his wife_. MADAME PRÈZHNEV. A PERSON UNKNOWN, _a friend of Paul, middle-aged, with Greek profile and gloomy expression of face_. A MAID-SERVANT. A FOOTMAN.

(_A richly-furnished study._ PAUL _sits at the table writing. Enter_
FOOTMAN.)

_Foot._ Pàvel Petròvich, the tailor and carriage-builder are waiting.

_Paul_ (_turning round_). Send them off!

_Foot._ They won’t go, sir.

_Paul._ Then tell them to come next week.

_Foot._ I told them; but they won’t go.

_Paul._ You surely don’t expect me to come out and speak to them myself? Tell them anything you like. You see I’m busy. You’re always disturbing me; be off with you!

_Foot._ There’s a gentleman that asks to see you too, sir.

_Paul._ Turn him out too.

(_The person unknown comes in at the door. The_ FOOTMAN _sees him, and
exit_.)

_Unknown._ Turn Nature out at the door, she’ll come in at the window.

_Paul_ (_rises_). Oh! my dear fellow! I didn’t know it was you; I really beg your pardon.

_Unknown._ No; you didn’t know. (_Inspects Paul from head to foot; then begins examining the room._)

_Paul._ Indeed I didn’t know. You don’t suppose I should have refused to see you?

_Unknown_ (_sits down_). There, that’ll do, that’ll do.

_Paul._ Won’t you have a cigar?

_Unknown_ (_smiling ironically_). A cigar? And when am I to have the money?

_Paul._ Very soon now.

_Unknown._ Which do you mean by that—now? or very soon?

_Paul._ Soon; quite soon.

_Unknown._ You’ll pay it soon? (_Looks intently at_ _Paul_.) And supposing I don’t believe you?

_Paul._ How can you help believing, when the document is in your hands?

_Unknown._ That’s just it! The date in the document is up; and all this is not yours, but your wife’s.

_Paul._ That’s all the same.

_Unknown._ No; not all the same.

_Paul._ Well, then, what do you want?

_Unknown._ I’ll tell you. Either you give me all the money to-morrow, or else we’ll re-write the document.

_Paul._ Certainly. We’ll re-write it now if you like.

_Unknown_. No; we’ll re-write it to-morrow; only then your wife must sign her name as security.

_Paul._ What for?

_Unknown._ Oh! well, the broker will know what for; otherwise I shall simply go to law. (_Rises._)

_Paul._ All right; all right.

_Unknown._ Mind, then, to-morrow. (_Goes to door._) You’re not thinking of getting out of it anyway, are you? You can’t do that with me. (_Exit._)

_Paul._ This sort of thing is really quite annoying! Here I am, as rich as you please, and yet I can’t get any money. I shall have to ask my wife for it; it’s all the same now whether the money is hers or mine; we have everything in common. It’s even better that it should be in my hands. And what is the use of my putting it off so long? I only get more and more entangled.

(_Enter_ SERAFÌMA. PAUL _writes_.)

_Serafima._ Leave off, Paul! Don’t write! (_Embraces him. He leaves off writing._) I am so happy! so happy! What have I done to deserve such happiness! (_Meditates._) I have abundance of everything; I have such a dear husband! (_Kisses him._) So handsome! so clever! only one thing distresses me: you are out so much. Now that we are married, you ought to be always with me; I believe I should love you still more then.

_Paul._ It’s impossible, my love; I have the office.

_Serafima._ Are you going to-day?

_Paul._ Yes; it’s time for me to start now.

_Serafima._ Take me with you.

_Paul._ Where? To the Senate House?

_Serafima._ Yes; why not?

_Paul._ What things you say! How could I?

_Serafima._ It’s always, “I can’t” with you! You simply don’t love me; that’s why you don’t want to take me. If you loved me, you’d take me! You’d say to every one, “This is my wife.” You’ll never have cause to be ashamed of me; I was educated at a boarding-school.

_Paul._ If you don’t believe me, ask any one you like whether men take their wives to Government offices.

_Serafima._ They don’t take us because they don’t love us; they would take us if they did. If you men loved us as we love you, you’d fulfil every whim we have. We’re ready to do everything in the world for you; and you don’t care to do the merest trifle for us.

_Paul._ I, too, am willing to do anything you ask; only this is impossible.

_Serafima._ Well then, at least do me one kindness: don’t go to-day; stop with me.

_Paul_ (_shrugs his shoulders_). All right, if you like!

_Serafima._ No! Do you really mean you won’t go?

_Paul._ I won’t go, if you wish me not to.

_Serafima._ Dear Paul! How good you are! How you spoil me! What is there in the world I wouldn’t do for you! Now tell me—tell me what you would like! you must tell me! (_Caresses him._) Ask me for anything you like—anything—anything in the world! Come now, tell me what you would like; I’ll drive straight into town and buy it for you.

(_Enter_ MAID-SERVANT.)

_Maid._ If you please, ma’am, the dressmaker has come.

