Ivanoff. Paul, you may drink yourself as much as you choose, it is your weakness, but I must ask you not to make my uncle tipsy. He never used to drink at all; it is bad for him.
Lebedieff. [Startled] My dear boy, I didn’t know that! I wasn’t thinking of him at all.
Ivanoff. If this old baby should die on my hands the blame would be mine, not yours. Now, what do you want?
Lebedieff. The fact is, Nicholas—I really don’t know how I can put it to make it seem less brutal—Nicholas, I am ashamed of myself, I am blushing, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. My dear boy, put yourself in my place; remember that I am not a free man, I am as putty in the hands of my wife, a slave—forgive me!
Ivanoff. What does this mean?
Lebedieff. My wife has sent me to you; do me a favour, be a friend to me, pay her the interest on the money you owe her. Believe me, she has been tormenting me and going for me tooth and nail. For heaven’s sake, free yourself from her clutches!
Ivanoff. You know, Paul, that I have no money now.
Lebedieff. I know, I know, but what can I do? She won’t wait. If she should sue you for the money, how could Sasha and I ever look you in the face again?
Ivanoff. I am ready to sink through the floor with shame, Paul, but where, where shall I get the money? Tell me, where? There is nothing I can do but to wait until I sell my wheat in the autumn.
Lebedieff. [Shrieks] But she won’t wait! [A pause.
Ivanoff. Your position is very delicate and unpleasant, but mine is even worse. [He walks up and down in deep thought] I am at my wit’s end, there is nothing I can sell now.
