Samsónovna--of course, God give her good health--gives presents like a
princess, yet, believe me, her origin's no better than ours. Her father,
Samsón Sílych, dealt in leather mittens on the Balchug; respectable people
called him Sammy, and fed him with thumps behind the ears. And her mother,
Agraféna Kondrátyevna, was little more than a peasant girl, and he got her
from Preobrazhénskoye. They got together some capital, climbed into the
merchant class--so the daughter has her eye peeled for the title of
princess. And all that through money. How much worse am I than she? Yet I
have to trot at her heels. God knows what kind of bringing-up she's had:
she walks like an elephant crawls on his belly; whether French or piano,
it's a bit here and a bit there, and there's nothing to it; and when she
starts to dance--I have to stuff a handkerchief in my mouth.

PODKHALYÚZIN. But, look here--it'd be more proper for her to marry a
merchant.

USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. But how'll I stand with the first suitor, my jewel? I've
already assured him that Olimpiáda Samsónovna is such a beauty, that she's
the real ticket for him; "and educated," I said, "in French, and is trained
in all sorts of society ways." And now what am I going to say to him?

PODKHALYÚZIN. Why, just tell him also: "Now, she is a beauty, and
cultivated in a good many ways; only they've lost all their money." And
he'll break off himself!

USTÍNYA NAÚMOVNA. Well, now, that's so, my jewel! But, no, wait! You see I
told him that Samsón Sílych is rolling in money.

PODKHALYÚZIN. See here, you talk too much. But how do you know how much
money Samsón Sílych has; you haven't counted it, have you?