_Serafima._ Paul, dear Paul! I will come back in a minute. (_Exit._)

_Paul._ What extraordinary fancies she has sometimes! I really can’t make out whether it’s from stupidity or from love for me. For that matter, it’s a very good thing that she’s so much in love with me. The idea of her asking me what I want! What I want? Why, money, of course. It seems it’s quite a true saying that women’s hearts are much tenderer than ours. I confess I used not to believe that; but now I see that, once love has taken a firm hold upon them, you can get anything you like out of them.... And then, she’s so pretty! Even if you look at it from quite another point of view—it’s delightful, there certainly is nothing else to be said about it.... I’d better ask her for a big sum at once; I must take advantage of her momentary exaltation. (_Re-enter_ SERAFÌMA.) Ah! Serafima! I wanted to speak to you.

_Serafima._ And I wanted to speak to you, _Paul_.

_Paul._ Very well; what is it?

_Serafima._ No, you speak first.

_Paul._ No, you, Serafima.

_Serafima._ No, you.

_Paul._ I give the precedence to you, as a lady, Serafima.

_Serafima._ This is what I wanted to say, my Paul: you change your shirt every day; that is rather extravagant.

_Paul._ Are you gone off your head! You can’t call that an extravagance, in our position! No; I wanted to talk to you about something altogether different.

_Serafima._ All the same, my dear (_kisses him_), we must think about economy; there’s nothing unreasonable in that.

_Paul._ Forgive me, Serafima! I understand you, my love; indeed it is a good thing that you are economical in trifles. Trifles are an important matter in life. I am glad that I have found in you such a housewife. But I want to speak to you about more serious business.

_Serafima._ About what, Paul? No, no, stop! Why should we talk about business? We haven’t done talking about love, yet. We have nothing to do, now, as you didn’t go to the office. Why should we talk about business? Let us talk about love! (_Sighs, and raises eyes to heaven._)

_Paul._ We can talk about love afterwards, whenever you like; but I must speak about business now.

_Serafima._ Ah! Paul! you have stayed at home with me. Indeed I don’t want to think of anything else now!

_Paul._ No, Serafima; I really must have a serious talk with you.

_Serafima_ (_a little offended_). Well, what is it you want?

_Paul._ How do you wish to employ your capital?

_Serafima._ What a question! I don’t want to employ it anyhow. It can stop in the Council,[15] and we’ll live on the interest.

_Paul._ But the interest is very little, my love; we had better put the capital into circulation.

_Serafima._ Into what circulation?

_Paul._ We might buy an estate, for instance.

_Serafima._ No, no, no! Not for the world! What estate?

_Paul._ Why, a village in some good fertile province—Orèl, or somewhere there.

_Serafima._ Not for anything on earth! The peasants won’t pay; the village may burn down; or the crops will fail five years running; what should we do then?

_Paul._ Crops don’t fail five years running.

_Serafima._ But they may do; you’re not a prophet, you know.

_Paul._ Well then, let’s buy a house and put in tenants.

_Serafima._ But the tenants won’t pay.

_Paul._ How do you mean, they won’t pay? One can prosecute if they don’t.

_Serafima._ And if the house burns down?

_Paul._ We must insure it.

_Serafima._ Then invaders will come and destroy everything! No, no, not for the world!

_Paul._ Well, well, we won’t talk any more about it.

_Serafima._ Think of it yourself; you’re a young man still; we may have children.

_Paul._ Of course we shall have children; but what of that? The more money we get, the more there will be for the children.

_Serafima._ No, no; I don’t want even to hear about it, or I shall only get miserable; you musn’t put me out. What’s the use of circulation? We can live as we are; we have enough of everything. (_Meditates._) You are free to-day; you haven’t gone to the office.... (_Embraces him._)

_Paul_ (_detaching himself from her arms_). No, Serafima; as you like, but I must have a talk with you.

_Serafima_ (_seriously_). What now?

_Paul._ This, my dear: if you really love me, give me five thousand silver roubles. I need the money pressingly for a certain business. It is a very profitable business, Serafima; I won’t tell you what it is now; but we may get the amount doubled, or perhaps even more. Indeed, I am almost sure that it will be more.

SERAFIMA: “FIVE—THOUSAND—SILVER—ROUBLES! HOW MUCH WILL THAT BE IN
PAPER MONEY?”

PAUL: “HOW SHOULD I KNOW?”
]

_Serafima._ Five—thousand—silver—roubles! How much will that be in paper money?

_Paul._ How should I know?

_Serafima._ Stop; I’ll calculate it. (_Takes paper and pencil out of pocket and calculates._) Ah! ah! (_Rushes away._)

_Paul._ What can be the matter now? What’s frightened her? I can’t make it out! Does she suppose I’m going to spend all my life in making love? That’s a good idea! Is she miserly? or what is it? I must find out which she loves best—me or money. If she loves me best, the matter can be set right. But if she loves the money best, I’ve run my neck into a halter.

(_Enter_ MADAME PRÈZHNEV.)

_Madame P._ _Bonjour_, Paul!

_Paul._ _Bonjour, Maman!_

_Madame P._ (_sits down_). I’ve just been into your wife’s room. What is the matter with her? She’s crying, and getting ready to go out.

_Paul._ We’ve had a little scene.

