Mitya! [Strikes MITYA on the shoulder] Mitya, why are you sitting still?

MITYA.  I have some work to do. [Continues to work.

RAZLYULYAYEV.  Mitya!  Say, Mitya, I’m on a spree, my boy!  Really, I am.  Oh, come on! [Sings, “One mountain is high,” etc.] Mitya!  Say, Mitya, I’m going on a spree for the whole holiday season—­then I’ll set to work, upon my word I will!  Haven’t I got any money?  There it is!  And I’m not drunk.—­Oh, no, such a spree!—­so jolly!

MITYA.  Well, go on a spree as much as you like.

RAZLYULYAYEV.  And after the holidays I shall marry!—­Upon my word I shall marry!  I’ll get a rich girl.

GUSLIN.  Now, then, listen; how does this sound?

RAZLYULYAYEV.  Sing it, sing it!  I’ll listen.

GUSLIN. [Sings]

    “Is naught so hard and evil
    As to be fatherless;
    Than slavery more grievous
    And sharper than distress.

    All in the world make holiday,
    But lonely you must pine. 
    Your mind is wild and drunken,
    But it came not from the wine.

    Youth shall not do your pleasure,
    Beauty no healing bear. 
    Your sweetheart does not comb your locks,
    But your harsh stepdame, Care.”

During all this time RAZLYULYAYEV stands as if rooted to the ground, and listens with emotion; when the song is finished all are silent.

RAZLYULYAYEV.  Good!  Very good!  It’s awfully sad; it takes hold of one’s heart. [Sighs] Ah, Yasha! play something cheerful; that’s enough of this stuff—­to-day’s a holiday. [Sings.

    “Who does not love a hussar! 
    Life without love would be sad!”

Play the tune, Yasha.

GUSLIN plays the tune.

MITYA.  That’s enough of your fooling.  Come, now, let’s sit down in a circle and sing in a low tone.

RAZLYULYAYEV.  All right. [They sit down.

GUSLIN. [Begins to sing; MITYA and RAZLYULYAYEV join in]

    “Now my young, my young lads,
    You my friends....”

Enter GORDEY KARPYCH; all stand up and stop singing.

SCENE VII

The same and GORDEY KARPYCH

GORDEY KARPYCH.  What’s all this screeching!  Bawling like so many peasants! [To MITYA] And you here!  You’re not living here in a peasant’s hut!  What a dram-shop!  See that this sort of thing doesn’t go on in the future! [Goes to the table and inspects the papers] Why are these papers all scattered about?

MITYA.  I was looking over the accounts, sir.  GORDEY KARPYCH. [Takes the book by Koltsov, and the copy-book with verses] And this, too, what’s this rubbish?

MITYA.  I was copying these poems of Koltsov’s to pass the time away, since it’s a holiday.  GORDEY KARPYCH.  You are sentimental for a poor lad!