Very often such conversation as this took place between him and his wife.

In the morning, at her tea, or at noon during dinner hour he gloomily glared at his wife, a stout, well-fed woman, with a red face and sleepy eyes, and asked her: "Well, don't you feel anything ?" She knew what he meant, but she invariably replied: "How can I help feeling?
Your fists are like dumb-bells." "You know what I'm talking about, you fool." "Can one become pregnant from such blows ?" "It's not on account of the blows that you don't bear any children; it's because you eat too much.

You fill your stomach with all sorts of food--and there's no room for the child to engender." "As if I didn't bear you any children ?" "Those were girls," said Ignat, reproachfully.

"I want a son! Do you understand?
A son, an heir! To whom shall I give my capital after my death?
Who shall pray for my sins?
Shall I give it to a cloister?
I have given them enough! Or shall I leave it to you?
What a fine pilgrim you are! Even in church you think only of fish pies.

If I die, you'll marry again, and my money will be turned over to some fool.