_Madame P._ Oh, Paul! already? So soon after the wedding! Did you do anything to hurt her feelings? Woman is such a frail and tender creature.

_Paul._ Why the devil should I hurt her feelings? I only asked her for money.

_Madame P._ Were you gentle enough with her?

_Paul._ Why, dear me, I’ve been spooning with her a whole month, like a turtle-dove. (_Bursts out laughing._) I never once asked her for money till just now. First of all, she got as sentimental as you please: “Ask anything you like; I’ll do anything in the world for you; I’ll go straight to town and buy whatever you want.” What should she buy me?—a china poodle? or a hussar in sugar? Well, directly I asked her for five thousand, she just screamed and ran away ... and now she’s in tears! The deuce knows what to make of it!

_Madame P._ She has no heart, my dear. Women are ready to give up everything on earth for the man they love. No, my Paul, she is no woman.

_Paul._ Oh, she’s a woman all right enough; only she won’t give the money.

_Madame P._ Oh, Paul! I am convinced that she will appreciate you in time, and will come to love you so much, so much (_with enthusiasm_) that she will entirely give into your keeping both herself and—and all her possessions.

_Paul._ Yes; but she hasn’t done it yet; and I can’t wait.

_Madame P._ Wait a little, Paul! Think what bliss awaits you in the future. (_Enter_ MAID-SERVANT _and gives_ PAUL _letter and pocket-book_.)

_Paul._ What is that?

_Maid._ Madame has gone away in the carriage, and told me to give you these. (_Exit._)

_Paul._ A pocket-book! That’s good! (_Puts it in pocket._)

_Madame P._ I told you so!

_Paul._ Now let’s read the letter. (_Reads._) “DEAR PAUL—Much as I love you, we must separate. My heart will bleed all my life; and I shall weep for you day and night. I wish to go and live with my papa, like a prisoner, and bewail my fate; and I shall sell this house. You will never see me any more. I love you with all my soul; but you showed me to-day that you love me for my money’s sake. In our merchant class, it is not the custom to give away one’s money. Of what significance shall I be, if I have no money? I shall be of no importance at all! If I have no money, and I love a man, he will not love me. But if I have money, and I love any one, he will love me, and we shall be happy. I made a pocket-book for your birthday, and embroidered it myself, and as I hoped that a present from me would be a great pleasure to you, I send it to you now. Don’t ever come to my papa’s house; he is very passionate, and will be very angry with you when he knows all about it; and I cannot conceal anything. Farewell, Paul! When you are in need of money I shall always be glad to give you help without letting my relatives know; but only small sums—a hundred roubles, not more. Be happy. I shall pass all my life in tears. Yours for ever, SERAFÌMA.” What in the world is this? It’s so extraordinary that I can’t even believe it. I expect she’s joking, or wants to frighten me. Let’s see, though, what there is in this pocket-book. I daresay there’s something in it. (_Takes out pocket-book._)

_Madame P._ I am almost sure of it, Paul. No doubt she wanted to give you a surprise.

_Paul._ It’s a charming little pocket-book. (_Opens and examines it._) Empty!

_Madame P._ Look; perhaps there’s a secret compartment.

_Paul._ Here’s the secret compartment, but there’s nothing in it either. (_Enter_ FOOTMAN.) What do you want?

_Foot._ Sir, sir, I never heard of such a thing! They’ve taken away the fur cloak!

_Paul._ What fur cloak?

_Foot._ Yours, sir! Madame told us to put it in the carriage with her, and took it away. Anyoùtka and I held out as long as we could; but what could we do? I really don’t know what to think of it!

_Paul._ Mamma, that’s more than a joke.

_Foot._ It’s a disgrace, sir! I’ve been in service for many years (_clasps his hands_), but I never saw such a thing, never! Paul Petròvich! Think of it!

_Paul._ There, get along with you!

_Foot._ And to have to say such a thing to people! It’s enough to make one die for shame. I never heard of such a thing, _never_! (_Exit._)

_Paul._ (_Sits down and looks fixedly at his mother_). _Maman!_

_Madame P._ Women have no hearts nowadays, no hearts at all.

_Paul._ Permit me, _Maman_, to thank you, now, for two things: firstly, for squandering my fortune; and, secondly, for bringing me up in such a way that I am fit for nothing. I only know how to spend money. And where is the money to spend? Where? (_Passionately._) Where is the money? Give it to me! You liked to see me, at eight years old, in a velvet tunic, dancing better than all the other children in Moscow, and knowing how to make love to the little girls. You liked to see me at sixteen, looking so well on horseback! You looked on proudly when I used to gallop about our ancestral fields with my tutor, your favourite! You enjoyed all that. After such an education, one must have money, if one would play a leading part in our society. Why did you squander everything? Where are our estates gone? Where are our peasants gone? What is to become of us now? Now, perhaps, you will have the pleasure of seeing me dismissed from the service, a vagrant, a card-sharper, and maybe even worse! What am I to do? I can’t marry again, with a wife living! (_Covers his face with his hands._)

CURTAIN FALLS.

_A MADMAN’S DIARY._

_October 3rd._