Page:Poet Lore, volume 31, 1920.djvu/643

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ANTON CHEKOV
623

tablishment is absolutely private. This is a bank. Why will you not understand that!

Merchutkina.—But, Your Honor, I have a doctor's certificate to show that my husband was sick. Here it is. Please look at it!

Shipuchin (Irritated).—That's all right. I assure you, but, I repeat, it does not concern us.

(Behind the stage, laughter of Tatyana. Then a man's loud laugh).

Shipuchin (Looking at the door).—She is disturbing them in there. (To Merchutkina). It is peculiar and even absurd. Is it possible your husband did not know where to send you?

Merchutkina.—He, Your Honor, knows nothing, the poor fool. He simply grumbles: "It's not my affair! Get out!" That is all.

Shipuchin.—I repeat, Madam, that your husband is employed in the military-medical department of the government, and this is a bank, a private, commercial establishment.

Merchutkina.—Yes, yes, yes—I understand, my dear sir. In such a case, Your Honor, have them give me fifteen roubles. I shall be content with it not all at once.

Shipuchin (Sighs).—Ach!

Kirin.—Andrey Andreich, at this rate I shall never finish the report!

Shipuchin.—One moment. (To Merchutkina). I cannot seem to explain to you! But do try to realize that to come to us with such a petition is as ridiculous as to seek a divorce, for example, at the apothecary's or at the assaying office.

(A knock at the door. The voice of Tatyana Aleksyeevna: "Andrey, may I come?")

Shipuchin (Cries out).—Wait, my dear, one moment! (To Merchurkina). They did not pay you in full, but what have we to do with it? Furthermore, Madam, we are having a Jubilee today. We are busy. Somebody may come here any moment. You will pardon me—

Merchutkina.—Your Honor, have pity on me, a poor woman. I am weak, defenseless, and tired to death. I have trouble with my boarders; I have to fuss with my husband; and besides, my son-in-law is out of work.

Shipuchin.—Madam, I—no, pardon me, but I cannot talk with you! My head is whirling. You are disturbing us and wasting our time. (Sighs; aside). She is a dunce, or my name's