Kabanov Monologue from The Storm

From The Storm by Aleksandr Nikolaevich Ostrovsky

male · anguished · 1:04 min

My own good sense! I've got none, I'm told, and so I'm to live by other people's! I declare I'll drink away whatever sense I have left, and then mamma can look after me as much as she likes, when I'm crazy. (KULIGIN: Ah sir! there's a world of troubles! But, Boris Grigoritch, sir, what of him?) Oh, he, the scoundrel, is being sent off to Tiahta, to the Chinese. His uncle's sending him off to a merchant he knows there. He's to be there three years. (KULIGIN: Well, what does he say to it, sir?) Oh, he's wretched too; he weeps. His uncle and I, we set upon him not long ago, we swore at him--he didn't say a word. He seems like a wild thing. Do what you like to me, says he, only don't torment her! He's sorry for her too.

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