. [Gets up and comes to TIHON] I want to look too!

[Several of the tramps, etc., approach the bar and form a group. MERIK
grips TIHON's hand firmly with both his, looks at the portrait, in the
medallion in silence. A pause.]

MERIK. A pretty she-devil. A real lady....

FEDYA. A real lady.... Look at her cheeks, her eyes.... Open your hand,
I can't see. Hair coming down to her waist.... It is lifelike! She might
be going to say something.... [Pause.]

MERIK. It's destruction for a weak man. A woman like that gets a hold on
one and... [Waves his hand] you're done for!

[KUSMA'S voice is heard. "Trrr.... Stop, you brutes!" Enter KUSMA.]

KUSMA. There stands an inn upon my way. Shall I drive or walk past it,
say? You can pass your own father and not notice him, but you can see an
inn in the dark a hundred versts away. Make way, if you believe in God!
Hullo, there! [Planks a five-copeck piece down on the counter] A glass
of real Madeira! Quick!

FEDYA. Oh, you devil!

TIHON. Don't wave your arms about, or you'll hit somebody.

KUSMA. God gave us arms to wave about. Poor sugary things, you're
half-melted. You're frightened of the rain, poor delicate things.
[Drinks.]

EFIMOVNA. You may well get frightened, good man, if you're caught on
your way in a night like this. Now, thank God, it's all right, there
are many villages and houses where you can shelter from the weather, but
before that there weren't any. Oh, Lord, it was bad! You walk a hundred
versts, and not only isn't there a village; or a house, but you don't
even see a dry stick. So you sleep on the ground....

KUSMA. Have you been long on this earth, old woman?

EFIMOVNA. Over seventy years, little father.

KUSMA. Over seventy years! You'll soon come to crow's years. [Looks at
BORTSOV] And what sort of a raisin is this? [Staring at BORTSOV] Sir!
[BORTSOV recognizes KUSMA and retires in confusion to a corner of the
room, where he sits on a bench] Semyon Sergeyevitch! Is that you, or
isn't it? Eh? What are you doing in this place? It's not the sort of
place for you, is it?

BORTSOV. Be quiet!

MERIK. [To KUSMA] Who is it?

KUSMA. A miserable sufferer. [Paces irritably by the counter] Eh? In an
inn, my goodness! Tattered! Drunk! I'm upset, brothers... upset....
[To MERIK, in an undertone] It's my master... our landlord. Semyon
Sergeyevitch and Mr. Bortsov.... Have you ever seen such a state? What
does he look like? Just... it's the drink that brought