The Power of Darkness

that’s how things are, there’s no reason for him to marry her. A daughter-in-law’s not like a shoe, you can’t kick her off. Akím Excitedly. It’s false, old woman, it’s what d’you call it, false; I mean, about the girl; false! ’Cos why? The lass is a good lass, a very good lass, you know. I’m sorry, sorry for the lassie, I mean. Matryóna It’s an old saying: “For the wide world old Miriam grieves, and at home without bread her children she leaves.” He’s sorry for the girl, but not sorry for his own son! Sling her round your neck and carry her about with you! That’s enough of such empty cackle! Akím No, it’s not empty. Matryóna There, don’t interrupt, let me have my say. Akím Interrupts. No, not empty! I mean, you twist things your own way, about the lass or about yourself. Twist them, I mean, to make it better for yourself; but God, what d’you call it, turns them His way. That’s how it is. Matryóna Eh! One only wears out one’s tongue with you. Akím The lass is hardworking and spruce, and keeps everything round herself⁠ ⁠… what d’you call it. And in our poverty, you know, it’s a pair of hands, I mean; and the wedding needn’t cost much. But the chief thing’s the offence, the offence to the lass, and she’s a what d’you call it, an orphan, you know; that’s what she is, and there’s the offence. Matryóna Eh! they’ll all tell you a tale of that sort⁠ ⁠… Anísya Daddy Akím, you’d better listen to us women; we can tell you a thing or two. Akím And God, how about God? Isn’t she a human being, the lass? A what d’you call it⁠—also a human being I mean, before God. And how do you look at it? Matryóna Eh!⁠ ⁠… started off again?⁠ ⁠… Peter Wait a bit, Daddy Akím. One can’t believe all these girls say, either. The lad’s alive, and not far away; send for him, and find out straight from him if it’s true. He won’t wish to lose his soul. Go and call the fellow, Anísya rises and tell him his father wants him. Exit Anísya. Matryóna That’s right, dear friend; you’ve cleared the way clean, as with water. Yes, let the lad speak for himself. Nowadays, you know, they’ll not let you force a son to marry; one must first of all ask the lad. He’ll never consent to marry her and disgrace himself, not for all the world. To my thinking, it’s best he should go on living with you and serving you as his master. And we need not take him home for the summer either; we can hire a help. If you would only give us ten roubles now, we’ll let him stay on. Peter All in good time. First let us settle one thing before we start another. Akím You see, Peter Ignátitch, I speak. ’Cos why? you know how it happens. We try to fix things up as seems best for ourselves, you know; and as to God, we what d’you call it, we forget Him. We think it’s best so, turn it our own way, and lo! we’ve got into a fix, you know. We think it will be best, I mean; and lo! it turns out much worse⁠—without God, I mean. Peter Of course one must not forget God. Akím It turns out worse! But when it’s the right way⁠—God’s way⁠—it what d’you call it, it gives one joy; seems pleasant, I mean. So I reckon, you see, get him, the lad, I mean, get him to marry her, to keep him from sin, I mean, and let him what d’you call it at home, as it’s lawful, I mean, while I go and get the job in town. The work is of the right sort⁠—it’s payin’, I mean. And in God’s sight it’s what d’you call it⁠—it’s best, I mean. Ain’t she an orphan? Here, for example, a year ago some fellows went and took timber from the steward⁠—thought they’d do the steward, you know. Yes, they did the steward, but they couldn’t what d’you call it⁠—do God, I mean. Well, and so⁠ ⁠… Enter Nikíta and Nan. Nikíta You called me? Sits down and takes out his tobacco-pouch. Peter In a low, reproachful voice. What are you thinking about⁠—have you no manners? Your father is going to speak to you, and you sit down and fool about with tobacco. Come, get up! Nikíta rises, leans carelessly with his elbow on the table, and smiles. Akím It seems there’s a complaint, you know, about you, Nikíta⁠—a complaint, I mean, a complaint. Nikíta Who’s been complaining? Akím Complaining? It’s a maid, an orphan maid, complaining, I mean. It’s her, you know⁠—a complaint against you, from Marína, I mean. Nikíta Laughs. Well, that’s a good one. What’s the complaint? And who’s told you⁠—she herself? Akím It’s I am asking you, and you must now, what d’you call it, give me an answer. Have you got mixed up with the lass, I mean⁠—mixed up, you know? Nikíta I don’t know what you mean. What’s up? Akím Foolin’, I mean, what d’you call it? foolin’. Have you been foolin’ with her, I mean? Nikíta Never mind what’s been! Of course one does have some fun with a cook now and then to while away the time. One plays the concertina and gets her to dance. What of that? Peter Don’t shuffle, Nikíta, but answer your father straight out. Akím Solemnly. You can hide it from men but not from God, Nikíta. You, what d’you call it⁠—think, I mean, and don’t tell lies. She’s an orphan; so, you see, anyone is free to insult her. An orphan, you see. So you should say what’s rightest. Nikíta But what if I have nothing to say? I have told you everything⁠—because there isn’t anything to tell, that’s flat! Getting excited. She can go and say anything about me, same as if she was speaking of one as is dead. Why don’t she say anything about