The Power of Darkness

mean. Mítritch Fatness makes even a dog go mad; how’s one not to get spoilt by fat living? Myself now; how I went on with fat living. I drank for three weeks without being sober. I drank my last breeches. When I had nothing left, I gave it up. Now I’ve determined not to. Bother it! Akím And where’s what d’you call, your old woman? Mítritch My old woman has found her right place, old fellow. She’s hanging about the gin-shops in town. She’s a swell too; one eye knocked out, and the other black, and her muzzle twisted to one side. And she’s never sober; drat her! Akím Oh, oh, oh, how’s that? Mítritch And where’s a soldier’s wife to go? She has found her right place. Silence. Akím To Anísya. And Nikíta⁠—has he what d’you call it, taken anything up to town? I mean, anything to sell? Anísya Laying the table and serving up. No, he’s taken nothing. He’s gone to get money from the bank. Akím Sitting down to supper. Why? D’you wish to put it to another use, the money I mean? Anísya No, we don’t touch it. Only some twenty or thirty roubles as have come due; they must be taken. Akím Must be taken. Why take it, the money I mean? You’ll take some today I mean, and some tomorrow; and so you’ll what d’you call it, take it all, I mean. Anísya We get this besides. The money is all safe. Akím All safe? How’s that, safe? You take it, and it what d’you call it, it’s all safe. How’s that? You put a heap of meal into a bin, or a barn, I mean, and go on taking meal, will it remain there what d’you call it, all safe I mean? That’s, what d’you call it, it’s cheating. You’d better find out, or else they’ll cheat you. Safe indeed! I mean you what d’ye call⁠ ⁠… you take it and it remains all safe there? Anísya I know nothing about it. Iván Moséitch advised us at the time. “Put the money in the bank,” he said, “the money will be safe, and you’ll get interest,” he said. Mítritch Having finished his supper. That’s so. I’ve lived with a tradesman. They all do like that. Put the money in the bank, then lie down on the oven and it will keep coming in. Akím That’s queer talk. How’s that⁠—what d’ye call, coming in, how’s that coming in, and they, who do they get it from I mean, the money I mean? Anísya They take the money out of the bank. Mítritch Get along! ’Tain’t a thing a woman can understand! You look here, I’ll make it all clear to you. Mind and remember. You see, suppose you’ve got some money, and I, for instance, have spring coming on, my land’s idle, I’ve got no seeds, or I have to pay taxes. So, you see, I go to you. “Akím,” I say, “give us a ten-rouble note, and when I’ve harvested in autumn I’ll return it, and till two acres for you besides, for having obliged me!” And you, seeing I’ve something to fall back on⁠—a horse say, or a cow⁠—you say, “No, give two or three roubles for the obligation,” and there’s an end of it. I’m stuck in the mud, and can’t do without. So I say, “All right!” and take a tenner. In the autumn, when I’ve made my turnover, I bring it back, and you squeeze the extra three roubles out of me. Akím Yes, but that’s what peasants do when they what d’ye call it, when they forget God. It’s not honest, I mean, it’s no good, I mean. Mítritch You wait. You’ll see it comes just to the same thing. Now don’t forget how you’ve skinned me. And Anísya, say, has got some money lying idle. She does not know what to do with it, besides, she’s a woman, and does not know how to use it. She comes to you. “Couldn’t you make some profit with my money too?” she says. “Why not?” say you, and you wait. Before the summer I come again and say, “Give me another tenner, and I’ll be obliged.” Then you find out if my hide isn’t all gone, and if I can be skinned again you give me Anísya’s money. But supposing I’m clean shorn⁠—have nothing to eat⁠—then you see I can’t be fleeced any more, and you say, “Go your way, friend,” and you look out for another, and lend him your own and Anísya’s money and skin him. That’s what the bank is. So it goes round and round. It’s a cute thing, old fellow! Akím Excitedly. Gracious me, whatever is that like? It’s what d’ye call it, it’s filthy! The peasants⁠—what d’ye call it, the peasants do so I mean, and know it’s, what d’ye call it, a sin! It’s what d’you call, not right, not right, I mean. It’s filthy! How can people as have learnt⁠ ⁠… what d’ye call it⁠ ⁠… Mítritch That, old fellow, is just what they’re fond of! And remember, them that are stupid, or the women folk, as can’t put their money into use themselves, they take it to the bank, and they there, deuce take ’em, clutch hold of it, and with this money they fleece the people. It’s a cute thing! Akím Sighing. Oh dear, I see, what d’ye call it, without money it’s bad, and with money it’s worse! How’s that? God told us to work, but you, what d’ye call⁠ ⁠… I mean you put money into the bank and go to sleep, and the money will what d’ye call it, will feed you while you sleep. It’s filthy, that’s what I call it; it’s not right. Mítritch Not right? Eh, old fellow, who cares about that nowadays? And how clean they pluck you, too! That’s the fact of the matter. Akím Sighs. Ah yes, seems the time’s what d’ye call it, the time’s growing ripe. There, I’ve had a look at the closets in town. What