Mrs. Popov. I'm sorry I can't pay you to-day.
Smirnov. And I can't wait until day after to-morrow.
Mrs. Popov. But what can I do if I haven't it?
Smirnov. So you can't pay?
Mrs. Popov. I cannot.
Smirnov. Hm! Is that your last word?
Mrs. Popov. My last.
Smirnov. Absolutely?
Mrs. Popov. Absolutely.
Smirnov. Thank you. (He shrugs his shoulders) And they expect me to stand for all that. The toll-gatherer just now met me in the road and asked me why I was always worrying? Why in Heaven's name shouldn't I worry? I need money, I feel the knife at my throat. Yesterday morning I left my house in the early dawn and called on all my debtors. If even one of them had paid his debt! I worked the skin off my fingers! The devil knows in what sort of Jew-inn I slept: in a room with a barrel of brandy! And now at last I come here, seventy versts from home, hope for a little money and all you give me is moods! Why shouldn't I worry?
Mrs. Popov. I thought I made it plain to you that my manager will return from town, and then you will get your money?
Smirnov. I did not come to see the manager, I came to see you. What the devil—pardon the language—do I care for your manager?
Mrs. Popov. Really, sir, I am not used to such language or such manners. I shan't listen to you any further. (She goes out, left)
Smirnov. What can one say to that? Moods! Seven months since her husband died! Do I have to pay the interest or not? I repeat the question, have I to pay the interest or not? The husband is dead and all that; the manager is—the
