SAVVA. Why should I be dead? I'm alive, mother! [Raises himself on
his elbow] Cover up my feet, there's a saint! That's it. A bit more
on the right one. That's it, mother. God be good to us.

NAZAROVNA. [Wrapping up SAVVA'S feet] Sleep, little father.

SAVVA. What sleep can I have? If only I had the patience to endure
this pain, mother; sleep's quite another matter. A sinner doesn't
deserve to be given rest. What's that noise, pilgrim-woman?

NAZAROVNA. God is sending a storm. The wind is wailing, and the
rain is pouring down, pouring down. All down the roof and into the
windows like dried peas. Do you hear? The windows of heaven are
opened ... [Thunder] Holy, holy, holy ...

FEDYA. And it roars and thunders, and rages, sad there's no end to
it! Hoooo ... it's like the noise of a forest. ... Hoooo. ... The
wind is wailing like a dog. ... [Shrinking back] It's cold! My
clothes are wet, it's all coining in through the open door ... you
might put me through a wringer. ... [Plays softly] My concertina's
damp, and so there's no music for you, my Orthodox brethren, or
else I'd give you such a concert, my word!--Something marvellous!
You can have a quadrille, or a polka, if you like, or some Russian
dance for two. ... I can do them all. In the town, where I was an
attendant at the Grand Hotel, I couldn't make any money, but I did
wonders on my concertina. And, I can play the guitar.

A VOICE FROM THE CORNER. A silly speech from a silly fool.

FEDYA. I can hear another of them. [Pause.]