You see I am drunk. The devil I care for you! You think that I need you— Look at me! I am an under-officer! You are a stupid, and you can't even pronounce it: Under-officer of the very first regiment of her Majesty's Grenadiers. I have served my Tsar and my country faithfully and honestly. What am I? You think I am a soldier? No, I am not a soldier, but the very worst kind of a man,—an erring orphan. I swore off drinking, and see how I am swilling! Well, do you think I am afraid of you? I guess not. I am not afraid of anybody. When I drink, I drink! I'll be on a tear for two weeks now,—I'll paint things red! I will spend everything I have on me for drinks: I will sell my cap, pawn my passport,—and I am not afraid of a soul! They used to flog me in the army to make me stop drinking. They walloped me: "Well," they said, "will you stop it?" "No," said I. I was not afraid of them,—that's the kind of a man I am! I am on the rampage now, and I will drink! I am not afraid of anybody. I am telling you the truth— Why should I be afraid of them, darn it! That's what! There was a pope who used to tell me that the devil is a braggart,—the moment you begin to brag, you lose your courage. And the moment you lose your courage before people, the devil grabs you and jams you where he has a mind to. As I am not afraid of people, I live an easy life. I'll spit into his beard, with his claws,—and on the mother of his brood of pigs! Here, chaw at it!
Nikíta (crossing himself). How foolish it was of me! (Throwing away the rope.)
Mítrich. What?
Nikíta (rising). You say I ought not to be afraid of people?
Mítrich. What is there to be afraid of, darn it! Look at them in the bath-house! They are all made of the same dough. One has a bigger belly than another—
