Nikíta. It is too far to go there.
Peter. Too far? It is farther from the house. You will have to go there especially, so you might have done it at once. (Anísya, standing a distance off, is listening.)
Matréna (coming up). Oh, son, why don't you try to do better for your master? Your master is ill, and is depending on you; you ought to exert yourself for him as for a father. Why don't you serve him as I told you to?
Peter. So you had better—oh!—dig up the potatoes, and the women—oh!—will pick them over.
Anísya (aside). So he wants me to go, too. He wants to send us all away, because he has the money with him. He wants to hide it somewhere.
Peter. Because—oh!—it will soon be time to set them out, and they will be rotten. Oh, I have no more strength. (Rises.)
Matréna (runs up on the porch and supports Peter). Shall I take you to the house?
Peter. Yes. (Stops.) Nikíta!
Nikíta (angrily). What else is it?
Peter. I won't see you again—I shall die to-day— Forgive me, for Christ's sake, forgive me if I have sinned before you— I have sinned in deeds and words— Yes, I have. Forgive me.
Nikíta. There is nothing to forgive. I am sinful myself.
Matréna. O son, show more feeling!
Peter. Forgive me, for Christ's sake— (Weeps.)
Nikíta (snuffling). God will forgive you, Uncle Peter. I have not been offended by you. I have not been wronged by you. You forgive me, for I may be more sinful than you. (Weeps. Peter goes away moaning. Matréna supports him.)
